Picking Up Peas With Chopsticks

INTRODUCTION

To the many thousands of people who have read and enjoyed these stories in magazines, newspapers, and online Dora and I would like to give you our most sincere thanks and constant love.

These stories were written under the name Dora Graham, an amalgam of Dora Bona and Graham Whittaker. We never intended to fool or mislead anyone. Dora Graham was not a pseudonym, it was Dora, and Graham writing together to create stories for our own enjoyment. That Dora Graham became an entity in her own right was never the intention. I would write a line, a paragraph, an outline, and Dora would respond with a little of her own. For more than 20 years we have written together and we will continue to do so forever plus one day! When you work together so closely a love develops between two people that becomes indestructible. Our respective husbands, wives, partners, boyfriends and girlfriends could never begin to understand the secrets and the thoughts and feelings we have shared together. It is to the great credit of our current respective partners that they not only accept and respect this something that has become an indestructible love. We have shared our souls, and bared our souls in a way few men and women ever would or could.

In 2008 the Radical Feminist 'movement' sallied forth to discredit and disgrace Dora Graham as a fraud, Dora Graham died. But not Dora and Graham.

There was a time, long before we began to share our writing and long before Dora Graham sprang into existence, there was a rash of feminist publications. They published only stories by women for women and my own rejections began to overwhelm me. I wrote a story called Monica's Womb and in a fit of pique having been rejected by a major womens' magazine which had been bought out by a feminist publisher, I submitted the story under a female name. It was accepted, and fans wrote heart-warming letters saying things like I thought I was alone! I'm so happy that someone knows how I feel! So many of these letters lamented that How can a man understand? Bless you! Yes, then I felt like a fraud. A man writing as a woman and living a pretence. But I was also angry. I was angry on behalf of all the men who do understand and who do care. How could this be that men and women could be so divided by the virulence of a radical feminist few?

Dora Graham was no pretence. She came alive because a man and a woman, essentially the happiest being hermetically sealed in our own writing world met, because of a fan letter Dora wrote to me about Monica's Womb after I had published it in Australian Writer. I refused to reply. But eventually she wore me down, and I wrote back a short post card telling her to push off. She refused. But that is another story, a special love story that is as controversial as it is compelling. One day, maybe soon we will tell it.

To all the fans of Dora Graham (R.I.P.) we thank you and we love you.

The real acknowledgement here comes from Graham to Dora. Darling, I love you very much. I cherish every moment we spend together and every word we write together. OUR story is precious.

These stories are by Dora Graham dear reader. They are stories to read on the bus, on the plane, at times when you just want to dip in to a story and you don't have a lot of time to spare.

In our 'daily' life, Dora Bona is a traveling writer, sharing her time between her beloved Manhattan, the northern climes of England, and Australia where she made her home base for many years.

Graham Whittaker is a grumpy old curmudgeon who remains hermetically sealed while writing novels. His latest, The Girl From Kosovo was written in Townsville Australia. The sequel is being written between his home in Australia, traveling in China and Vietnam, and occasionally in England. The Butterfly Effect, will be available in print and in ebook in late 2013.

A CHRISTMAS TALE

An Australian version of an old favourite...unless you are conversant with Aussie idioms, you may not know that strewth is an exclamation of surprise...and VB is Australia's most popular beer, mostly consumed by the blue singlet wearing working class.

Mary Lou groaned with discomfort and cradled her heavily swollen stomach as the Toyota Corona Station wagon hit another bump in the pot-holed road.

Have mercy Joey…she wailed my bladder feels like a bag full of 2 litre soft drink bottles.

Sweat had made Joey’s hair cling to his forehead in damp, slug-like clumps.

Oh jeez, sorry hun. I think this road’s in worse condition than when Blaxland and Lawson first tromped through here…

Mary Lou reached across and caressed the back of her husband’s neck. Her hand came away soaked. Stupid old car’s air conditioning system had broken down just outside Sydney - as luck would have it on the hottest Christmas Day in 30 years.

