Early Childhood Christmas Memories by Annie Erez

Celebrating Christmas has changed over the years, but one thing remains the same for many of us; it is a time for family.

My most vivid experiences with food as a celebration goes back to my early childhood memories of huge family gatherings and all the fuss, noise and hullabaloo that went with it. This was even more of a momentous occasion for Christmas and then even Easter and special anniversaries, mile stone birthdays and even funerals.

My maternal grandmother was a fantastic country cook. She was truly the Dragon Queen of the kitchen who would always tempt us kids with promises of the wonderful dishes she would make for us if she thought we deserved it. But woe betide anyone who “misbehaved”. Of course her idea of unruly naughty children was completely different to ours so we always had one of the youngest kids on guard duty when we were all together in case she saw something that she considered distasteful.

She was a tyrant and ruled Pop, and the farm and particularly her kitchen with a firm hand and was always complaining about children’s’ noise and lack of discipline. This was the generation where children were expected to be attentive to their elders and keep out of their way.

When we stayed at the farm before and during some exciting party we couldn’t contain our joy in meeting up with all our various cousins. Sometimes there were more than 20 of us kids of various ages and sexes.  We all loved to run wild around my grandparents old farm with its many fascinating old buildings and stir up the sheep, the dogs and poke faces and sticks at Grandpa’s caged parrots and all the other exotic feathered prisoners. Nana kept her special talking birds just inside the back door and it was an absolute no no to go near them. That was her rule anyway.

But the food was the one thing that would bring us inside. There were Nana’s special meat pies,with the thick flaky pastry and rich lamb meat filling, probably from some poor little lamb that we had recently met, huge chunks of beef, mutton and sometimes pork cooked either in the outside fireplace or in the big kitchen ovens. Then for desert homemade apple or other fruit pies and the sensational trifle with rich red jelly,sponge cake and topped off with thick farm cream. Of course no country gathering was complete without the light as cloud sponges with thick passion fruit icing and I especially loved the gooey lamingtons and my first introduction to custard slice made with Sao biscuits.

And Nana’s home baked bread. Oh the bread! It was magical to be near the kitchen when the big loaves were cooking and the little rolls tumbled off the trays onto the racks to cool.

But she always saved the best treats for Christmas. For weeks leading up to the end of December there was special fuss, cleaning and cooking and general mayhem.  Of course all the rellies contributed but Nana was the undisputed champion and got to tell everyone what they should make and bring. It was understood that Nana would supply the festive ham which had been cooked for hours in the big laundry copper and served with a delicious glaze with artistically arranged orange slices and other bits and pieces of unknown origin. There was always one or more of her specially bred and home killed turkeys and chickens. Sometimes we were expected to help with the cleaning and plucking of these poor chosen poultry which we all hated and would try to avoid in the days leading up to the Christmas party. The hot boiling water, the endless feathers and the yucky inside bits with all the work done under the big shade trees out the back of the kitchen but always in the relentless heat. Nana wasted nothing and used the feathers for stuffing into pillows and all the entrails and other gruesome bits were made into stock or fed to the always ravenous dogs.

Pop was the gardener and he supplied all the veggies from his fenced off special garden and most of the fruit from his precious orchard trees. I remember when I was very small hearing Pop with the rifle shooting at the rabbits or the possums or whatever unsuspecting creature was thinking of making a tasty meal from his patch. Bang, bang, bang he would go which caused a huge screech from all the nearby trees as the birds flew off in alarm. And then silence. This was followed very shortly by either a loud curse or boisterous hooting and hollering. Then a commotion as either Nana or someone else came running out to see what he had shot up. I remember watching Nana rushing out the back screen door with her hands and apron covered in flour yelling out,

“Bill, Bill did you get the buggers this time?” Often there were dead crows strung up on the fence looking at me with their sightless beady yellow eyes.

But these were wonderful hard working farmers and the generation when food was essential for any really successful gathering. The tables were set up on the wide veranda’s surrounding the house and were loaded with homemade goodies where everyone was expected to eat a least a small piece of everything. The adults had one area,(usually the coolest, and us children were supposed to make our mess elsewhere usually on the lawns under the big shade trees. And as children we would gorge ourselves nearly sick with the Christmas pudding to get as many threepence pieces as we could find. I remember a few that got swallowed but that is another story.

