C.A. Hocking's Blog

HOME TO ROOST

HOME TO ROOSTBy C. A. HOCKINGAustralian Prime Minister Marian Hardwick has achieved everything she ever desired to become the most powerful woman in the country. She is admired by some, but seen as ruthless, calculating and manipulative by others. Only two men really know her – her husband and her brother – but one loves her and the other hates her. When one threatens to destroy her by revealing a secret buried deep in her past, the other can save her, but first he must break her completely.Marian’s life unravels as everything she ever believed in is exposed as a lie. If she is to survive, she must confront the greatest challenge of all – the truth about herself.



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A PLACE IN TIME

A PLACE IN TIMEBy C. A. HOCKING
Dan Campbell is a troubled man. Thirty years earlier, on his 11th birthday, he’d witnessed his father's murder, but something is wrong with the memory of that terrible day. Something he can't quite see, something just out of focus.When he goes back to his childhood home to confront his memories and find answers to the mystery of his father's death, he is swept back in time to the day of the murder and what he discovers there will turn his world upside down, for no one and nothing is as he remembers.








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SARAH ANN ELLIOTT Book 1

SARAH ANN ELLIOTT Book 1: 1823-1829by C. A. HOCKINGAn Epic Family Saga based on a true story

Sarah Ann Elliott was born in 1823 into a family of weavers whose lives were entirely dependent on the textile mills of the booming Northern England town of Stockport. Her family is much like any other with highs and lows, joys and sorrows, but when 10,000 spinners and weavers go on strike for nine months in the infamous 1829 Stockport Turnout, the Elliotts are plunged into a life of hardship and turmoil from which no one is spared. Little Sarah Ann is swept along with the events that surround her and it is only her indomitable spirit that will carry her through. The harsh lessons learned in those early years will shape her into the strong, resilient woman she will one day become.SARAH ANN ELLIOTT Book 1 is a beautiful, poignant and harrowing story of one family's struggle to survive the grim mill towns of 19th century England, and is the first in a series of books about an ordinary woman who went on to live an extraordinary life.
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OLD FARTS ON A BUS

OLD FARTS ON A BUSBy C. A. HOCKING
What happens when you put 30 eccentric senior citizens who don't know each other on a bus in a foreign country?Quite a lot actually. And it's more fun than a barrel of monkeys!














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DAMAGED GOODS

DAMAGED GOODSBy C. A. HOCKING
Damaged Goods is a gripping gothic saga about three young sisters trapped in a childhood of unrelenting abuse at the hands of their cruel father. In order to survive their nightmare, Helen, Sis and Sweetypie create a secret world for themselves where the only thing that sustains them is their love for each other. But children grow up and the day comes when the sisters know they must end their torment, whatever it takes. They plot a brutal revenge on their father, but not all goes as planned and Helen finds herself fleeing her family home and her beloved sisters.Fifty years after leaving, Helen returns to find Sis and Sweetypie much as she had left them. Or so it seems at first, until she discovers secrets within secrets and an act of vengeance that still haunts their lives. So begins a journey for each of them that will ultimately end in tragedy, closure and release.
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Short Story: THE TREE

