KBR Short Story: The Escape

by Tania Nallathamby

We were all gathered in the one room upstairs. Scared.

Outside, an angry mob beat their hands on our high metal gate, alarming the crows, who joined the bedlam of noise.

My mum had her arms around my sister and me, tightly holding us close. But I didn’t feel safe. Fear had arranged itself into a tight little knot and made itself comfortable low in my tummy.

My uncle had heard on the news that angry mobs in the capital city where we lived were creating chaos.

“But why are they here Uncle?  What have we done?” I was confused.

“In their minds, someone has to pay for yesterday’s ambush in the North.”

 My uncle could have been speaking Latin. Nothing made sense to me.

The ringing telephone startled us. My uncle quickly picked it up. I saw him listen intently and then put the phone down.

“C’mon, downstairs everyone, quickly. Let’s get to the back door.”

“What’s happening?” I asked worriedly. No one answered me.

We ran downstairs.

Near the kitchen was a door leading to our back garden. Crouched low, we ran quietly to it. Outside the air was filled with an unfamiliar smell that I didn’t like.

The back of our house was fenced off by a high concrete wall.

“Beyond this wall is our rescue” my uncle said.“Mr Pereira from the top of the street is in a black Fiat, waiting for us in the laneway.”

I had seen Uncle greet Mr Pereira at the corner shop before but I never paid him much attention.  

“Can we trust him?” my mother asked worriedly.

“Quickly, go now”,urged my uncle.“Help your children when you get to the other side.”

My uncle helped my mum scale the wall.

My little sister started to cry.

“Ssssh  angel. They’ll hear us. You must stay quiet. Climb on my shoulders.  Mamma will help you from the other side.”

“Your turn, Kavitha.”

I didn’t need to stand on my uncle’s shoulders. He just lifted me high and I managed to straddle the wall with my legs and slide down the other side, grazing my knees against the concrete wall.Tiny droplets of blood meshed out but I didn’t feel the sting.

My mother and sister were already in the back of Mr Pereira’s black Fiat as my uncle and I got in.  Mr Pereira put his car into gear and slowly drove the long way to his house. He parked at the back of his house and Mrs. Pereira  waved us frantically in through the fly screen door.

We were safe.

Our neighbours, the Pereiras risked their own safety to rescue us from the angry mob.

My mother said neighbours were more than the people who lived next to you, or even on the same street as you.


Born in Sri Lanka, raised in Zambia, Papua New Guinea and the Maldives, Tania Nallathamby now happily lives in Melbourne with her family. She is a Laboratory Scientist with a passion for children’s fiction. She can be contacted attania.nallathamby(AT)bigpond(DOT)com



KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Hills Hoist

by Marianna Shek

‘Tsssaaaaa!! Scat!’

Isla dug her heels into the dirt and jumped off the swing before it came to a stop. The bullies gave her a five second head start before they gave chase – like a cat playing with a mouse.

‘There was a girl called Isla
who thought she was a bear!’

And Isla’s mum thought they were lucky to move into this neighbourhood! She leapt over the bike rack but her shoelace caught on the bar. She pitched forward – hands smacked gravel – but quickly jumped up again.

‘She stuck her head in a honey jar
She wasn’t all quite there!’

Isla was fed up with her new neighbours, the twins Morgan and Anna. Her neighbour on the other side—Mackie, was a boy-witch, and not in the cool Harry Potter way. The first morning they’d moved in, Isla was in her bedroom trying on her bear hat with the side flaps and the furry ears when she’d caught him in the reflection! He was perched on her windowsill. She’d no idea how he got there seeing she was on the second level.

The twins were gaining on her. Isla jumped theovergrown bougainvillea hedge straight into Mackie’s yard. It was overgrown with runners and dandelion patches. She ran straight into a pair of boxers hanging from the hills hoist.

All she could see were polka dots, then with a rusty screeeeech the hills hoist spun and she was face to face with Mackie.

He held a pair of knobbly socks in one hand and pegs in the other. Mackie glanced over her shoulder, saw the twins sauntering across the yard as if it was their turf and squared his bony shoulders.

‘Grab the line,’ he ordered.

‘Wh-what?’

He cranked the handle of the hills hoist. Isla barely had time to grab hold before the line started vibrating. Craaaaaaaaaaaaank!The base started shaking.  Mackie grabbed the opposite line. Boiiiiiinnnngggggg! The hills hoist propelled itself into the air. Isla could see the solar panels on the roof. The twins cowered beneath them.

‘Are you alright?’ Mackie asked.

‘Thanks,’ Isla said when she finally found her voice, ‘But…how are we going to get down?’

‘Ah well, that’s where I run into trouble,’ Mackie explained, ‘We could try turning the boxers into a sail to steer?’

They rigged it as best as they could but there wasn’t enough fabric to catch the wind.

‘Power lines!’ Isla pointed up ahead.

‘I think we better jump.’

Before she knew it, Mackie had grabbed her arm and they let go of the line. Isla’s legs buckled under her as she hit the shingled rooftop of her own house. They watched as the hills hoist rose, waving its polka dotted boxers like a flag. Finally, it was just a pinpoint on the horizon.

‘That’s the third hills hoist I’ve lost this year,’ Mackie moaned.

Isla grinned, ‘That’s cool. You can hang your washing at our place.’


Marianna Shek has published a path-finding adventure called Choose Your Own Death for young adults. She is currently working on a picture book called Donald Doing’s House of Verbs.
Find out more about Marianna's books at her Rock on Kitty Facebook page.



KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Clang! Bang! Clatter!

by Shannon Wong-Nizic

My Nanna wakes the neighbourhood with her clanging and banging and clattering.

Every single Monday.

Clang! Bang! Clatter!
Nanna sees Mrs Richardson as she fumbles for her car keys on the driveway.
“Off to work before her kids even wake up,” sighs Nanna.

Clang! Bang! Clatter!
She sees Mr Marcos opening his curtains whilst he boils the kettle for a solitary cup of tea.
“Such a big house for one old man,” sighs Nanna.

Clang! Bang! Clatter!
She sees Mr Jeffers ducking out to collect his newspaper.
“His days must be long now that his kids have moved away,” sighs Nanna.

“The Lamberts are throwing out a swing set,” Nanna mentions one Monday.
“It mustn’t get much use now that their kids have grown up,” sighs Nanna.

All of Nanna’s sighing gives me an idea…

“Jack!” Mrs Lambert exclaims as she opens her front door. “What a lovely surprise!”

“Your mandarin tree is heaving with fruit,” I reply. “I thought maybe I could have the old swing set you’re throwing out in exchange for my time picking mandarins.”

“I’ll make a mandarin syrup cake while you pick,” she exclaims. “Then again, maybe not. It’ll just go to waste,” she hesitates.