For those occasional extra big gatherings the open fronted machinery shed was cleared out and tables set up that could entertain hundreds of neighbours and family from near and far. This was when we watched a whole animal slowly cook in the big outside fire pits. There was always a more than adequate supply of alcohol to help the festivities along and sometimes people would camp overnight in their swags in the shed or in the back of their Utes. There was definitely no concerns for gluten intolerant, diary free, fat free, low carbohydrate or at the very worst; vegetarian.

This was my unique family’s way of marking any festive celebration but of course over the years traditions change and parts of the family dispersed and held their own gatherings.

These early childhood memories always come to the forefront when I think of families, food and celebrations and especially big crowded hot Christmases.

Happy Halloween! Here are two more samples of works from Logan Writers for your reading pleasure. Keep an eye out for the Special Halloween podcast with a spooky reading by Mitchell Tierney.

***

Halloween and the Day of the Dead – By Dallas Berge

The third time. The third knock on the door, the third group of costumed children (could you call these costumes?) expecting free sweets, despite the “Trick or treat?” ‘question’.

Jemima tried to be polite. “I’m sorry, we don’t celebrate Halloween here. We’re Seventh Day Adventists.” It was a lie, but it was better than losing it and telling the children, with their wide eyes and smiles, what she really thought.

Every year it was the same. This year would be different. After carefully closing the door (rather than slamming it), Jemima found a piece of paper on which she wrote ‘Sorry. We don’t celebrate Halloween here. Please do not knock. We wish you good luck in your door-to-door visits.’

It wasn’t always like this. Some years ago, Jemima had accompanied her own children, going from door to door, saying “Trick or treat?” to whoever opened the door. This was done through slightly gritted teeth, but just as Jemima had feigned excitement at seeing ‘Santa Claus’ in the local mall, and tried to interest, if not excite her children in visiting ‘Santa Claus’, she was not keen at that time to dampen their spirits with her personal disdain.

But her children were grown-ups now. There were no grandchildren yet. She hoped there would be soon, but she’d already tried to plant the idea in their heads and it hadn’t been well-received, especially by daughter Frances and her husband Joe.  Frances was hell-bent on advancing in her career, (what for? wondered Jemima… isn’t being a mother the most fulfilling experience a woman could have?); son Dean meanwhile, always looked daggers at her. She had no idea Dean and Emily were having problems conceiving.

The phone rang. Who could it be? thought Jemima.

“Hello, Jemima speaking.”

“Jemima Stubbs? It’s Jenna Fairfield from Crown School of English. We were wondering if you were still interested in hosting a student?”

It had slipped Jemima’s mind that she had signed up to be a homestay parent some months ago, and anyway, why would they want her, a widow in her 50’s, to host a student anyway? They had been very nice, of course. They seemed to like her, but that was back in April, and she hadn’t heard from the school since.

“Um, yes, of course”, Jemima replied.

“Well, we have a Mexican student arriving in a few days’ time. We had a host family but they had to pull out at the last minute. She’ll be arriving on November the 4th because she has to celebrate the Mexican ‘Day of the Dead’ with her family first. Would you be available and interested in hosting a student from November 4^th – November 20^th?”

“I’m definitely available then…”, Jemima began, “but if you don’t mind my asking, what on earth is the ‘Day of the Dead’?”

“Ah…”, Jenna replied. “It’s an important celebration for Mexican people. Look it up online. It could be a useful topic of conversation if you choose to accept the student.”

“I would love to host this student. Will you simply send me the details or is there something else you need?”

“Nothing right now. We’ll send you the details and the contract, and if you are happy, just sign and return it.”

“This sounds good. I look forward to receiving your email and I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, Jemima. I’m sure both you and the student, Pilar, will get along well and it will be an enriching experience for both of you. I’ll email the details to you now. Goodnight.”

The call had been quite a surprise, so Jemima didn‘t know whether she was happy or perplexed at her own response. She had been hoping for a Japanese student – she had heard they were very polite and, as she was no longer accustomed to sharing her space, could only hope the student would be considerate and respectful.

Such short notice had left Jemima with little time to prepare, but the spare bedroom was always ready for the odd visit from her children, so there was not a lot to do. Apart from finding out what on earth the ‘Day of the Dead’ might be.