THE TREEBy C. A. HOCKINGCopyright © 2015 C. A. HOCKING(Written at Strathalbyn, South Australia, 1988)
The Tree Lovers Society arranged to petition the residents of Barker Avenue in an attempt, once again, to stop the local council from cutting down the huge old pine trees that lined the street. Habitats for birds, cleaner air for the residents, that unique ambience that only exists in old leafy suburbs, all that and more. The council had started at the western end of Barker Avenue and removed four glorious specimens before we heard about it. A protest was arranged and I did my part, taking my turn on the roster to be chained to a tree for one eight hour shift every two days. We stopped the council for awhile, but we knew we had to do more. Seeking a court order hadn’t worked as the council had come up with all sorts of reasons to continue its terrible path of destruction. Damaged footpaths. Cracked roads. Falling branches. Nonsense of course.  When it comes to such things, it’s always about money, budgets and more money. Councils never consider the wishes of the people or the good of the environment.So we organised a petition. Petitions had been successful in saving the trees on two previous occasions many years ago. Thirty-five years and twenty-two years ago, to be precise. I helped draft the petition and was given the south side of the oldest part of Barker Avenue to canvas. I knew we’d have no trouble getting the signatures of the residents. I couldn’t see them wanting their street taking on the ambience of a paddock. I parked my car under the biggest tree in the street, outside No. 2. So what if I felt the exposed roots scraping the exhaust as I pulled in. No damage done.I was feeling confident and a little smug as I knocked on the door. It was a pretty little house, bluestone with a bull-nose veranda which looked rather new compared to the rest of the house. I noticed one of the windows at the end was boarded up. Perhaps the house had been burgled recently, although the weathered boards looked as if they’d been there a long time. Dusty cobwebs covered them from top to bottom.It was cool on the veranda, the house being shaded by the tree’s heavy branches that reached across the roof to the back of the house. All around me was a thick layer of old pine needles, burying what may have once been a garden under a spongy carpet. The sounds of the street were muffled. There was a feeling of quiet, shabby, genteel serenity to the place.The lady who opened the door suited the house perfectly. She was a sweet little old thing, somewhere in her eighties, her grey hair pulled into a tidy knot at the nape of her neck, her thin figure draped in a blue and white cotton smock, and a pair of old, red rubber thongs on her feet. She looked up at me with the gentlest eyes and the sweetest smile, and said softly, “Hello, can I help you?”I nodded and smiled condescendingly. This wouldn’t take long. “Good morning, madam. I’d like to talk to you about the trees in your street.”Her face lit up. “Are you the lady from the council? Come in, come in!” Before I could object, she grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me through the door. “Would you care for a glass of cold lemonade, dear? It’s so very hot out there.” She left me standing in the middle of her lounge room for a moment and returned with a tray of drinks and biscuits.“Sit down, dear. Make yourself comfortable.” She indicated the worn sofa.I said, “Well, actually, madam, I’m not from the council.” I took a glass from the tray, sat on the sofa and sipped the lemonade.She paused by a long sideboard, tray in hand, and stared at me. “Not from the council?” She looked at my clipboard and folder. Suddenly, her sweet eyes narrowed and she slammed the tray down on the sideboard, making me jump and spill some lemonade down the front of my shirt. “Not from the council?” she repeated, her voice rising a little. I mopped at my shirt with a tissue from my purse and looked up.She was glaring at me, her mouth pinched and white, and a nerve twitched below her right eye. I tensed and removed my glasses to wipe the lemonade droplets from them. It gave me a moment to reconsider my strategy. Obviously, she was one of those eccentric old ladies with unpredictable ways and would take careful management.I replaced my glasses. “I’m Anne Richards from the Tree Lovers Society. I’m canvassing this side of Barker Avenue with a petition …”“Petition!” she snapped and took a step toward me. “PETITION!” she cried. “And to think I let you in!” She took another step towards me and I instinctively cringed back into the sofa as she raised her hand. I raised my own to ward off the anticipated blow, but she deftly bypassed it and snatched the glass from me, spilling the remainder of the contents onto my lap.“No nasty little tree loving petitioner is going to drink MY lemonade in MY house!” She spat out “petitioner” as if it was an obscenity. I was speechless, caught off my guard. She thumped the glass back onto the tray and turned to unleash the full impact of her hostility. “How dare you come here with another one of those disgusting petitions! How DARE YOU!”Ahh, now I understood. I’d seen photos of the first group of petitioners standing on the council steps, celebrating their victory thirty-five years ago. I’d even laughingly commented that they’d looked like a bunch of wild, grubby hippies, and laughed again at the photo of the second group of successful petitioners with their big hair and badly fitting clothes. I’d heard that petitioners could be very pushy, very demanding back then. She must have had a bad experience with one of them. Perhaps even trustingly invited one into her home as she’d done for me.But I wasn’t like those first petitioners. I was dressed in a conservative beige business suit and crisp white shirt, my hair neatly bobbed and my makeup applied with a careful hand. I had a degree in psychology and a good paying job. And I had a reassuring manner. I’d been told so many times. People liked me. I was no threat to her.I composed myself, gave her my most reassuring smile and rose to placate the poor old dear. I was barely on my feet when she leapt forward with astonishing agility and pushed me back onto the sofa.“You stay right were you are, girlie! I haven’t finished with you yet!” I opened my mouth to speak and she suddenly brought her hands together right in front of my face. CLAP! I was stunned. “Don’t you say a word! Not a word! If you’ve got the gall to come here with one of those damn petitions and your self-righteous do-gooder attitude, then you’re going to have to listen to what I have to say, whether you like it or not!”I sat rigidly, afraid to move. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to be frightened or fascinated by the metamorphosis happening before me.A moment ago, she’d been a gentle, kind creature, a cliché little old lady. Now, she was trembling violently, her face a corrugated picture of affronted anger. Wispy hair was working loose from the knot at the back of her neck and trailing across one shoulder. She hunched over me menacingly, her smock billowing down around her ankles, making her appear legless.She took a deep, shuddering breath and launched into a tirade, the words coming sometimes staccato, sometimes running together, always in a shrill, cutting voice.“I’ve lived in this house for over sixty years. I came here with my husband, Frank, as a young bride. Eighteen I was. This place was lovely then, such a nice house, and that lovely big tree out the front. Oh, yes, it was big then, sixty years ago. It shaded the front footpath and the front fence. We didn’t think it would get much bigger. We parked our first car under its branches, no-one had carports or garages in those days. Then the children started arriving. Six of them in ten years. They loved to climb the tree and collect the pine cones and rake up the pine needles into little piles."I had a lovely garden in those days. Roses and scented things and lots of flowers. I planted a row of hydrangeas along the fence under the shade of the tree. The pine needles made wonderful mulch."The tree got bigger. So did the children. They cut their feet on the pine cones. They tripped over fallen branches and broke bones. They fell out of the tree and broke more bones. Their bike tyres were forever getting punctures from the rotting cones. I couldn’t keep up with the fallen pine needles. They built up on my garden until they smothered the hydrangeas. Nothing else would grow there. The branches got so big that no sun reached anything, the roots crawled across the garden, robbing the soil of any goodness, and despite my best efforts, the garden died."I wrote to the council and asked them to cut down the tree. It was the biggest tree in the street, almost twice the size of most of them. Then some nosey do-gooder who didn’t even live in this street got up a petition to save the tree. The tree stayed. That was thirty-five years ago!”She paused briefly for breath and kicked her thongs off. Hopping from foot to foot in agitation, she wiped perspiration from her face. Knotted blood vessels stood out on her neck and she clenched and unclenched her fists convulsively. I was mesmerised.“The tree got bigger. We bought a brand new car. A huge branch fell on our lovely new car and squashed it flat. The insurance company wouldn’t pay out because, in their opinion, we had left our car parked in an unsafe position. I was just grateful no-one was in the car at the time! So we built a carport. We wrote to the council. They agreed to cut down the tree. There was a petition. The tree stayed. That was twenty-two years ago!"The tree kept getting bigger. One stormy night, another huge branch came down and demolished the carport and the car. Insurance wouldn’t pay up. They said it was the council’s responsibility. The council wouldn’t pay up. They said it was an act of God and not their responsibility. My husband decided to take matters into his own hands and arranged for someone to cut off some of the branches. The council fined him thousands of dollars. They said the tree was on council land and he’d broken the law by interfering with it."The tree got bigger. Another stormy night and another big branch broke away. It came right through our bedroom window, narrowly missing us in bed. It filled the whole room. While we were trying to get out of the bedroom, my husband became so distressed that he had a heart attack and died. That was fifteen years ago!”She was shaking both fists at me now, her head trembling so violently that droplets of perspiration were being flung about her. The knot had finally given up and her hair floated loose and wild around her face. She was shrieking. I was terrified."The tree got bigger! The branches spread right across the roof. My rainwater tank dried up because no rain ever got through to the roof anymore. And the birds! Do you know how many birds live in that tree? Thousands! Their shit built up on the roof. In places, it set like concrete. It weighs a ton. It’s cracking the walls, the ceiling, the foundations. It got so heavy that it caved in the old veranda! And the roots underneath the house are lifting it. I don’t have an even floor in the whole house. My house, my lovely little house, is falling down around me. I want to move into a nice modern retirement village, but I can’t afford to until I sell the house. And I can’t sell it! Who in their right mind would buy this mess!"And I’m not alone! At last, I have every resident in the street on my side because their own trees are now so big that their houses are cracking up, it’s not safe for any of them to go out into their own back yards for fear of a branch falling on them, all the gardens have died, they won’t even park their cars in their own street anymore. And the tree! That bloody goddamn tree is still there!”Her eyes were bulging, red and insane. She was screaming and frothing at the mouth.“Get out! GET OUT!” She ran to the front door and flung it open. “And tell your interfering do-gooder friends down at that society that if they stop the council from cutting down the tree this time, I’ll blow the bloody thing up myself – and anyone who is chained to it!”I grabbed my clipboard and purse and fled through the open door as fast as my feet would carry me. She continued to scream and rant at me as I tripped over first one, then another tree root on my way to the car. With scraped, bleeding knees, I pushed a fallen branch from my broken windscreen, got in and accelerated away, knowing that the crunching bang under the car couldn’t be good and looking in the rear vision mirror to see most of my exhaust system lying in the street.Two weeks later, the trees in Barker Avenue were cut down and removed. The newspaper reported that the street residents stood around and cheered as each tree went. A month later, I read that the most senior resident of the street had got up a petition and formed a neighbourhood action group to claim compensation from the council for all the damage the trees had done to their properties over the years.I wished them well.