Yeah I know …it’s not your fault. It’ll be dark soon, maybe we should stop and try and stay somewhere here in the mountains. Blackheath maybe? I’d love a shower and an air conditioned room - not to mention a nice soft bed

Joey looked from his wife’s big brown eyes, to her huge belly as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She looked like a magnificent, angelic whale.

Sure babe. First motel I see, we’ll pull over. A good night’s sleep, then an early start in the morning - and we should be in Dubbo in time for Mamma’s famous Boxing Day Feast

You make good sense Joeyshe smiled.

Mary Lou leaned back on the headrest and tried not to think about how uncomfortable she felt. At just over 38 weeks into her pregnancy, most of the worst was over. The morning sickness…the tiredness..the mood swings. Now she was just plain HUGE. She’d thought about the day of the birth a thousand times. Happy thoughts. She was looking forward to seeing her first child…but even more, she was looking forward to the look on her husband’s face when he cradled his child for the first time. The thought always made her feel serene. It helped when she felt so sick of being pregnant that she just wanted to scream. She thought about next Christmas. They’d be a family. They’d have a tree…and an almost-one-year-old they could shower with presents and love. She closed her eyes and smiled. But before her smile faded, Mary Lou’s face gave way to a look of astonishment.

Oh my gosh! My water’s broken

Your wha…?

Joey didn’t have time to fully comprehend what she’d said, before a stream of fluid began to trickle from between her legs, soaking the tatty seat cover.

This time, Mary Lou’s groan said pain.

Oh jeeezzzHe jerked the car onto the gravelly shoulder. The tyres grumbled and skated across rocks until finally jolting to a stop.

The baby’s coming Joey…and it hurtsshe howled..

I know hun. I know. . We’ve got time to get you to a hospital…haven’t we? At the ante natal classes they said that first labours can take hours…even days …right? The baby can wait till we find a hospital…can’t heeeeeee…?

Joey winced as Mary Lou reached across and grabbed the front of his shirt - and with it his plentiful crop of chest hair.

Mwaaaaaa it’s a big contraaaaction Joey…

Just breathe.

I can’t breathe…it hurts too much. I need drugs Joey. I don’t want to do this. I’ve changed my mind

Joey hugged his wife and gave her a wry smile. Remain calm, he told himself.

He opened the glove box and took out his map. He quickly located the Blue Mountains and worked out that they were about 25 minutes from Katoomba..

We can do this. I’ll get us to Katoomba and we’ll find the hospital and everything will be okay. Just hang on.

Hurry Joey…I’m scared

Joey started the car and pulled out onto the road again.

Mary Lou’s face relaxed for a moment and her head fell back against the headrest. He’d gone with his wife to all the birthing classes, and he knew it meant that the contraction had passed. He desperately hoped there wouldn’t be another one until he got her safely to some medical care.

By the time they approached the town of Bullaburra - Mary Lou’s third contraction had started. Joey knew this was not good. The contractions were close together, and that meant they were running out of time.

Joey’s mind raced. Should he try to make it to Katoomba? Or should he try to find help here?

It was dark now and Joey had no idea what to do.

After a few moments, Mary Lou’s contraction subsided. Her face was soaked with perspiration, but no longer drenched in pain.

Hold on sweetheart. I’m going to step on it now

He pressed hard on the accelerator. There was one car ahead and he overtook it with ease.

To his relief, the road ahead was clear. Not many people traveling on Christmas day thank heavens. He edged the speedometer up and up until he was 20 kilometres over the speed limit. No time to think about speeding fines and safe driving now.

Oh…ohh…ohhhh here comes another one…Mary Lou cried.

Joey knew this was serious. He slammed his foot on the brake as he approached a bend in the road. The car screeched around the corner and he lost control as it spun and fishtailed from one side of the road to the other. It came to rest, thankfully still right side up, in the gravelly driveway of a farmhouse. Joey took a moment to allow his heart to slow down. Mary Lou was still in the throes of her contraction. He leapt from the car and raced around to the passenger side. He yanked the door open and pulled her from the car.

Come on sweethearthe said, nodding towards the farmhouse.