“I’ll help you eat it! I’ll see if Mr Jeffers will help us eat it too!” I scamper off before she can give it a second thought.

Whilst Mr Lambert dismantles the swing set, I clear the rotting mandarins carpeting the front yard.

Mr Jeffers ambles up the Lambert’s front path just as the cake comes out of the oven.

After my second piece of cake, I leave the Lamberts and Mr Jeffers laughing together on the verandah.

Over the next few weeks, I clang, I bang, I clatter.

With the help of Nanna’s observations, I gather the bits and bobs that people throw out.

Mrs Wu gives me some metal sheets.
Clang! Bang! Clatter.

Mr Kyriacou gives me some wooden crates.
Clang! Bang! Clatter!

Mrs Richardson gives me some old cushions.
Clang! Bang! Clatter!

When Mr Jeffers gives me some old fence palings, I know my project is almost finished. With an unsteady hand, I paint “The Gathering Spot” on one of the palings.

I’m driving my hand-painted sign into the ground when the first of my neighbours arrives.

The Richardson kids run straight to the swing set. “Look at how you’ve used my old cushions to turn those crates into comfy seats!” exclaims Mrs Richardson.

“It’s lovely to see kids on our play equipment again” smiles Mrs Lambert, placing a bag of mandarins on Mr Marco’s old table to share with us all.

“One person’s trash is really another person’s treasure,” says Mrs Wu as she inspects the cubby house I’ve made out of her metal sheets.

“This really is a place for us all to treasure,” murmurs Mr Jeffers.

“How did you do all this?” whispers Nanna, with glistening eyes.

“It’s what happens when your Nanna drives a garbage truck,” I whisper back.


Shannon Wong-Nizic is a Kindergarten teacher who believes that reading is as important as breathing. 

She blogs about picture books, sweet treats, craft and life at Oh Creative Day.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Neighbours Like You

by Sharon Hammad

‘Catch the ball, Jess!’

She jumps and snatches the ball in her mouth. On the way down, it drops, bounces on the concrete and flips over the fence into the neighbour’s yard.

Last time that happened, Mr Gardener said, ‘I left my last house because of neighbours like you, Zac.If I find your ball in my yard again, I’m keeping it.’

‘I guess that’s the end of the game,’ I tell Jess.

Jess darts up and down along the fence, barking. ‘Shh.  Do you want Mr Gardener to complain?’

She keeps barking.  I guess that means ‘yes’.

‘It’s only a ball. Fetch this stick instead.’ I hold it up high, ready to throw.

Jess stops and looks at me as if I must be joking.

‘Come on, girl.’ I jiggle the stick to get her excited. She slumps on the ground with her head on her paws.

‘I know it’s your favourite ball but I can’t exactly go and get it.’

Jess’s ears stiffen and she raises her head.

‘Oh no, I’m not going over there. What if Mr Gardener catches me?’

Jess’s tail whirs.

‘Are you serious?’ I ask, although I already know the answer.

Peeking over the fence, I see the red ball smack in the middle of the green lawn.  Mr Gardener is bound to spot it as soon as he comes outside. If I’m going to try to get it back, I need to do it now.

‘You have to be quiet Jess.  Not one bark or else…’ I better not think about or else what.

I scramble over the fence as quietly as I can but I sound like a cricket bat bashing the metal. Crouching on the other side, I wait to see if Mr Gardener heard. Even if he didn’t, he must be able to hear my heart thumping. I’d better make a dash for it. Ready, set─

Sprinting to the middle of the lawn, I notice something strange.  

On the ground next to the house lies a boot. The boot is attached to a leg and nearby the other leg is bent at an odd angle.

I tiptoe over to the legs. They belong to Mr Gardener. He is face down on the grass and there’s a ladder lying next to him. It sure is a funny place to take a nap.

Still, if I sneak away before he wakes up, Jess and I won’t get into trouble. He’ll never know about the ball.

I kneel down beside him. ‘Mr Gardener, are you okay?’

He opens his eyes and groans, ‘Get help.’

‘You’d better bark now Jess,’ I call. ‘Bark really loud!’

Jess and I watch the ambulance men lift Mr Gardener onto a stretcher. Before they take him away, he says in a shaky voice, ‘Lucky for me I have neighbours like you.’

I guess he doesn’t mind about the ball anymore.

Sharon Hammad lives in the Blue Mountains. She writes short stories and poems for adults and children. For more information, please visit Sharon's website.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Purple Shades

by Karen Morrow

Nan’s house is old, colourful and tall,
her treasures fill all of its spaces.
Jewelled rugs float on seas of sunny wooden floors
and her garden has the best hiding places.

We sometimes dress up, in her hats and her shawls
and pretend we are ladies in castles.
Today, in a box, in a cupboard, in a hall,
we found a pair of old purple sunglasses.

‘What are these?’ I asked Nan
and she threw up her hands,
‘Ah! You found my happiness glasses!’

‘These’ she explained ‘make everything change
when I’m sad, or angry, or hurt.
I wear these shades on my grey coloured days
but I always say these words first:

Nothing’s so broken that cannot be fixed,
or heart too cracked to  be mended.
Nothing’s too black or too boring or blue
that purple cannot make splendid.’

As I slipped on the shades I was truly amazed
to see everything had indeed turned to purple;
the room and my Nan and my very own hands!
Yep, everything was deliciously purple.

I ran to find Pop and my little brother Josh
who were watering plants in the garden.
I squealed when I saw them ‘Purple people! Purple water!’
Josh smiled. Pop turned and said... ‘Pardon?’

‘I’m wearing Nan’s glasses, her happiness glasses!’
Pop laughed and said ‘can we join the game?’
‘You said that in purple!’
My little brother said ‘burp!’ Which is nearly almost exactly the same.

I lied on the grass and looked up at the clouds
floating in a jellybean sky.
Soft lacy shades of pink lemonade with ice cream scoops piled high.

Nan found me there, so I asked her to share,
there was way too much food there for me.
Then Pop wanted some, so Josh had to come,
Nan said ‘save some room for tea.’

It’s time to go home. There’s a lump in my throat.
Tears prickle behind my eyes.
Nan whispers ‘there’s a way to make everything change’
and then to my surprise,

She gave me her glasses, her happiness glasses
and it made me smile to see,
my Nan and my Pop and my little brother Josh,
shades of purple, smiling right back at me.


Karen Morrow is a writer of literary short fiction and non-fiction, escaping from adulthood for a year to play and experiment with children's fiction. She will probably never go back. For more information, visit Karen's blog.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Octavia Oakley, Ornithologist

by Jo Staker

SNAP!

What was that?

Octavia Oakley peered out from her hiding spot, her binoculars balancing on her nose.

She squinted into the lenses. Something blurry and very large was moving towards her.