Short Story: DEALS

DEALS
By C. A. HOCKINGCopyright © 2015 C. A. HOCKING
Dedicated to all mothers/fathers/grandparents stuck at home with children in the school holidays - with love and understanding.
(Note from the author: this was written in 1987 before tablets, devices and cell phones. The gadgets may have changed, but children haven't. Now my children have children of their own - and they're making their own deals!)

As a single parent on a low income with four young children, going away for the school holidays was out of the question. So we took a holiday at home. Goodness knows we needed it. We were all tired after a year of work, school, chores, responsibilities and a tight routine that I adhered to strictly in order to survive.We talked about what each of us needed in order to achieve some real time out. It wasn’t hard to come to an agreement as each of us basically needed the same thing – to sleep in every morning with no timetables or alarms, eat what we wanted when we wanted, stay up late to watch the all night movies or play on the computer, meals on our laps in front of TV, play or garden outside when the weather was good, read or watch DVDs inside when the weather was bad. No normal washing, ironing, cleaning, tidying up or shopping. Fast food and bad habits for two weeks.Sounds like bliss and it was!I relaxed supervision of our usual rules and regulations, ignored the consequences and we slobbed it for two weeks. It was easy and it was fun, but, oh dear, the mess at the end of the fortnight had to be seen to be believed. Two weeks of goofing off, four active children and a spate of wet, cold weather had combined to create an environment worthy of any pig.So Sunday, the day before school started and I was to go back to work, was  clean-up day. We had agreed on this at the beginning of our holiday-at-home. Didn’t seem like a problem at the time, but now it looked daunting. I made up the normal duties roster for the coming week, stuck it in its usual place on the fridge door and circled the children’s duties for Sunday so that they knew exactly what had to be done. I called them into the kitchen and pointed out what each of them was assigned to do. I would tackle the laundry, the ironing (what a nightmare!), my bedroom and ensuite. I assigned the other rooms to the children according to age and, in my opinion, ability. Each was responsible for their own bedroom, including changing the sheets. In addition, Mr. 13 took the kitchen which looked as if it might need a blow torch applied to it; Miss 11 had the family room which appeared to me to be buried under more STUFF than I ever thought we possessed; Mr. 8 was assigned the bathroom, toilet, and passage; and Mr. 5 took the lounge room which I considered to be the easiest, as we had spent most of the time in the family room and hardly used the lounge room.There was an immediate uproar.“It isn’t fair! He/she has got it easier than me/us!” And so the day began.13 and 11 started to argue about where the kitchen ended and the family room began. After a few minutes of this, they agreed to do the kitchen and family room together as they figured it would be quicker that way. 8 whinged about having to clean behind the toilet. After all, it wasn’t he who “missed” all the time and glared at his younger brother. 5 immediately objected – he wasn’t the only one who “missed”! Everyone “missed”! Miss 11 put him right very quickly on that one. An argument ensued in the middle of the passage and didn’t stop until I intervened. Finally, a deal was made. 5 would clean behind the toilet and do the passage if 8 would do the lounge room.Loud noises from the other end of the house. What now? 13 and 11 simply could not tolerate working together. OK, fine, so work separately. Then who does what? The family room looks easier than the kitchen, so based on age alone, I give the kitchen back to 13 and the family room to 11. Much wailing and gesticulating. Not fair! 13 says 11 is taller than him, so she should get the hardest room. 11 says 13 is older than her, so he should get it. They can’t agree. I say, “You aren’t expected to agree, just to do it. You made the mess, you clean it up.” They’ve heard that before.Compromise. 13 says he’ll do the kitchen if 11 sweeps and mops it when she is sweeping and mopping the family room. I say, “If you spent the energy on cleaning up that you spent on arguing, you’d have it done by now.” They’ve heard that before, too.8 ventures into the fray (on his way to the kitchen for more cleaning equipment, he assures me) and mentions, just in passing, that his friend at school NEVER has to clean up at HIS house. His mother does it all for him. I say, “More fool her,” and remind them all that mother is NOT spelled S-L-A-V-E! They’ve definitely heard that before!I finish my bedroom and ensuite and hang out the fourth load of washing. The line is full and there are at least six more loads to do. I set the tumble dryer going.Time to check the children’s progress. The house is too quiet for anything of real value to be going on, housework-wise, that is.13 is sitting on the kitchen bench, swinging his legs, drinking cordial and reading next week’s TV guide. The dishwasher is half packed, but nothing else has been done.11 is reclining on the family room floor, playing with the puppy who should be outside. The broom lies idle next to her.8 is diligently cleaning the bathroom wall tiles with a toothbrush and toothpaste. That should keep him busy until the year 2050.5 is – where is 5? A quick search finds him asleep on a pile of cushions behind the lounge sofa.I explode. Everybody jumps and, for a few moments, I am hopeful.“We’re hungry, Mum. Can we have lunch now?”I’m hungry too. “Sure, as long as you all promise to get stuck into your chores as soon as you have finished eating.”“OK, Mum, it’s a deal.”Vegemite sandwiches and cordial at the table, humble fare, but the children treat it like a six course meal. An hour and a half later, we are ready to begin again. New deals have been struck during the lunch break. The children say they have it all worked out, but do they? Let’s see, just what do we have here?13 will tidy the table; 11 will clean and polish it; 13 will clear the kitchen benches; 8 will scrub and polish them; 11 will finish packing the dishwasher; 5 will press the start button; 8 will wash the pots; 5 will wipe them; 13 will put them away; 11 will sweep the floors; 8 will mop them; 5 will vacuum the passage; 8 will vacuum the lounge room; 13 will wash the finger marks off the doors; 11 will wash the upper half of the walls, 8 the lower half, 5 the skirting boards; 13 and 5 will do the bathroom together; 11 and 8 will do the toilet; 11 will straighten the bookshelves; 8 will move the family room furniture back into place; 13 will do the same with the lounge furniture; and 5 will straighten the toothbrushes.I smile at my clever little darlings and say encouragingly, “Sounds terrific.” I’m interested to see how far they all get before good intentions give way to petty bickering, for I’m just a little sceptical. I’m half way through the ironing when the first fight breaks out. It sounds like 8 and 5, but before I can set the iron down, 13 is in there, mediating. I hear him say, “Sshhh, quiet, don’t upset Mum,” and all is well again. There is peace in the house. Well, a sort of peace.13 has his portable CD player set up at one end of the house. 11 has her portable CD player set up at the other end. Both going full blast. 8 has the radio going, also at full blast, somewhere in between. They don’t seem to notice the competition of sounds and beats. As for me, I don’t mind in the least. I am ironing in my neat and orderly bedroom listening to my favourite opera through the headphones attached to my own portable CD player.At last, the opera and the ironing are finished. My back is killing me. Time for a coffee. Better check on the tribe first.Mmm, bathroom and toilet look good, passage and lounge are lovely and the family room is spotless. The kitchen is – well, it’s a definite improvement. I can see that they have done their very best and I am proud of them. I’ll put the finishing touches to it after they are in bed tonight.They are still scrubbing walls. So what if they have left a few water marks running down the walls, they are so pleased with themselves that I cannot bear to criticise. I make afternoon tea for us all and we sit down with great relief. We are all tired and it seems too much effort to begin again. But we must. The children haven’t done their bedrooms yet and the thought of cooking dinner is as intolerable to me as cleaning their bedrooms is to them. So more deals are made.11 will do 5’s and 8’s bedroom; 5 and 8 will do 11’s bedroom; I will do 13’s bedroom; and 13 (bless him) will cook dinner. Oh no! That will mean messing up the kitchen again. The thought is too much for any of us. So 13 will ride his bike up the street and pick up fish and chips for dinner. Sounds good to me. We shake hands on it.An hour later, we all sit in front of TV, picnic fashion on a tablecloth spread on the floor so that we don’t mess up the freshly polished table, and enjoy our last holiday DVD with fish and chips. We’ve had a wonderful rest, and thanks to my clever children’s clever deals, the house is clean and tidy and the washing and ironing up to date. I kiss them all good night and tuck them into their freshly made beds, ready for a couple of hours to myself with a cup of tea and the Sunday night movie.There is a knock at the door and my neighbour pops in to join me for the cup of tea. She has also been home with her two children for the school holidays and is most admiring of how clean and organised the house looks. While I make her a second cup of tea, she uses the toilet at the children’s end of the house. She returns with a strange smile on her face. “Have you checked the toilet?” she asks.“Yes, it looked spotless to me. Why?”“Did you look up?”“Up? What do you mean?”“Go see,” she says with a chuckle.I go see. Miss 11 and Mr. 8 had done an excellent job of cleaning and disinfecting. I look up and gasp. They had taken Miss 11’s box of tampons from the cupboard under the toilet vanity, dipped the tampons in the toilet water until they swelled, then flung them upwards so that they stuck to the ceiling. It must have happened reasonably early in the day because they were already drying, their strings hanging down limply in a decorative fringe. All twenty of them.My little dears had gone through the whole day without giving it away. They must have been waiting for me to notice. Did they think they’d get into trouble? In the normal course of events, they probably would have. But we’d just had two wonderfully relaxing weeks together, they’d worked hard all day to make our home liveable again, and I wasn’t about to do anything to spoil that. So what are a few tampons on the ceiling? Nothing more than an aberrant moment’s fun in an otherwise exhausting day.I am too tired to laugh. Instead, I just sigh and make a deal with myself that that’s a job that can wait until tomorrow.