We’ll get help here.

Mary Lou was sobbing now.

He placed one arm around her ample waist and guided her towards the front verandah. His heart sank as he realized there were no lights on. Which probably meant there was no-one home.

He tried to calm Mary Lou as he rang the front doorbell.

Don’t worry darling. I’m going to take care of you.

He prodded the doorbell a few more times then eased Mary Lou into a chair on the verandah.

I’m going around the back. Maybe there’s a window open or something. I’m going to try to get us inside.

Joey ran around the back of the house. The back door was locked. He hammered on it a few times and called out. He tried the windows. All locked.

About 10 metres from the back of the house was a large building. A shearing shed! Better than a front porch.

He ran back to where he’d left Mary Lou. Thankfully contraction free.

Come on hun. We’re going to have to get you to the shearing shed. Then I’ll get some blankets out of the car, and hopefully there’s a…..

Mary Lou cut him off with a loud scream.

Oh it’s another pain…and I feel like I want to …like I want to …

Not push! No Mary Lou. Not yet. Not here. You just hold on

He slipped his arm around her waist and half carried, half dragged her to the huge tin corrugated building. He pressed the light switch and five flourescent light tubes flickered to life.

Joey was surprised at how cool it was inside the shed. The pungent, fatty aroma of lanolin was almost overpowering, though not entirely unpleasant. Dozens of stout wool bales lined the walls, and several fleeces were spread across a huge table, already skirted and ready to be classed and fed into the woolpress.

Mary Lou was panting and moaning.

Here! Hop on the table…Joey quickly arranged the fleeces to form a soft, billowing blanket and helped Mary Lou up. She tended to her clothing, then he propped her up with another pile of fleeces so that she was in a half-sitting position. She raised her knees, clasping a hand over each one.

I need to …the baby’s coming NOWWWWW…she groaned. She took a long, deep breath and pushed…perspiration streaming from her scarlet face. Joey froze in fascination as the baby’s head began to crown. He could see a downy covering of black hair.

Mary Lou took another deep breath and pushed again. This time, the baby’s head emerged fully.

Joey’s instinct took over and he cradled the baby’s head. He gazed down at the little screwed up face, not even trying to blink back the tears. One shoulder was already on the way and Mary Lou was gasping and wailing.

He sobbed as he coaxed her gently.

I reckon one more push darling and then it’s over.

She did as she was told, and a few seconds later, a plump baby boy slithered into Joey’s waiting arms.

You did it!he cried. We’ve got a little boy.

Caught up in the euphoria, Joey and Mary Lou cuddled their new son for a few moments. They cried tears of joy and caressed his sticky little body.

Joey found a piece of baling twine and tied off, then cut the umbilical cord with a pair of shears. He reached for a pile of old towels on the far end of the sorting table and wrapped his new son in the cleanest one he could find. Before he could decide what to do next…the shearing shed’s huge sliding door opened.

A huge burly man in khaki Stubbies work shorts and blue singlet stood in the doorway, his tatty Akubra hat perched way back on his head. The man carried a carton of VB. Flanking him were two other men, not as big, but dressed identically. One man carried three Pizza boxes and the other held a guitar.

Strewth!said the big man What the flamin’heck’s goin’on in here?

Joey and Mary Lou’s new son answered with a loud squawking wail.

JESUS CHRIST!said the three men in unison.

Actually …no…said Joey

He looked lovingly into his wife’s eyes as she cradled their son.

We decided if it was a boy we’d call him Nathan…

END

THE THREE LITTLE PIGS

Fractured fairy tales are prime material for short story writers. A little imagination and a wicked sense of humour and you have a wealth of material for your short stories. Any creative writing class would be boring without an exercise in fractured fairy tales. It's all about a point of view!

I want to set things straight before I get out of here. Before the trial. I want to tell MY side of the story. The pain in my ankles and right up my calves is so bad it’s got me baying at the moon. Every time they change the dressings they say I was lucky it wasn’t THIRD degree burns. And I’m hungry. Hospital food is lousy.