Octavia lowered her binoculars and crouched still, hoping that whatever the large beast was, it was not going to see her.

CRACK! A branch snapped right beside her.

Octavia jumped, dropping her binoculars. They hit her on the knee, and she cried out, ‘Owwwwwwwwwww!’

‘Who’s there?’ the beast hissed.

Octavia hastily scanned her brain for dangerous talking beasts one might come across in the forest, and when she realised there were none, she crawled out from the bush she was hiding under, and stood up. The dangerous beast was in fact a girl.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Octavia Oakley, Ornithologist.’

‘Orni-what-ogist?’asked the girl.

‘Or-ni-thol-o-gist,’ said Octavia, ‘That’s a person who studies birds. Well actually, I’m more of a bird finder. I find them, then write them down in my book here, see. Today I’m hoping to find  a very rare bird, the Peruvian Purple Parrot. Only two people in the whole world have ever seen one before. I’ve been hiding in this bush for 3 hours already. I know I won’t see one; Iwill probably wait my whole life and never ever see one’. Octavia sighed dramatically.

The girl was rubbing her forehead.

‘Did you bump your head? Show me. It looks OK, just a scratch. What’s your name?’

‘Penny’, the girl said. ‘You talk a lot Octavia.’

“I know,’ said Octavia laughing, ‘everybody says that. What are you doing here in the forest? Let me guess? You are hiding from your 5 big brothers? Or your mum wants you to clean your room? No wait! You are looking for something, something to put in that bag you’re holding. Am I right? Can I see what’s in the bag? Please.’ she added.

‘Rocks.’ said Penny.

‘Rocks. So you’re a geologist!’ said Octavia, ‘They study rocks. How funny, we are both ologists, I’m an ornithologist and you are a geologist. Have you found any today? I bet you have, let’s see, I wanna see!’

‘I found these,’said Penny reaching into her bag, ‘Some purple pebbles.’

 She opened her hand to show them to Octavia.

Octavia stared at the pebbles. She didn’t say anything.

‘Are you OK?’ said Penny.

Octavia nodded.

‘What’s wrong?’

“Not…..pebbles” said Octavia.

‘What do you mean, not pebbles?’

"Not pebbles… poo"

‘Poo?’

‘Peruvian…Purple… Parrot… poo.’  Octavia’s eyes were wide.

‘Poo!’screamed Penny.

She dropped the pebbles and started rubbing her hand on her shorts.

Octavia tried to speak, ‘Where….’

But that was all she could say.

‘Want me to show you where I found them?’ asked Penny laughing.

Octavia nodded.

‘Come on!’

That afternoon, Octavia Oakley, Ornithologist, became the third person in the world to see the Peruvian Purple Parrot, but nobody other than Penny knew until three days later when Octavia was finally able to speak again.


Jo lives in Sydney with her husband, four children, and four very fat chooks. She loves books, writing, and growing backyard veggies. She hopes to finish the world's longest running Arts degree this year. She sometimes blogs at Jo Digs.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Ritu's New Sari

by Tania Nallathamby

Ritu was impatient with excitement.

“C’mon Mamma! I want to get to the bazaar early so I don’t miss out on anything”.

Ritu’s arangetram was on Saturday and her palms felt itchy at the thought of dancing on stage in front of all her family and friends.  As if she wasn’t already nervous enough, Ritu had no idea what she was going to wear. Arangetrams were a big deal and Mamma had promised Ritu an afternoon at the bazaar.

The sari stalls were adorned with metres and metres of beautiful fabric. Silk, cotton, georgette and chiffon saris were on display everywhere. They were draped on mannequins, hung pleated, from low beams and were folded on shelves in neat stacks.

Ritu chose a shop with a large collection of purple saris. They were individually wrapped in shiny clear plastic to keep the dust out. She ran her fingers down the pile and was awed at all the different shades of her favourite colour.  Choosing was going to be hard.

 “Can I have a look at this one please?” Ritu asked the man behind the counter.

He deftly pulled the sari from the middle of the stack in one quick move, leaving the rest of the saris still neatly folded. Taking it out of its plastic cover, he opened out the sari.

The colour reminded her of the ripe, plump mulberries that grew in Ammama’s garden, their deep colour staining her fingertips as she squashed them into her mouth. It was a beautiful shade of purple but Ritu didn’t like the mango shaped designs on the pallu and she shook her head quickly.

“This one please”, she asked, as her eyes were drawn to an eggplant coloured sari with small silver embellishments. She didn’t like Mamma’s eggplant curry but she liked the colour.

“Ritu, this colour does not do justice to your complexion”, Mamma said, her brow furrowing.

“How about this one?” asked the man. He spread out a dazzling amethyst sari on the counter top. The jewels caught the light and made dancing patterns on the walls.

Ritu crinkled her nose. Too busy. Too heavy, she worried.

She took a closer look. Three quarters of the way down on the third shelf, her attention was drawn to an electric purple sari.  She wandered why she had not picked it out before.

“Take a look mahal. 100 % pure silk. Simple pallu with some beautiful work on the border.”

“I think I like this one Mamma”.

The man unfolded the whole 8 metres of the sari so that Ritu could admire it.

“Look how eye catching this shade is”, Ritu marveled.

“Yes, it is a very shocking purple”, Mamma laughed. “You are sure to stand out in this sari Ritu. “

Ritu felt the rising butterflies in her tummy as she left the bazaar, imagining the wild applause as she thrilled her audiences dancing in her new purple sari.

Born in Sri Lanka, raised in Africa (Zambia), Papua New Guinea and the Maldives, Tania Nallathamby now happily lives in Melbourne with her family. She is a Laboratory Scientist with a passion for children’s fiction! She can be contacted attania.nallathamby(AT)bigpond(DOT)com


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: The Fairy Ghost Train

by Susan Abrahams

'No, not the ghost train,' I say. 'How about the rainbow fairy slide again?'

'It's your brothers’ choice this time, Elly.' says Dad. 'Hop in beside me. It will be fun.'

The black door snaps our little train into the dark.

'I'm scared already, Dad.' I say.

'Boo!' screams a skeleton, making us jump.

'Raa, ha ha.' A green-faced witch laughs, poking us with her broom.

An icky spider web swishes my hair and a ghost wails, as we clack over the bumpy rails.

The train rattles up a steep part and stops. I grip Daddy tighter.

I scream as we fly down and up and down again. The train is getting faster. The witch is laughing louder. A trapdoor hammers open and shut.  My head hurts from all the noise.

'This is not a fun ride Daddy.' I say, burying my head into his warm jacket sleeve.

A zombie moans. I hear my brothers laugh as we race uphill again.

I nuzzle in further. Our carriage feels like it's pointing straight up this time. I hide under Daddy's arm, shutting my eyes, ready for the scary downhill drop.