Short Story: WINGS

WINGSBy C. A. HOCKINGCopyright © 2015 C. A. HOCKING(Written at Strathalbyn, South Australia, 1987)
She was alone, even though shadowy forms moved slowly, almost reverently around her. Muffled voices, incoherent whispers, anxious glances - she was oblivious to it all. She was locked into her own private hell and she was quite alone.She was intensely aware of her body and her inability to control it. Small bubbles of pain moved restlessly through her lower abdomen, seeking release. Increasing nausea demanded another involuntary swallow, but her mouth was dry and her throat could only make useless, spasmodic squeezes. Her heart beat rapidly, painfully against her chest wall, forcing her concentration away from the artificially lit rectangle before her.She whispered, "What I learned was of..."Now she was aware of a film of perspiration forming on the palms of her hands, under her arms, on the soles of her feet. She would have liked to wipe her hands on her garment, but it was spotlessly white and she knew she must not mark it."What I learned was of little use to me..."Her knees and fingers trembled uncontrollably. She tensed her thighs and clenched her fists against the trembling and tried to steady her breathing, but that only brought on a wave of dizziness. She closed her eyes and let the dizziness pass."What I learned was of..."The bright rectangle suddenly became a brilliant glow, making her enclosed, private space seem even more of a forbidding black shadow.Fear! Unimaginable, paralysing fear!Her heart was pounding in her chest, her throat, her ears. She must concentrate."What I learned..."Concentrate!"What I..."She took two deep, slow, disciplined breaths. Surely this must pass? But it was no good. Perspiration dripped from her nose and chin, collected in the creased outer corners of her eyes and ran in trickles from her armpits, drawing the cotton of her bodice against her damp skin."What I...what I...what..."What? What was it she had to remember?Panic gripped her. She tried desperately to bring her thoughts together, to remember, but she could not focus her mind on the words she must say. Her left knee cap began to jerk spasmodically, painfully, and she locked her leg into a rigid position until it eased. Then she flexed her shoulder against the muscle spasm in her neck. A hot flush suffused her body. She tilted her head back and blew a gentle stream of air over her face.Suddenly, she was aware of voices in front of her. Loud, projected, articulate voices. And other sounds further away - shuffling, coughing, murmuring, uncertain laughter. She tried to focus on the voices immediately before her, but even as she did so, they moved away from her."What I learned..."Concentrate!"What I learned was of little use..."Yes, that was it! She knew the words, but was unable to make any sound. There was no saliva in her mouth. She must swallow! She ran her dry tongue across the roof of her mouth, behind her bottom teeth and made a superhuman effort to swallow and draw saliva to the back of her throat, but only succeeded in gulping.A gentle prod in her back made her turn slightly in response. A low voice murmured, "You'll be fine, just fine." She acknowledged with a slight nod and turned back towards the light.The voices before her were growing louder again and she realised that they were moving towards her. Confusion swept over her and for a split second she allowed herself to wallow in despair and self-pity. It was too much. Pain, nausea, palpitations, muscles spasms, dizziness, dry mouth, trembling, cold sweats, hot flushes, confusion, fear - she thought, "What am I doing here? I could have prevented this, I don't need this, I don't want this, it isn't worth it, nothing is worth feeling the bad, nothing!"The voices were almost next to her. Panic stricken, she wanted to scream, "I'm not ready to go yet! I need more time! I'm not ready!" But no sound escaped her.Another light touch on the shoulder and a whispered, "You're on."She hesitated, lifted her head, exhaled slowly, waited for the cue word and stepped firmly out of the shadow of the wings onto the spotlit stage."What I learned was of little use to me if I am ever to assist my..."She could not continue as a cacophony of sounds thundered over her. Applause, cheers, stamping feet, her name repeated over and over. The house-lights were brought up to reveal a standing ovation.She dipped her head graciously, modestly, knowing that this was an opening night she would never forget.The house-lights went down. She paused, waiting for silence to resume and continued with her opening line, "What I learned was of..."Was it worth it? The agony of stage fright?Yes, of course it was worth it. She felt wonderful!