I didn’t do it. The damage I mean. Look, what do you expect when you build a house out of manifestly inferior materials? STRAW for pete’s sakes! Minimal erection problems, sure, but it’s not going to last! After all, this is cyclone season. Don’t they know anything?

All I wanted to do was warn him of the danger.

Little PigI said after tap, tap tapping at his shonky little door.

Little pig! Are you there? I’ve just heard there’s a huge cyclone on the way, and by the time it gets done with you, there won’t be enough left of this shack to build a birds nest!

And you know what the ungrateful little swine said?

Get lost!

I was only trying to save him and his HAYSTACK from blowing clear across town.

And sure enough… before you could say this little piggy went to market….KAFFOOEY! Who says pigs can’t fly?

Now I may not be famous for my good deeds but that’s largely due to bad publicity involving mankind's common misconception of Canis Lupus as evil creatures - and they way we have been subsequently portrayed in certain works of literature. You should never believe everything you read.

So. Anxious to reach my good deedquota for the day I bounded across the field to the newly constructed pig palace belonging to none other than the little squealer’s brother. Another slapdash job, except he obviously did a good deal on a bundle of sticks.

Little pigI shouted, hammering on his wonky little door.

Little Pig, they’ve just declared a state of emergency. There’s a HUGE cyclone about to blow your house down. Your brother just got wiped out big time!

Now, you must bear in mind that the porcine brain is about the size of a baby pea. The ungrateful little oinker grunts…

Get lost or I’ll call the cops.

Fine then,I said. don’t listen to me… you deserve to end up as a schnitzel sandwich!

Sure enough, the cyclone lifted that flimsy little bungalow right off the ground and blew him towards the centre of town. And suddenly THIS little piggy was NOT staying at home!

Ever determined to dispel the myth about being big and bad, I decided to warn the third bacon brother about the impending galeforce winds.

I hurried across the next field towards the home of pig brother number three. This little guy must have been at the front of the pen when brains were handed out.

His little abode was stylish, practical - and built out of bricks! Old bricks, sure- probably recycled - but better than his siblings’attempts at making the cover of Better Pig Stys and Gardens.

I knocked on the door and found, to my amazement the other two hog brothers had joined him in the brick house. Spreading vicious rumours about me, no doubt.

Hey you guys!I said.

Go away wolfthey said rudely, or we’ll be forced to use THIS!And next thing you know, the nose of a twelve gauge shotgun comes poking through the letterbox.

NO! It’s not what you think!I yelled in a panic. Don’t be so pig-headed! There really IS a cyclone on the way!

Why should we believe YOU? You don’t exactly have a great reputation around here. Remember Little Red Riding Hood? PERVERT!

Hey! Just a minute fellas!I said. That was never proved!

I argued my case for a while..then … Hallelulajah! I got through! Or so I thought. Not that it really mattered much to me. My good deed quota was filled for the day and I was just about ready to move on. I had picnic baskets to take to sick old ladies, I had directions to give to people lost in the woods…you know…all that day to day, bread-and-butter stuff.

Okaysays bricklayer piggy.

Thanks for the warning… we’re packing right now.

The cyclone is close -I don’t think you’ve got time!We’ll be quick!they squealed. Then the part where instinct should have told me to become suspicious.

Say, do you think you can do us a favour?

Okay, but it’ll have to be quick - my life’s in danger too!

Well there’s a metal safe with our life-savings in it. We keep it in the chimney, but it seems to be stuck. Do you think you could climb up and shove it down with your feet?

I thought about it.. and it didn’t seem like a hard ask.

Besides, it would all go towards changing public perception about me. So I agreed. I shimmied up the drain pipe to the roof, and across to the chimney.

And that’s just about where I decided never to trust anyone again!

I lowered myself into the stone chimney, which was just big enough for me to fit, and down into the blackness. Next thing you know I’m up to my knees in a huge cast iron pot of boiling water! The rotten little grunters were laughing their ugly snouts off and dancing around in circles, while I was blanching. Just before I blacked out, I heard one of them say "Quick! Get out the Wolfblass - the one we’ve been keeping