Instead, the train keeps going up and up, higher and higher until it lifts off the tracks and glides out of the darkness and into a pale blue sky filled with fluffy pink and white clouds. A pretty song sails through the soft white mist.

A tiny door opens beside our carriage, but it isn't a trap door this time. A little fairy skips out, spilling fairy dust. Smiling sweetly, she asks if we would like to try some fairy floss cloud.

'Delicious!' I say, as I watch my brothers devour their floss and ask for more.

Our train glides smoothly through the mist. I feel the warmth of Daddy's jacket on my face and smile. What a surprise this ride has turned out to be. I watch as the fairy twirls and dances to the music, her wings sparkling as she springs softly from cloud to cloud.

I sway and hum with the pretty song, until...

'Ouch!' I yelp, as the hard black rubber claps my head. The train pulls to a stop.

'Hey Elly, it's time to get out. Did you like the ride?' asks Dad.

'Oh yes,' I say. 'Especially the part with the pretty pink fairy and her glittery dust.'

Daddy shakes his head and laughs. 'You're a funny little one,' he says.

My brothers are looking blankly at me, like they hadn't even seen the fairy.

'Well, you sure looked like you enjoyed the fairy floss cloud,' I say to their funny looking faces and turn back to Daddy.

'Daddy, let’s go. I can't wait to see what scary ride my brothers will choose next.'

Susan Abrahams rode the ups and downs of corporate finance marketing in Sydney, before embarking on a sea change with her husband and three children. These days the sound of the sea and the warmth of her small town inspire her writing for children. Read more of her seaside adventures at her blog: Susan Abrahams. Writer.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Bessie-Lou Keychain

by Danika Hall

‘This was under the back seat of the car,’ Mum said, dangling my Bessie-Lou keychain.‘Want it or chuck it?’

I looked at the key-chain. My first grade Christmas party came flooding back. I could almost smell the coal and hear the train whistles.

Our teacher, Mrs Brown,organised the miniature steam train excursion for our end-of-year class party.

We were so excited that morning.

Heath Fletcher was the only kid who didn’t want to be there.‘Miniature steam trains are lame. They’re for kindergarteners.’

My best friend, Thomas, was mad about trains. He kept pointing out the rules like he was the Fat Controller.‘Keep inside the line,’ he called as we waited on the station. ‘Keep your shoes on the ledge. Don’t lean out of the carriages.’

The girls wanted to ride on the Brighton Belle because it was painted green with purple flowers. Some of them screamed when it started moving, even though it wasn’t going fast.

‘So lame,’ Heath said.

I didn’t care about which engine I was on, but I wanted to be at the front so I could see what the driver was doing.

The old man driving Bessie-Lou was happy to show me.‘This is the firebox door where I load coal,’ he explained.‘I use this handle to control steam from the boiler to the cylinders…’

‘And the steam pushes the pistons which move the wheels,’ Thomas finished.

The driver nodded. He tipped his cap to another driver passing us on a yellow engine.

We waved and our class-mates waved back.

Heath kept his arms crossed.

The track wasn’t long, but there was enough to look at:a plastic pirate ship; a chest with fake treasure; jungle vines and hanging monkeys; a fish pond with a statue of a mermaid.

At midday, Mrs Brown rang a bell for lunch.

We reached the undercover picnic area just as it started sprinkling.

‘Don’t think they’ll run the engines if it rains hard,’ Thomas said. ‘They might tip if the tracks are slippery.’

I was eating my sandwich when some girls started squealing and pointing.

Bessie-Lou was charging towards us with a round, red passenger on board.

‘Santa!’ We threw our lunchboxes aside and scrambled to the station.

‘Ho, Ho! Merry Christmas!’Santa stood on the second last carriage holding an enormous brown sack. As Bessie-Lou rounded a corner, he leaned across to wave at us.

‘Don’t…’ Thomas yelled.

Too late.The carriage toppled and Santa rolled off. His sack of presents spilled over the tracks.

‘Cool,’ Heath said, finally impressed.

The driver stopped Bessie-Lou.

Mrs Brown ran to help Santa.

All my class-mates, including Thomas, ignored the ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign and followed her. We hunted through the scattered presents to find the gift labelled with our own name.

Mrs Brown made a cup of tea for Santa and the driver while we unwrapped our presents.

Mine was the Bessie-Lou key-chain.

‘So, can I chuck it?’ Mum asked.

‘Nah, I’ll keep it.’

Danika Hall loves to write fiction for middle readers aged 8 – 12 years. She has experience in academic and promotional writing and has worked in marketing communications for over 20 years. To find out more visit Danika's website.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Steam and Coal-smoke

by Jo Staker

“What’s your name, boy?” the train driver asked.

"Ben," the boy said.

"Well come on Ben. Climb aboard!"

The boy looked at his Mum. This was embarrassing. There were people everywhere. He looked down at his feet.

"Go on," his mum smiled apologetically.

Ben walked slowly, dragging his feet and flopped down on his seat behind the driver.

"Me too!" his little sister cried.

Ellie was only 3. She loved this train ride they took every Sunday afternoon.

"Of course little Miss, on you get," said the driver as he took off his cap and waved her on.

He turned around and smiled at the boy and girl.

"Ready?"

"Yep, ready" they said together.

 Ben looked around at the crowd of people, nobody was paying any attention to them. He felt relieved. He stared at the back of the driver’s neck. Why hadn't he noticed before that the deep lines on his skin looked just like train tracks, heading north, south, east and west. There were soft wisps of white hair escaping from under his grey cap.

A train whistle sounded. Woooooo Wooooooo.

Only it wasn't a real train whistle, it was Ben's Poppy Jack making the noise with his mouth.

“Off we go!”

Poppy Jack never remembered who they were when they came to visit every Sunday afternoon, but the nurses said that after Sunday lunch, he always got his train ready. Three chairs, one behind the other, like somehow he knew there would be two passengers arriving soon.

Ellie made the noise too, "Woooooo Woooooo"

Ben was sure people must be staring now, but no, they weren't. The families that came to Monterey Hall every Sunday to visit their loved ones were used to seeing Poppy Jack driving his train with his two small passengers seated behind him.

Poppy Jack closed his eyes and stuck his nose up in the air and breathed deeply. "Mmmmm, can you smell that steam and coal-smoke kids? There's nothing that smells better than a steam train!" he cried.

Ben sniffed the air. It smelled like old people he thought, but kept that information to himself.

That was the last Sunday Ben and Ellie got to ride with their Poppy Jack on his train. He died the next day. Ben's mum gave him Poppy Jack’s train driver cap to keep. Ben sniffed it. He thought he could smell steam and coal-smoke.

Now when Ellie asks him to, he takes her on a train ride, in their kitchen. He lines up three chairs, one each for them, and one for Poppy Jack.