Short Story: GERT

GERTby C. A. HOCKINGCopyright © 2015 C. A. HOCKING
I was born just three minutes after midnight in the year 1900 in a small town in South Australia. Mother was disappointed because another baby had been born in the city at one minute after midnight and got a mention in the newspaper. Father was disappointed because his firstborn was not a boy. A successful businessman such as he needed a son. They christened me Victoria Gertrude Mabel Agnes Fisher, but Father declared the Queen's name was far too grand for such an uncomely baby and called me Gert.Two more girls were born. Father expressed his dissatisfaction by moving into a separate bedroom and my parents continued their lives together as companionable strangers in one wing of the house, whilst we children were raised by nurses, nannies and governesses in another wing. Our physical needs were well taken care of, but contact with our parents was occasional and brief. It was not an uncommon arrangement for middle class families in those times. The Queen had said, "Children should be seen and not heard," and Victorian parents took their Queen's advice seriously. My sisters were pretty, noisy and endearing whilst I was considered plain, sullen and moody. I did not feel sullen, I simply felt unsure of myself and lacked the confidence to join my fearless sisters in their games and chatter, despite my desire to do so. And the pattern of our lives was set. Time spent with our parents was for the purpose of instruction. They delighted in my outgoing sisters, but despaired of me. "Be clean, neat and quiet, Gert, and you'll always be acceptable in any company," Mother said with a defeated sigh."Don't speak unless spoken to," Father said with disinterest.Thus prepared, I attended my school friend's sixth birthday party and acquired a reputation as a painfully shy girl, prone to backing into a corner and not coming out. I had wanted to come out and join in the screaming, joyous fun of the party, oh how I had wanted to come out, but Mother's and Father's advice was more powerful than my instinct and so I stayed miserably in my corner.My parents were pleased with me. I had not shamed them.The party invitations continued for my sisters, but for some reason I was overlooked. I watched on in silence as they excitedly prepared and left the house in bright organza dresses, clutching gaily wrapped presents and skipping happily in their smart new shoes. My own clothes were plain and serviceable and I outgrew shoes before they were replaced. I knew no other way and accepted it, for I disliked being fussed over.At the first sign of my body changing from a girl to a woman, Mother encased me in a disfiguring corset in the hope that tightening it might give my naturally tall and thin body some shape, but her efforts were in vain. No matter what she did or what I wore, I was still shapeless and would remain so all my life. After I fainted in the corset, she loosened it and declared me a lost cause. Her attention was then turned to the shaping of my sisters and I was left to grow as nature intended.A war was being fought on the other side of the world. I attended the Country Women's Association meetings with Mother and dutifully knitted socks and scarves for the Diggers. The women there said I was a good girl, a sensible girl and would never give Mother anything to worry about, not like those immodest girls who were refusing to wear a corset and were seen out and about with boys and no chaperone."Dress modestly and don't ever be seen wearing that sinful rouge that fast girls use, and eventually a nice boy will notice you," Mother said."Be demure and polite, that's what boys look for in a girl," Father said.And so I went to my first dance. I sat with the other wallflowers in my plain cotton Sunday dress and tried desperately to look as if I was enjoying myself, but I had shriveled up inside and felt dead to the wonder and excitement around me. I was eighteen years old and so was the century. The dance was to celebrate the end of the war and to welcome home the boys who had survived. Not one of them noticed me."If you can't be beautiful, you can be smart," Mother said, so I read a lot, sitting in the chair by the window in my bedroom, watching the seasons change and the years pass. I read about other people and places that I knew I would never see, and of religions and philosophies far removed from what I was taught in our town's small church each Sunday. And I read about great romance and the sort of passion that I could only dream of, understanding all the while that such things were not meant for the likes of me."If you can't find a husband, you must become useful," Father said, so I did a correspondence course to become a teacher. I had wanted to go to teacher's college in Adelaide, but Father was ill and I was needed at home. And the city was no place for a decent, well-bred single girl. Everyone said so.Father died and was buried, and with him went our comfortable way of life. The business was in debt and had to be sold, leaving Mother with nothing but the house. The servants were dismissed and it fell to my sisters and I to care for our demanding home and Mother. There was no money coming in, my sisters had no skills and I had not yet completed my correspondence course, but I'd done enough to equip me to teach privately, so I went to work as a governess for our small town's mayor. I supported Mother and my two younger sisters with my paltry wages, keeping only enough for myself to buy material to make a simple new dress each year. Mother and my sisters dressed well enough while the house fell into disrepair.The mayor and his family were moving to another state and they wanted me to accompany them. Mother was unwell and said, "Your first duty is to your family," so I stayed and took on private pupils while I continued to care for family. I had wanted to go with the mayor's family.My sisters found suitable young men, married, moved to the city and had babies. They rarely came home to visit. There was no need, for their spinster sister was at home to look after their Mother. Mother complained that she did not see her grandchildren enough, but Mother complained about everything and her reputation as a whiner and a nag saw few people come to call on us. My pupils kept out of her way, never lingering so that friendships could not be formed. It was a busy life, but an empty one.Mother worried about my future after she was gone. "I have asked my second-cousin's son to lunch, Gert. He is about your age and I think he will be a good match for you." If being boring was a good match, then that's what I must have been. I stifled yawn after yawn during lunch while Mother pried a few dull details about his dull little clerical job out of plump, sweaty-faced Frank Tolbert. I didn't want to think him an unattractive bore, but I couldn't help it. He kept coming back and, because I couldn't think of a good enough reason not to, I married him. We bought a little house on the outskirts of town. Mother sold her big house and moved in with us. She found fault with everything I did and my days were filled with her whining voice and never-ending criticism. Her favorite saying was, "You're a lucky girl to have found a husband, Gert, you with your plain features and charmless nature." I did not feel lucky.Frank gave me just enough money each week to buy food and when I asked about the bills and the mortgage and buying clothes, he said, "It is not your job to handle money, Gert. That's a man's responsibility. If you need extra, we will