What Jemima read on Google astonished her. Preparing for a visit from the deceased? Expecting to go to a graveyard to laugh and enjoy memories of them? Nothing in Jemima’s church school education had prepared her for this. To Jemima, it seemed disrespectful. Who goes to a cemetery and has a party?

Although she hadn’t yet signed the contract, it was too late to back out now. She knew she was a last-minute choice, but if she didn’t host the student, who would?

And so Jemima took a decision. Not the decision to host the student – she had already made that, but a decision to visit her father’s grave, ready to celebrate, all on her own, without sadness but in a spirit of joy. She prepared some mementos of her long-passed father, bought some marigolds from a local florist’s, and went to the grave of a man she felt she had hardly ever known.

It was a lonely vigil (was it a vigil?) yet somehow Jemima managed to recall times of laughter, and although it was not something she would normally do, she stayed all night at the cemetery. Sometimes she laughed; other times she felt wrapped in sadness, almost overwhelmed by it, as if she had donned a very heavy coat. She went home, as the sun was rising and casting a tint of pink upon the sky.

Three days later, there was a knock on the door.

“Good morning, Jemima”, said Jenna. “This is Pilar. Pilar, this is your host mother, Jemima.”

Pilar simply smiled shyly.

And Jemima knew now that every decision she had made in the last 5 days had been the right one. There would be plenty to talk about.

***

Untitled by Alison Strachan

The moment he stepped through into the shopfront he knew something was off. The warm downlights usually made the store homely but the room was tense.

The nod of Peter’s head as he talked to the man in the suit near the front of the store told William who he was talking to. He clenched his jaw and turned from them, making his way to the counter in the centre of the room. His own son couldn’t wait to sell the land from beneath him but he wasn’t going to give in. Not while he was alive at least.

To make matters worse, the cursor blinked at William from the computer amidst a half-finished sentence in an email to Macquarie. He closed the window. It was easy enough to blame his age and poor eyesight for the loss of whatever information was held in that conversation.

He pretended to be busy when Peter joined him behind the counter.

“Playing solitaire?” His son gibed. His attempt at lightening the situation was betrayed by the way he rubbed the back of his neck.

William ignored him. It was childish, but it also felt good.

“The bookstore is not booming. In fact the profits for the last two years running have declined.”

“We are a long way off going under. I would’ve thought you of all people would understand the value in this bookstore,” William said.

Peter reached out for his father’s arm but hesitated. “I see the value it holds for you. That’s why it’s hard – ”

“Is it?” William asked. He met his son’s gaze noting how much like his mother he was. Their green and gold eyes both betrayed such intelligence and ambition.

“The industry is changing, Dad. Digital books are making things difficult.”

William stared at his son. He didn’t have the strength to argue about this again. When Fiona appeared, she gave the steaming mug to William and Peter walked away.

“Snow’s not letting up. There was a year,” she paused, retrieving the information from the story he’d once told her. “It fell thick an’ heavy for weeks. They had to break the ice in the canal… nineteen fifty-six wasn’t it?”

“Fifty-five,” William corrected. He knew what she was doing and he loved her for it.

Her smile warmed his heart and he wrapped his arm around her.

Indeed it snowed almost constantly for weeks on end, preventing the usual amount of customers from coming in. Peter would most certainly see a turn for the worse but William knew his customers. They would be back.

Fiona had her finger on the pulse. She’d organised a mic night with a local author, Jean McLelland. She’d set a microphone on the gallery level overlooking the centre of the room, now filled with an assortment of beanbags. Jean’s latest title, ‘Everlasting Summer’ was neatly stacked on the counter and filled a stand near the door.

They would sell hot chocolates for the young ones, and tea and coffee for the adults and raise funds for the homeless shelter. Fiona had gone above and beyond and it was sure to be a success.

It was looking bleaker than ever when the time came for the patrons to begin arriving. The world outside was covered in a blanket of grey. The doors thrashed on their hinges as the wind beat against them. It was hard to believe anyone would go out in that weather.

William gripped the cold handle tight. He wanted to be ready to usher anyone brave enough inside out of the cold quickly.

The minutes ticked past and the darkness deepened.

The trill of the telephone exploded in the silence and Fiona grabbed the receiver.

William knew before she said anything.

“Circa nineteen fifty-five, the weather has decided to work against us,” she mused. William said nothing. He didn’t even turn in her direction. “Jean just couldn’t get here.”

His fingers fell from the handle first, before his knees gave way.