"Mmmmm Ellie. Can you smell that? Nothing smells better than a steam train"


Jo lives in Sydney with her husband, four children, and four very fat chooks. She loves books, writing, and growing backyard veggies. She hopes to finish the world's longest running Arts degree this year. She sometimes blogs at Jo Digs.  


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Steam Whistle

by Robert Walton

The volcano burst. Boulders glowing orange as pumpkins, white-hot ash and baby dragons spewed into the sky. Boulders tumbled and ash fell, but the dragons spread their wings and soared, red leaves against blue sky. Tsadi - the volcano’s dragon king - roared after them, mouth agape. He would tolerate no young dragons on his mountain. He champed left and right as he flew. Soon, only one baby remained.

The baby twisted and rolled, dodging teeth longer than swords. He saw snowy peaks ahead with deep shadows between them. He dove straight into the deepest shadow of all, a canyon with a river at its bottom. Proud Tsadi swooped up and shot scarlet flames into the sky. His wings were too wide. He could not follow.

The baby landed with a thump and a moan among the tents of railroad men, track-layers and diggers. The men threw off their blankets, poured from their tents into frosty air and stared in wonder. The baby sobbed as golden dragon tears fell from his golden eyes. This was a marvel and, being men from China, they turned to the wisest man among them. “Mencius,” they called, “what shall we do?”

Mencius pulled the thin hairs of his beard and stared at the quivering dragon. “This is a great gift! People of California don’t know dragons. We do. We must protect this orphan.”

One man called, “Mencius, how are we to feed it?”

“I am the camp cook. I will order food for a thousand.”

“But we are only five hundred!”

Mencius nodded. “Exactly! Then we five hundred must do the work of a thousand to hide the difference.”

And they did.

They slipped him bits of bread at breakfast. They fed him stew at lunchtime. They patted him and spoke with him, but they could not do the most important thing of all: teach him to sing. Only a mother dragon could do that. Then – chuff, chuff, squeal, hiss – an engine rolled to a halt on gleaming rails. The baby dragon rushed to its panting, black flank and stared up. He felt red fire burning in the engine’s heart.

Suddenly, its brass whistle cleared its throat with steam and howled a mighty howl!

Baby dragon blinked, pointed his muzzle to the sun and answered with all his heart.

“I name you Steam Whistle!” pronounced Mencius.

All the men cheered and Steam Whistle uttered another throaty moan.

A clever man called out, “What can this dragon do?” He knew that young dragons need a great task. Otherwise, they become a great burden.

An engine’s whistle hooted down the canyon.  Steam Whistle answered. Mencius grinned.

Trains have climbed the Sierras for one hundred and fifty years. Within their lighted cars, mothers cuddle babies and fathers snore in peace. None give a thought to the wild mountains, for above them flies a guardian.  They might sometimes see a monstrous wing’s shadow, or they might hear, however strange in these modern days, Steam Whistle’s rolling cry.

Dedicated to Martin Doolan

Robert Walton is a retired teacher and a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer. His writing about climbing has been published in the Sierra Club's "Ascent”. His novel "Dawn Drums” won the 2014 New Mexico Book Awards Tony Hillerman Prize for best fiction. Most recently, his story “Lulu Garlic, Contraband” was broadcast on NPR. He and his wife Phyllis live in King City, California. See more at his Chaos Gate website.

KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: The Sengoku Academy

by Elizabeth Paterson

‘Dear Miss Obi, 

On behalf of the Sengoku Academy Administration, we would like to congratulate you on your successful admission to our school. 

Your primary subjects will include:
• Stealth training and invisibility
• Sword play
• Martial Arts, and
• Control over the elements

We look forward to seeing you in Ninja Class.’

“I’m a Ninja in training!” Shin exclaimed, as she excitedly looked at her acceptance letter again.

Walking through the gate to the academy was like stepping into a room of static electricity; the whole courtyard was buzzing with vibrant energy, but it was also incredibly silent. Shin was aware that there were other people around her, but they were moving with such stealth, speed, and silence that she could see little more than moving blurs. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of a foot just before it disappeared behind the corner of the building or a very slight rustle in the trees, which could have been mistaken for a tiny wisp of wind.

Another girl stood next to her. She was not a blur; she was standing still beside Shin looking into the vibrating courtyard.

“Are they students?” Shin asked the girl.

“No,” the girl replied, “They’re the teachers.” She pointed over her shoulder to a bus that had just pulled up behind them. “Most of the students are only just arriving.”

Shin breathed a sigh of part relief part awe. She was amazed at the level of skill that was being displayed in front of her but also glad that it was not the level that a student would necessarily be expected to reach on their first day.

Shin blinked and when she opened her eyes a tall woman with dark eyes was standing in front of them; a long weapon was strapped to her back.

“I’m Ms Kat Ana, Head of Sword Play. Surname please,” she said, looking at the girl next to Shin.

“Ken,” the girl replied.

Ms Ana scrolled down a list in her hand. “Ah yes, Shuri Ken?” The girl nodded before Ms Ana continued, “You’re bunking in Building B Level 2 Room 11.”

Then Ms Ana turned to Shin with a look of expectation.

“Oh, my surname is Obi,” Shin said.

“Shin Obi?” Ms Ana said with enthusiasm, “Your father must be proud. Miss Obi you’re bunking with Miss Ken here, and I’ll see you both in Sword Play tomorrow at 9am sharp.”

Shin avoided Shuri’s gaze, who was now looking at Shin with amazement as they walked towards Building B. They headed across the courtyard but stopped when a throwing star flew past their faces. A pair of senior boys came into focus from the blur and Shin saw them laughing at the prank.

Shuri yelled at them, “You’d better be careful. This is the principal’s daughter!”

Shin smiled cheekily as they watched the seniors running away. “Shuri, I think Ninja Class is going to be lots of fun!”


Elizabeth Paterson is a stay at home mother of two children and has had the privilege of having her music themed short story ‘Grandpa’s Attic’ published with KBR in April 2015. She is thrilled to have been accepted for publication again this month with ‘Sengoku Academy’.
Elizabeth also shares some of her other writing online through her blog A Life That Sings Your Song.

KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Ninja Gran

by Jade Harmer

I got nervous when Gran's fingers twitched.

Nervous for Toby Treloar who was threatening to toss my ball into the creek.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” I said.

“And whatcha gonna do about it?” taunted Toby.

Oh well, can't say I didn't warn him...

“Toby, let me introduce my Gran. Gran, this is Toby.” Gran licked her lips and I rolled my eyes.

Toby looked at me like I was from outer space. “Why would I wanna meet yer Gran?” he sniggered, twirling my ball on his sausage-shaped finger.

His goons fell about laughing.

“Would you like to give the ball back, sonny?” Gran asked.

Toby roared with laughter.