discuss it and I will decide if you really need it. Your place is in the home, looking after your Mother and me." So I did, performing my conjugal duties when required and soon there were three children to look after as well, two girls and a boy. I tried to love them, but having known no love myself I found it difficult to give them what I didn't understand. Mother continued to advise me and nag my children and no-one was happy, including Frank who came to remind me of Father with his remoteness and disinterest.There were more busy years, but I always felt something was missing, as if I had not yet found my place in the world. I tried to explain it to Frank once, but we rarely spoke of personal things and he said I was foolish and should be grateful for what I had.Mother died, but not before telling me to go on being a good wife and mother, that I had everything a woman should have, as she'd had in her life and for which she was very grateful, but even as she said it, her eyes told me it was a lie. I wondered then if she felt as I did - undervalued and overlooked. And for the first time, I felt sorry for her. She died an embittered, unhappy woman. Her absence was a relief.Frank became ill soon after and died, too, but not before telling me he'd placed the family finances in the hands of a capable accountant, with a monthly allowance made out to me. If I wanted more, I would have to go out to work for it. The allowance was not enough to raise a family on and I needed more, so I advertised for pupils, but it was the Great Depression and few could afford private tuition, so I took in washing to make ends meet. The children complained about our poverty, but they were fed and clothed and housed. It was the best I could do.The years went by, another war came and went, the children grew up and left home, moved away and, like my sisters, rarely came home. I was alone in my little house with my monthly allowance. My needs were small and so it was enough for me. I stopped taking in washing and took up reading again, escaping into those other worlds I had once loved through the words of those who had been there. I became solitary and found contentment in it.And there was no-one to tell me what to do, how to do it or who to be. At last. Or so I thought.My daughters turned up one day, looked disapprovingly at the books on my shelves and said, "We have heard you rarely leave the house. You've become lazy, Mum. It is not good for you. Join a craft group or the Country Women's Association or some such thing to keep yourself busy." They reminded me of Mother. My son came and said, "You cannot sit around reading all day. Join a volunteer charity group and make yourself useful." He reminded me of Frank and Father. I felt their disappointment in me as I'd felt my parents' and my husband's disappointment. And I saw my life stretched out before me, just as Mother's had stretched out before her, useful and busy, but lonely and dull and unloved. And that's when I understood what was missing.I rebelled. I was fifty-two years old and I rebelled.I looked at myself in the mirror, my dull, grey, unchanging self, and decided a change was in order. I walked down the street to the local hair salon."Bleach my hair," I told the hairdresser."Don't be ridiculous, Mrs Tilbert," she said."Bleach my hair.""You'll look silly."I looked at her smug face and knew I would never be told what to do again. I found my courage and snapped, "Bleach my hair!"She bleached my hair. I didn't look silly, just different.I made myself a new red dress with a swishy petticoat and bought high heels, powder and red lipstick, then threw out my sensible twenty-year old dresses and walked up the street with my blonde hair and clicking heels. The neighbors whispered amongst themselves that I was going through The Change and that perhaps I was losing my mind. I heard them over the fence and I laughed out loud. I was not losing my mind. I had found it.And I no longer cared what anyone else thought. It was time to see what lay beyond my small town with its small minds, but my allowance would not stretch to travel. So I sold the only thing I could call my own - the house. I sold it so quietly that my children and the neighbors didn't know until the day I moved out. I bought shirts and trousers and hiking boots, packed a rucksack and got on a bus to Sydney.My son followed me to talk some sense into me, but I joined a round-Australia bus tour and left him at Central Station, yelling after the bus.And my life, my real life, finally began.I saw my country, my beautiful country, at its best and its worst. I saw it all and, after six months I wanted more. I no longer wanted to be Mrs Tilbert, the poor middle-aged widow, so I changed my name by deed poll to Gert Fisher, unattached and unencumbered. The freedom I felt when I held that certificate in my hand was exhilarating. Then I bought a camper-van, learned to drive and drove all around Australia. I picked fruit, planted trees, packed bananas, bottled wine, swam in lakes, rivers and oceans, saw the sun rise and set over some of the most beautiful scenery in the world and thrilled to be alive.I joined up with two young English girls in Western Australia, and when they were ready to go home, they said, "Come with us, Gert." So I got a passport and sailed to England with them. I sent postcards to the children. They sent me angry letters. I threw them away.I toured Britain with my friends and made many more friends, young people with young minds and young ideas. I learned that the only difference between us was that my flesh was older than theirs. My mind was a fresh and eager as theirs.A group of my new friends was planning a biking tour of France and they said, "Come with us," so I bought a bicycle and rode around France and learned to speak French. I made more new friends, and when they said, "Come to Germany with us", I went. I saw Germany, and then Italy and Greece and Spain and, finally, I saw all of Europe on my bicycle. I wanted more.The world was changing for females, and Europe had different ideas about what being a woman meant. I took a lover and learned about romance and sex and passion. Love eluded me, but I no longer expected it. I sampled food that was so wonderful, I had no words for it. I smoked Turkish cigarettes and drank cold French champagne and warm German beer. And I laughed. I laughed a lot.I celebrated my sixtieth birthday with a new young lover at the Teatro alla Scala in Milan where Maria Callas sang Paolina in Donizetti's 'Poliuto'. I sent postcards to the children. They didn't know who or what I was talking about, but were quick to remind me that my money must run out soon and I must come home. I must be in no doubt about that. My scandalous life would be forgiven once I came home. They did not know me at all.My new lover was an artist. He taught me to draw, then to paint, and when he left for New York to study art I went with him. The classes and New York were a joy.I sold my first painting. Then I sold another. A gallery exhibited my works and I sold every piece. The critics said my style was unique, original, and New Yorkers worshipped the original. The commissions came pouring in and I had enough money to tell my children that I would not be coming home. Instead, I moved into an apartment in Greenwich Village and artists, actors, musicians and writers from all over the world beat a path to my door. My life was rich and full. My work was exhibited at a gallery in San Francisco and a new friend there took me to a rock concert where I first felt the changes