“Oh God…Will…”

A flash of red took his attention but he had to shield his eyes from the sunlight, though he couldn’t see the sky. The ground beneath him was porous and cold, the sound of water lapping beside him echoed through the space.

He listened, finding peace in the void. He didn’t know where he was but his heart swelled as if he were breathing in air saturated with hope.

His thoughts drifted as though he were in a dream and his eyes shot open. He didn’t want to leave this place just yet.

The ache that had settled in his lower back had dissipated so he pulled himself up into sitting position with ease, feeling younger than he had for a very long time. The shock at finding his feet in icy cold water was lost in the wonder of the place.

Light filtered down from an open shaft in the rock around him, dancing on the water. He leant forward to see down into the depths of the crystal blue and a single drop of blood sullied the blue depths before him.

Instinctively he wiped his nose to find blood smeared across his hand. From the corner of his eye he caught a shock of bright red, as it flashed through the water again.

A gasp escaped him as he reached out, teetering on the edge. And when he opened his eyes, not having realised they were closed, Fiona peered down at him tears streaming down her face.

“Will. Will,” she sobbed. “Stay there, the paramedics are on their way.” She clutched his hand tight, sniffing snot as William lay on his back inside his bookstore. The familiar smell of dust and chai brought him little comfort as he thought about the ethereal cave.

He frowned, as Fiona clucked at him and pulled a tissue from her pocket. She dapped at his nose and as she pulled it away he saw the blood…

Trespassing the Fairyland by Tatiana Efremova

“Do you like it?” my mum is looking at me expectantly.

“I like it,” I reply rather convincingly.

Our garden is glittering with tiny lights now, and it is kind of pretty.

“The boogie man has no place to hide anymore,” my mum is saying, this time enthusiastically.

“Yes,” I am confirming with a nod. I can see that now there is no room for a boogie man to hide.

“Can I play in the garden at night now?” I am asking.

“But at night it isn’t our garden anymore,” my mum is explaining while still smiling, “it is a fairy land. When the lights come on and the people go inside, all fairies come alive and come out to play in this garden. If you play here at night, the fairies won’t be able to play here. Do you want the fairies to have their play time?”

I am looking around for the fairies, and yes, my mum is right: my pink fairy is sitting under the bush. I am lifting my fairy and turning to my mum, “Can she play too?”

“Of course,” is my mum’s answer, “I’m telling you, they come to life when we don’t look.”

“Can I bring my blue pony to the fairy land?”

“Of course,” my mum is smiling kindly.

“Can I ride it when it is alive?” I am asking.

“You see, darling, they can’t be alive while you are looking at them,” my mum is explaining.

I am looking at the pink plastic fairy in my hand.

“Do they die when we look at them?” my eyes are starting to fill with tears.

Have I just killed my fairy?

I hope you enjoyed it.

Want to submit something to Fringe? Send us an email via the Submit page.

Ali. x

Welcome to the next episode of our Flash Series designed to give the us time poor lovers of culture a taste of local brilliance, quickly and easily!

This gorgeous snippet from the just released novel Unbidden by local spec-fic author Shayla Morgansen. Unbidden is the third book in her Elm Stone Saga series that has reaped excellent reviews both in Australia and internationally.

Unbidden by Shayla Morgansen

Following immediately on from the ground-breaking events of Scarred, third book Unbidden kicks off with lead heroine Aristea feeling shaken but determined to improve as a sorcerer. An apprentice to the White Elm council, the elite sorcerers who govern most of the magical community, her skills have developed unnaturally fast since being bonded with council outlier, her master Renatus. They communicate with their minds; they share memories, and have even begun to share abilities and skills, and at times they wonder whether they are at risk of losing their individual identities to the melding process. When the council finds itself immobilised in political gridlock, the frustrated pair seek out other means of meeting their goals, now freshly and grimly aligned. But then Aristea is saddled with a shattering secret she can’t share with Renatus, and she makes a decision that will affect them both, and who they will grow to be.

With a firm belief that all good stories have either magic or spaceships, Shayla accredits this love of speculative fiction on the healthy mix of Star Wars, Stargate, Independence Day, Labyrinth and the eighties/nineties Disney movies she was raised on.