And that's when Gran, fast as lightning, jumped up onto her frame, balanced on one foot and pointed the other squarely at Toby, the toe of her Hush Puppy just a centimetre from his crooked nose.

His goons took a step back.

“Pleasure to meet you Toby,” Gran said, eyes threatening as darts. “Always nice to meet a friend of Charlie's. Now how about you give his ball back. I've got a pot roast in the oven.”

“Where's the camera?” Toby looked around helplessly. “Yer just an old lady!”

Gran launched herself into the air and spun so quickly that she blew Toby Treloar and his goons into the creek.

My ball flew from his sausage-shaped finger into my arms. Gran raised an eyebrow in my direction as Toby and his goons stumbled about in the creek bed.

“See you tomorrow, Toby,” Gran smiled, landing a spectacular backward somersault with a twist. In a split second she was back in her familiar Gran-like position, shuffling her frame along the path that followed the creek home.

“Gran,” I asked. “When do you think I'll start getting Ninja skills?” I’d always known they ran in the family.

“Well I was a late bloomer, Charlie, but I have a feeling you might already have some.”

“You do?” I asked.

“I think you might be a Wish Ninja,” she whispered.

“OK, sure Gran,” I laughed, but I couldn't help being just a little bit curious. “What's a Wish Ninja?”

Gran’s smile widened. “It's the most powerful type of Ninja,” she explained. “A Wish Ninja can make things happen just by wishing them. You made your ball fly from that boy's finger into your arms,” she said.

I thought about that for a minute. I may have wished the ball to come to me, but I was no Wish Ninja. I wasn't even a Regular Ninja. Not yet anyway.

“Pot roast smells good,” I said when we got to Gran’s. I was starving and I wished I could eat it whole.

Gran smiled and checked the oven only to find an empty pot. She stared at me, her eyes round like saucers.

“Gran, do Wish Ninjas have big appetites?” I asked sheepishly.

“I daresay they do, Charlie,” she grinned, prodding my belly in disbelief, “I daresay they do!”

Jade lives in the Adelaide Hills with her husband and their three children, the resident koalas, kangaroos and echidna. She works in marketing communications and spends her spare time devising quirky picture book stories. Her dream is to see one of her manuscripts picked up by a publisher and turned into a beautiful picture book, then maybe another, and another, and another… If only she were a Wish Ninja! Visit Jade's blog to find out more about her creative pursuits.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Secret Ninja

by Sharon Hammad

I am a secret ninja, well hidden in a tree:
I watch from under cover so no-one catches me.

I am a secret ninja in black from toe to head.
I move around the school yard with quick and stealthy tread.

I am a secret ninja: I wield a shiny sword ─
No, not a steel one, silly ─ one made of foil-wrapped board.

I am a secret ninja. I’m ninja-mad, I swear.
Eat only ninja noodles, wear ninja underwear.

I am a secret ninja: I linger at the rear
And loiter in the shadows as if to disappear.

I am a secret ninja with ninja Supercool.
It’s truly death-defying to go to ninja school.

I am a secret ninja. I tumble through the air
And land upon the mattress inside my ninja lair.

I am a secret ninja for ninjas must be fast
To recognise the danger and hide until it’s past.
I am a secret ninja: if only it was known,
The baddies would be thinking they’d best leave me alone.

I am a secret ninja. Survival is my art:
To keep away from trouble, you have to be street smart.

I am a secret ninja for ninjas must be brave.
We never show we’re frightened when bullies misbehave.

I am a secret ninja for ninjas can be small.
It helps you fit in places where you can barely crawl.

I am a secret ninja, as silent as a spy.
Though voices call out ‘Loser’, we ninjas don’t reply.

I am a secret ninja: I save my mask for games.
Bet if I wore it always no-one would call me names.

I am a secret ninja for ninjas must be shrewd
To skirt around the bad guys who keep on acting rude.

I am a secret ninja. Wish people would think twice
To pick on me for nothing ‘cause ninjas can be nice.

I am a secret ninja. Perhaps, if I pretend
The baddies don’t disturb me, my worries all will end.

I am a secret ninja, though maybe not for long;
Just till the roughheads work out I’m seriously strong.

I am a secret ninja but one day I may dare
To face up to the bullies and answer stare with stare.

I am a secret ninja. It’s practice that I need
Then maybe I’ll be famous for each intrepid deed.

I am a secret ninja though good kids needn’t fret.
I wouldn’t try to shock them or make them feel upset.

I am a secret ninja but secrets can be shared
With other would-be ninjas who might be feeling scared.

I am a secret ninja: Yes, two can work as one
But first I need to show you how ninja stuff is done

I am a secret ninja and ninjas carry on
Just being noble ninjas until the threat is gone.

I am a secret ninja. Now you’re my ninja mate.
There’s one more thing to mention: It’s time to celebrate!

Sharon Hammad lives in the Blue Mountains. She writes short stories and poems for adults and children. For more information, please visit Sharon's website.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Ninja-bread Man

by Danika Hall

Ninja-bread Man

I admired my tray of ginger-bread men. Only one was a bit wonky: the last one I’d cut from the scraps of the dough. His left leg was short and his right arm twisted at a funny angle.

Mum was pleased because I’d worked independently. I’d followed the recipe and already filled the sink to wash up.

I carefully picked up the tray with my hand-mitt and opened the oven door. The hot air gushed out as I slid the tray onto the rack. I was closing the oven door when a small voice startled me.

‘Block and shield
as fast as you can.
You can’t cook me,
I’m the Ninja-bread Man.’

I spun around thinking my little brother was playing a joke, but the sound came from the oven. I peeked in. The wonky ginger-bread man was missing! I opened the door wide to see if he’d slipped off the tray. I saw something but it moved too fast to be sure: a brown blur.

A missile flew into my eye. I wiped it out with my finger. It was a tiny, star-shaped piece of cookie dough. Weird!

‘Where did you go, Wonky?’ I asked.

‘I’ll kick and punch,
I have a plan.
You can’t catch me,
I’m the Ninja-bread Man.’

Before I knew what was happening, the wonky gingerbread man flew out of the oven. He somersaulted through the air and landed on the bench in a crouched combat pose.

‘That’s amazing!’ I grabbed a plastic container. I had to catch him or my friends would never believe me.

‘I won’t cook you. You’re too special,’ I promised.

‘I’ll defend my honour,
so fight if you can.
You won’t trap me,
I’m the Ninja-bread Man.’

He wielded the rolling pin, spinning it over his head, and then let it fly.

CLONK! The rolling pin hit my shoulder.

‘Ouch! That really hurt.’

The Ninja-bread Man didn’t care. He hurled flour from the open packet on the bench. Some got on my hair and in my eyes.

‘Stop!’ I shouted.

He made for the eggs. I beat him to the carton and snapped down the lid.