that were sweeping the world. I stayed and made a whole new group of friends who were afraid of nothing, who wanted to try everything. But not everything was good for them. Their youth made them reckless in their choices. My maturity gave me a sense of consequence that only comes with experience. I lost some of them to their experiments and I grieved.I embraced my age.I stopped bleaching my hair and grew it long and grey. Technology was appearing everywhere and new possibilities were opening up. My art took a another direction and I learned to use a camera. I recorded the changes going on around me and my name alone got my photographs exhibited. Gert Fisher. I briefly wished Mother and Father could have known. Perhaps they would not have been so disappointed in their firstborn. But then I didn't care. They belonged to a whole other life, one which I no longer identified with.I wanted more.I wanted to photograph the whole country, so I took some young friends and we drove all over America. I wore flowers in my hair and Indian sandals on my feet. We stopped at an outdoor rock concert and I photographed half a million flower children at their peak. Woodstock is a legend now, but then it was just a happening. My photos still hang in galleries all over the world.I had a public profile and people listened to me. It was the age of being listened to. I marched against Vietnam, nuclear power, woodchipping, whaling, sealing, racism and discrimination. I marched for conservation, equal rights, world peace, nuclear disarmament and love. I sent my children postcards, but they didn't reply.On my seventieth birthday, I fell in love for the first time. Deeply, uncontrollably in love. I had taken lovers before, but had never been in love. My professor adored me, as I adored him, and he taught me about literature and poetry and self expression. I wrote a book about my travels and it became a best seller. I wrote another book and went on a lecture tour around the world. I had six precious years with my professor before he died. But I was alive and I wanted more.I travelled through Africa and wrote another book.I travelled through India and painted it in the rich, glowing colours and strong strokes that are India. My paintings, photographs and books made me wealthy, but my children still did not answer my postcards.Then I got a letter to say my son was ill. I went home to discover it was a ruse. My son was waiting for me with doctors and psychiatrists and lawyers with forms to commit me. I did not like him. The judge laughed him out of court. My daughters refused to see me. They said they were ashamed of me.But I discovered grandchildren, young people full of life and expectations, who admired me and who grew to love me. I took three of them to Europe with me and discovered a new dimension to life. I learned how to love my family. I left one of them in France, married and pregnant, and returned the others to their parents. Then I took two more to India and, together, we explored Asia. We backpacked and stayed in youth hostels, and I made more friends.My grandchildren returned to Australia, but I stayed in Kashmir and painted and wrote. I wrote a story about a mother who loved her children, but did not like them, and who blamed herself for the rift in her family. I sent it to my publisher. Soon after it was in print, I received a letter from my son. He was sorry for what he had done and I flew home to see him. He had grown to understand me as I had my own Mother before she died. My daughters were there and I was shocked to see how old they were. I was eighty-three, but they seemed much older. We were reconciled, became friends and I was happy with that.But they said I should stay at home, that I was too old to travel, that I should go into a unit near them where they could keep an eye on me.I took them to Europe with me instead. I told them about my life before their father died and, because they had lived long enough themselves, they understood. I was able to love them at last as a mother should love her daughters. We grew close. We stayed with my granddaughter in France. I played hopscotch with my great-grandchildren and fell. My broken leg healed quickly, but left me with a limp. I bought an elaborate silver walking stick to help me get around and found it useful for tapping loudly on the floor when someone annoyed me. My daughters laughed and told me I reminded them of my own Mother. I could only laugh, too, and remind them that it comes to us all eventually.When they left to go back home, I missed them.Something unpleasant had grown in my chest. It hurt sometimes, but it was not too bad. The doctor advised me to give up cigarettes, rest in bed and have all sorts of treatments that would make me feel worse than I already did. I gave up the cigarettes because they make me cough, but instead of rest and treatment, I flew to South America with my two youngest grandchildren and we saw that majestic country together.The growth disappeared.My son and my daughter died. My surviving daughter is a nursing home. I am sorry for her.I visited a new great-grandchild in England. While I was there, my heart beat strangely and I thought my body would fail me soon. I was ready. I told my grandson where and how I wanted to die. We made out a list and sent invitations to every corner of the planet. Three hundred and seven friends accepted.We met at the base of Machu Picchu and together we climbed to the summit. We celebrated my ninetieth birthday there and said our farewells. The media heard about it and made a documentary out of a very personal event. I didn't mind.My friends left and I waited for the inevitable, meditating and praying, but my heart became strong and regular again up there in the mist and the cold, thin air.So I bought an island instead of a coffin. An island with a hill rising up in the centre of it, and I built a house with glass walls on top of the hill. Housekeepers and secretaries take care of me with great kindness and respect. I require little from them, only to be left alone in my studio to paint and write and read. There are no palm-fringed beaches here, only sheer, rugged cliffs dropping into the ocean and a helicopter pad next to the house. Visitors come and go, sometimes strangers to interview me, more often family and friends to share their stories and hear mine. Someone is making a movie about my life and wants me to attend the premiere, but I have declined. I have no need to watch what would only be an echo of my life, and how people judge it is of no interest to me. I please only myself these days.My heart soars here. I can see forever from every room. I can stand on the cliffs and watch the restless, surging ocean change its colours and moods as I follow the curve of the Earth on the horizon. I can turn my face towards the wind that blows the breath of the world into my nostrils and feel the strength of this planet, my home, beneath me - atom joined to atom, earth and water and air connecting me to all things, and I know that I am part of it, that I am Gaia.It is here that I paint the sky and the sea and write about my life while I peacefully wait for my allotted time to end. And when I am asked what is the secret to my longevity, I have no answer, for the longer I live this life, the greater is its mystery.But I am content. I have lived a life, my own life, my own way and there is no greater satisfaction. For it is born in each of us to know how our lives should be lived, if only we knew how to listen to ourselves, and not the cacophony of voices around us.