Addicted to the escapism that the genres offer, Shayla says she almost never indulges in anything else (and I can relate). This immersion in the genres is what makes her a pro. She says:

“That love of both sci-fi and fantasy – as well as a conflicting personality as both a sceptical perfectionist and a hippie creative – is what formulated the basis for the magic in The Elm Stone Saga. To be able to write it convincingly, it had to be a system with viable rules and predictable patterns, it’s own sort of science.I had to be able to believe in it, otherwise how can I ask a reader to suspend their belief?”

With three more books in the Elm Stone Saga Series to come and work on her Masters thesis, Shayla also intends on finding the time to branch out with some side projects. But for now, you can find signed editions of the first three books at Ouroborus Books or on her website, Elmstonesaga.com .

Spec-fic Author, Shayla Morgansen

Aside from teaching a Year 1&2 class and studying for her Masters in Editing & Publishing, Aussie Shayla Morgansen is the author of YA urban fantasy series The Elm Stone Saga. Her first two books, Chosen and Scarred, released in 2014 and 2015 respectively, have sold internationally, reaping excellent reviews from readers of ‘older’ YA/New Adult and more contemporary fantasy. Shayla loves travel and languages – she tries to incorporate multilingual characters into her expansive magical world and to give them a voice in their own language. She worked in a New Age store while she completed her Undergraduate and these experiences have shaped the lore of The Elm Stone Saga, but she is also a purist sci-fi nut, and this has bled into the series in the way she has developed a realistic, almost scientific style of magic for her characters to wield and explore. Shayla has always wanted to visit Northern Ireland, where the books are based, and lives vicariously through her array of colourful, worldly characters.

You can follow Shayla’s blog; Six impossible things before breakfast, or connect with her on Instagram, Twitter or Facebook.

https://elmstonesaga.com/

www.shaylamorgansen.blogspot.com

https://www.instagram.com/shayla.morgansen/

https://twitter.com/ShaylaMorgansen

https://www.facebook.com/elmstonesaga/

Author. Teacher. Editor. Jedi.

Welcome to the second in our Flash Series designed to give the time poor a taste of local culture without the hassle. If you haven’t heard our first Flash Interview with musician Hailey Calvert, check it out after you’ve listened here.

Our second clip is a Flash Fiction reading by Logan author, Danica Peck, from her debut YA novel, Battle of Azriel: Lost Worlds. It is the first in a series 10 fantasy books. 5 main characters. 5 kingdoms. 5 supernatural girls fighting to claim their thrones.

Danica Peck Front Cover

Ariella Atlanta is just an ordinary high school girl living in a small town with her Aunt. But life is about to change forever when she becomes plagued by strange dreams, and her late Mother’s old friends show up to reveal the truth. Ariella is thrown into a world full of witches, elves, vampires and other supernatural creatures to embark on a mission. The same mission that claimed her Mother’s life sixteen years earlier.

She will be launching her book in Brisbane at the Grand Central Hotel on March 12, 2016 from 6:30pm. We’ll be there so come and say hi!

Danica has been captivated by stories since her second grade teacher read Bushfire Moon to her class, admitting Jeff Peck’s book “turned her love of reading into an obsession.” And like many people who devour books, she turned to penning her own stories. As a fellow writer, I understand it when someone says writing is in my blood. It becomes as necessary to your health as eating and sleeping. Danica says, “writing keeps me sane. Which is probably why I love fantasy. I love escaping within my imagination and getting lost in a world that’s not ours, but almost as real to me as this one is.”

And like the act of writing, the fantasy genre itself is hard to pass by once its talons have clamped down on your shoulder. “I’ve tried writing other genres but they always turn into fantasy a few chapters in.”

I asked Danica who her main influences are and this is what she had to say:

“Harry Potter is such a rite of passage for this generation. It was one of the first worlds I got lost in and wanted to keep returning to. The characters taught me so many life lessons. I also got very captivated by bestselling Vampire Academy series author, Richelle Mead  and young fantasy author, Charlotte McConaghy.”

Danica never felt her work was good enough for the world to see, but the encouraging words of others in the writing community such as Australian fantasy author, Kimberly Clark, helped give her the courage to finish her book. “She gave me heaps of great advice and encouragement.” And since then, Danica says I got in touch with fellow writer Sabrina Raven of Ouroborus Books and it all fell into place.

Danica Peck

In the next five years Danica hopes to have completed the first six books in the series of 10. Keep an eye on her Facebook author page for more info on future releases.