‘No you don’t!’ I lurched at him with the container, like I was trying to catch a spider, but he was more dangerous than a spider.

‘Duck and roll,
search and scan.
I’ll make my escape,
I’m the Ninja-bread Man.’

He cartwheeled along the bench and leapt towards the open window above the sink. His triple somersault was impressive but he misjudged the landing. He plunged into the sink full of washing up water.

I stood back. There were knives in the water and that Ninja-bread Man was unpredictable. After a few minutes of silence I peered into the sink. There was no sign of him, just bits of disintegrating cookie dough floating amongst the bubbles.

‘What a mess,’ Mum said, walking into the kitchen.

‘I tried my best.
I’ll clean what I can.
Don’t blame me…
it was the Ninja-bread Man.’

Danika Hall loves to write fiction for middle readers aged 8 – 12 years. She has experience in academic and promotional writing and has worked in marketing communications for over 20 years. To find out more visit Danika's website.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: The Bugle

by Melanie Hill

Josh packed away his tuba. He was relieved the exam was over. There were only two small mistakesthat he could recall.

“Well done Josh,” said Mr. Cole, patting Josh’s shoulder. “I have another challenge for you. It’s a short term project but, an important one.”

Josh followed Mr. Cole into the music storage room. It was a treasure trove of brass, wind, string and percussion instruments. They were all calling out to be played. In the left corner, at the bottom Mr. Cole pulled out a small case. The leather was faded and the latches might have been gold once. Inside lay a small trumpet-like instrument without valves.

“It’s a bugle,” said Josh.

“It was my great-grandfather’s. I would like you to play it at the school’s Anzac Day ceremony this year. What do you think?”

Only using his breath to control the tune was harder than hitting the notes with his fingers. Josh’s cheeks were sore. He hadn’t had one practice without making a mistake. There was no way he could tell Mr. Cole he didn’t want to play, but then the day of the ceremony arrived.

His Nan poked her head through the backstage curtain. “Are you ready Luv? I spoke to your Mum. She wishes she could be here but because she can’t, she’d like you to wear these.” Nan opened a green felt pocket and pulled out his Mum’s medals. As if he wasn’t nervous enough.

“I’m wearing mine too,” said Nan, “so you won’t be the only one.” She smiled as she pinned the medals onto his school blazer. “I’ll be in the front, off to the side, filming you.”

“Great,” sighed Josh.

Josh stood on the stage. When the Principal spoke the words, “We will remember them,” Josh brought the shaking bugle up to his lips and remembered what Mr. Cole told him, “The Last Post is a final farewell for all who died in war. You are telling them they can rest, they have done their job.”

Josh’s solemn, sad notes echoed around the hall. The last few hung in the air then slowly drifted away. Some of the teachers wiped tears from their eyes. Josh lowered his head. He was half way, but his hands were still shaking.

After the minute silence, Mr. Cole gave the signal. Again, Josh brought the bugle to his lips and he remembered,“The Rouse is a reminder that the dead are in a better place. It’s a call to the living to start their day.” He would play it for his Mum and her ship’s company. Bright notes blasted from the small bugle. No one seemed to notice the slight warble in the middle.

At the end, a red-eyed Mr. Cole gave him a thumbs up. Josh felt his cheeks heat up. Nan, whose broad toothy grin meant a lot, was pointing to the person in a white uniform next to her.

“Mum!” Josh leapt down the stairs.

She squeezed him and said, “You played perfectly.”

During her 18 years in the Air Force, Melanie wrote poems and stories about her experiences. Now she loves using words to weave poems and invent stories for children. Visit Melanie on Facebook or at her blog, View from the Hill.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: That's Not Music!

by Nat Petrohelos

Jazz loved to play the beat.

She played the beat with chopsticks, on cans of beans and lentils.

‘That’s not music!’ said Mum, who was trying to cook.

She played the beat on saucepans, with a fork and a silver spoon.

‘That’s not music!’ said Jazz’s brother, who was trying to read.Grandpa just winked and turned his hearing aids down.

On the bus, Jazz played the beat with her hands and knees.

‘Cool rhythm,’ said Percy, who played the bass.


What Jazz wanted the most was her own drum-set. Mum wasn’t sure because Jazz had just given up on karate and before that, it was hip-hop dancing and before that, it was ribbon-twirling. Jazz crossed her fingers and hoped Mum would say maybe, which usually meant yes.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Mum, which usually meant no.


Jazz asked the music teacher, Mr B, if she could join the school band.

‘Well, the band has been preparing for the school Presentation Day, said Mr B. ‘but there’s only one drummer. You could be our back-up drummer if you’re prepared to practise. You might not get to play on the day, though.’


Jazz ran to the music room at every chance. At first, she practised with the door closed,but as days went by, she started to leave it open. Sometimes Mr B would come in and give her some tips. Sometimes he’d stand in the doorway. Sometimes her friends came to listen. No-one yelled, ‘That’s not music!’


On the school Presentation Day, Jazz sat in the audience and watched the band set up. Then she got a tap on the shoulder: the drummer had gone home early and they needed Jazz to play.


Jazz held the drumsticks high and waited for Mr B’s signal. She created thunder for the school play, kept the rhythm for the school song and did all drum rolls for the awards. Jazz loved drum rolls the best.

‘And the student of the year is...’ drum roll.

‘The best sportsperson award goes to...’ drum roll.

‘The leadership award goes to…’ drum roll.

‘Um, just a minute everyone, we have a late award. The most improved musician is….’ drum roll….
drum roll…drum roll...

Perhaps the winner was away, thought Jazz, this drum roll was going on forever and her arms were getting tired. Jazz spotted her mum smiling at her in the audience. Suddenly Jazz felt another tap on her shoulder. It was Percy, who played the bass.

‘Percy, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a drum roll?’ she whispered.

‘But Jazz, you’ve won!’ he said.

Jazz couldn’t believe it!


‘Now that was music,’ said Mum afterwards, pointing the camera. ‘Smile Jazz.’

‘So can I get a drum-set? For my birthday?’ Jazz asked hopefully.

‘Maybe,’ said Mum.

And Jazz smiled.


Nat Petrohelos finds herself tapping the beat when she's dreaming up stories for children to enjoy. She lives in Newcastle and has a pet whale, a magic moongarden and an over-active imagination. Read more on her website.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Beethoven's Blues

by Penny Harrison

The room was musty and cramped, the piano old and dusty. Every Wednesday after school I sat at the rickety piano stool in the little room off Mr Harmon's veranda and thundered through the bars of a sonata, cringing at the yellowed keys and the dull thud of an E flat that had lost its tune.

Beethoven would not have approved, I thought.