PPM. Post Publishing Malaise

There is PMT or PMS, depending on which country you live in, and involves normally nice girls and women turning into monsters a few days before their periods. There is PTSD and we all know how serious that is, no matter what has caused it. There is IABOS, Independent Author Burn Out Syndrome, when an Indie Author has worked themselves into the ground and must rest or perish. And then there is PPM, Post Publishing Malaise, also mostly applicable to Indie Authors. It's that strange state we fall into after hitting the Publish button on KDP and all the work that preceded that simple action is behind us.

And that is where I am at right now. So here is how it goes. Two years of solid research into my first historical fiction novel (SARAH ANN ELLIOTT Book 1), then another year of writing it, during which I realise it will be a series of books rather than a one off. I let the story have its wicked way and by the time I have it ready for the editor, it is 400 pages. How did that happen? I do another edit myself and am reassured that it needs to stay exactly as it is. It goes off to the professional editor and I begin the process of updating all my sites - Facebook, Twitter, my website, etc etc etc. That takes a day of non-creative slog. Then I decide on the cover and it's done at my end.  I have given the editor my brief and a timeframe of a month and I know she will have the manuscript back to me by the deadline.

While I wait for the editor to do her stuff, I begin outlining Book 2 in the SARAH ANN ELLIOTT series and am excited by the story I still have to tell. I also turn my attention to the next book I will publish, OLD FARTS ON A BUS, and I have a lot of fun with that. It flows because the creative energy is still there. And then the editor is finished, I make the changes needed, upload Book 1 on KDP and hit the Publish button. And there is nothing more to do.

Well, that's not exactly true. I should be tackling the marketing and promoting campaign, but something is happening that I can't seem to control. It isn't IABOS. I am familiar with the total wipeout that causes, the fatigue, depression, anxiety, feelings of low self worth etc etbloodycetera. I recognise IABOS now and deal with it accordingly. This is more a surreal, dreamy state in which I know I have worked hard, a lot has happened inside my head to get this book finished, my writing brain knows the creative stuff is finished (until I start Book 2) but the business end of being an Indie Author is awaiting my attention, and I must step into that space and focus. But my brain will not obey. I start doing other things in short bursts - water the pots, empty the ironing basket, hem my black trousers, order ten lipsticks online because they are on sale, ring my sister for a two hour chat about nothing in particular, go out to lunch with my husband because I can't be bothered making a tuna sandwich, and snacking. Lots of snacking.

Now, when you snack, you need somewhere comfortable to sit. That's usually my recliner in front of my TV. Hubby and I have separate TV rooms and we firmly believe it is the secret to a happy marriage. He watches Fox Sport, reality shows about police and prisons and current affairs programs. Being a writer with my toes in the screenwriting world (had my first short film FLAMES screened last year) who writes mostly for women, I watch well produced, well written dramas, comedies and sagas aimed at the female demographic. No soaps or reality shows. Never that. So while I'm snacking, I decide to catch up on the good stuff I've missed out on because I've been in my study writing so much. And I realise that there are 7 seasons of Game of Thrones, but I have only seen 3. Oh boy, a distraction! A major distraction! Better than a squirrel!

So I snack and binge watch all 7 seasons back to back and it is glorious! It is so good that it clears my mind completely of the book I have just finished and it feels like someone has gone into the attic and dusted, vacuumed, cleaned and polished my brain. Hosed it out, blow dried it and made it habitable again. Seriously. That is what it feels like. Cobwebs all gone. And I wonder at the state I had fallen into, to be able to sit in a chair and watch TV for a couple of weeks without a break. Oh well, I did go to bed for a few hours at night, and I did eat when Hubby cooked, and I did shower and change clothes. But I didn't go out for a walk or do my regular morning exercises or watch my diet. I just let it all go. Not like me at all. I didn't feel depressed or anxious or particularly tired. I just didn't want to be bothered for awhile. With anything.

I've always said that writing is like surfing. You wait for that creative wave to come along and you grab it and surf it with all your heart. When it has passed, you paddle until the next wave comes along. I had been surfing the writing wave without a break for so long, now I just needed to paddle in shallow water for awhile. And it worked!

The malaise is passing and I can feel the mental and creative energy returning. I'm writing this, aren't I? I love writing and it distresses me if I lose that passion. How would I fill the void if I couldn't write? While IABOS (see my previous blog about that) is devastating and can leave you wiped out for long periods of time, PPM is more like a coffee break that you need to take with fresh choc chip muffins, soft music and a beautiful view to stare at for an uninterrupted length of time. A coffee break that can last for a few days or a few weeks. You can still function, you still feel well and sane, you just don't wanna write!

Stay out of the study. Don't turn your computer on. If you do, you'll just sit and stare at it and wonder why you turned it on in the first place. If you are like me and don't read other books while you are writing your own (outgoing conflicts with incoming, something about the voices of the characters in your head), well now is the moment to pick up another author's work and wallow in it. Or binge watch your favourite TV shows. Or catch up with friends who thought you had moved because they hadn't heard from you for so long.

Recharge and renew. PPM can actually be thoroughly enjoyable when you understand what it is. Oh, and when you check your sales report on KDP and nothing much is happening, don't be too concerned. Indie Authors must realise they are in it for the long haul. Your published work will outlive you. Bet you hadn't thought about that. It's out there and it's going to stay out there. You have plenty of time to get onto that marketing and promoting campaign. You have plenty of time to connect with your readers and watch those sales figures gradually increase. Sure, your books will peak and subside, that is true for all books, but you'll have moved on to your next book and, hopefully, will be focused on what really matters. And that is telling stories. Good stories. And PPM will happen again, and again. Learn to expect it and and cater to it.

It's a writer's life. That's all it is. And a writer's life can be pretty bloody good. Enjoy it!