But Mr Harmon, the piano teacher, only sighed, ever so slightly, and beat his gnarled hand on the edge of the piano, humming the notes in his crackly worn-out voice. I would stare hard at the keys and scratch nervously at the red-splotched mosquito bites appearing on my arms and legs.

On Sundays, I smiled shyly at Mr Harmon from my pew as he sat at the shiny church organ. This was the only time I heard him play and my heart warmed to the beauty of the opening chords. The shuffling feet and rustle of hymn books faded as the music filled the church. But then the choir ladies would open their mouths and attack the hymn with such triumph, such passion, such disaster.

My sister held the hymn book in front of her face, smothering a giggle, while I mouthed the words of the hymn and waited for it to end. Even the priest grimaced. Eventually, Mr Harmon played the last chord, sat back in his chair and sighed, ever so slightly.

My mother had wanted me to learn the piano and she heard Mr Harmon was once a composer who studied at the conservatorium. The kids at school used to make up stories about him: he once played jazz in a city bar; he was the pianist for a famous rock singer back in the sixties.

My dad said he was just a nice, old bloke who had lived in the town his whole life.

Of course, I never asked him anything. I battled my way through the dusty book of sonatas and minuets before mum abandoned her dream of making me into a concert pianist.

On the day of my last lesson, I hurried down the path, clutching my $10, as a spring wind whipped my face with hair and dust. I stopped suddenly as I caught the murmur of an unfamiliar sound. And there, fighting against the wind, came the sound of a forgotten E flat and a forgotten tune.

Mr Harmon was playing the blues.

Penny Harrison has been a journalist for 20 years and only recently started writing creatively for children. Her first picture book is due out in late 2016. She lives in Melbourne with her husband, two children, a small menagerie, lots of beautiful old trees and a growing collection of picture books (and teapots!). She occasionally blogs about gardens at A Little Gentian.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Grandpa's Attic

by Elizabeth Paterson


Noah coughed as the thick dust from the floor in the attic was disturbed by his footsteps. Grandpa said he hadn’t been up here in a while, but with his memory getting worse, perhaps it had been much longer.

“Did you know, Noah,” Grandpa had said, putting down his tea, “I used to be a musician? I’ve still got some music in the attic.” He scratched his grey whiskered chin, and his wrinkled brow furrowed so deeply that his bushy, white eyebrows almost disappeared into his spectacles. “Though, I haven’t been up there in a while. Perhaps you’d like to take a look for me?”

Noah shrugged. A squiz in the attic might be a little bit interesting: more interesting at least than making his last arrowroot biscuit crumble to pieces in his hot chocolate. He scuffed his sneakers along the fraying carpet and climbed the small staircase to the attic.

Looking at it all, he thought it might take weeks to sift through all the junk Grandpa had hoarded over the years. Noah took another creaking step and his footstep trumpeted. Wait -trumpeted? He took another step and this time he could have sworn his sneaker laces had strummed like a guitar.

As he jumped back in fright,a snare drum cracked. He dared not move again. The lively musical noises that were spilling out of the very air in the attic were unlike anything Noah had ever heard. He looked around the dimly lit space and saw towering piles of sheet music stacked up one upon another, half covering an acoustic drum kit, propping up a violin with a missing string, and filling the bell of a dull, brass saxophone.

Noah could not quite tell, but from the orchestral warm-up that was beginning to swell he thought many more instruments could have been lying quietly in different shaped cases around the room.

“What’s happening?” Noah whispered.

Suddenly, as though his voice had been the waving of the conductor’s baton, the instruments burst into glorious music. The sheets of music vibrated and shook, and then the notes lifted off each page and began to dance in the air. The semi-quavers that the violin trilled off the page wafted over to where Noah stood and skipped quickly across his nose before a crotchet rest bumped along behind and silenced them for a beat.

Noah turned and ran from the attic but before the door shut with the great clash of cymbals he saw the whole room filled with floating crotchets and minims, swirling in magnificent song.

Noah burst into the family room, panting and white-faced, where his Grandpa sat smiling, eyes closed as though he was listening to a beautiful tune he used to know.

“Ah,Noah,” Grandpa sighed. “You never told me you were a musician too.”


Elizabeth Paterson is a stay-at-home mother of two children with a Bachelor of Music. She writes for her children and to see their love for reading grow. Elizabeth, who is currently an unpublished writer, believes the act of taking pen to paper throughout the years is a great tool for expressing many aspects of her creativity. She has begun sharing some of her writings online through her blog A Life That Sings Your Song, which includes some of her other children’s stories.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.

KBR Short Story: Words and Pages, Illustrations

by Natasha Rowland


Books
Books
Books
Words and pages, illustrations
Off and away with your imaginations
Thoughts and pictures from your wildest dreams
Nothing is strange in a book it seems

Polka dot elephants dancing a jig
Talking lady birds and a crowned King pig
A treehouse so high it kisses the sun
Tangling vines with nipping bugs, what fun!
Swimming with sharks, mermaids and piranhas
Dancing wearing invisible pyjamas
A magic wand to erase all your fears
Discovering treasures hidden for years

Books
Books
Books
Words and pages, illustrations
Off and away with your imaginations
Open one wide and leap inside
Be swept away on a fantastical ride

Burping out butterflies, farting out flowers
Eating boogers that give super powers
Sailing deep seas on a raft of spaghetti
Tea parties with monsters you won’t be forgetting
Oodles of puppies, trillions of kittens
A walk with a gator, try not to get bitten
Talking in gibberish, munching on worms
Licking your fingers, forget about germs

Books
Books
Books
Words and pages, illustrations
Off and away with your imaginations
Anything is possible, the absurd becomes real
Open a book, immerse yourself in the surreal

Today you’re a princess ruling the stars
Yesterday a toad strumming a guitar
Tomorrow a leaf drifting on the breeze
Or a snot-nosed hippo that does nothing but sneeze
A sad, broken car, a busy buzzing bee
A train shooting down a hill shouting, ‘You can’t catch me!’
A doctor, a dentist, a lawyer holding court
Blasting off in your spaceship, now an astronaut

Books
Books
Books
Words and pages, illustrations
Off and away with your imaginations
Opening pages and drifting far away
A couple of words and you’re now worlds away

Open a book
Close your eyes
With words in your head
And pictures to guide
Shoot off on a magical imagination ride

Books
Books
Books
Words and pages, illustrations
Remember to pack your imaginations!


Natasha Rowland is a creative person; writing, art and music keep her sane. Her children, the creatures living about her house and snippets of conversations are her inspiration resources.  In September 2014 she received a 2nd placing and highly commended from the USQ Creative Writing on Country competition, then in October had her first short story, 'Hungry Waves', selected by KBR. Fingers crossed there'll be a third.


KBR Short Stories are a way to get your work ‘out there’—and to delight our KBR readers. Stories are set to a monthly theme and entries are due in the 25th of each month. Find out more here.