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    Open Wounds: Australian Short Stories
    Open Wounds: Australian Short Stories
    Open Wounds: Australian Short Stories
    Ebook66 pages58 minutes

    Open Wounds: Australian Short Stories

    By S. C. Farrow

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    About this ebook

    An acutely-sensitive eleven-year-old girl is scorned by her fifth-grade teacher. Assaulted by her mother’s boyfriend, a fourteen-year-old girl longs to be loved by her teenaged crush. An immigrant woman who fled her homeland is forced to travel across county by the man who promised her a better life. A war veteran’s family falls apart as he combats the consequences of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. And an Anglican nun struggles to comfort a woman who’s been sentenced to the gallows.

    The characters in these stories exist in different locations and periods in time. They have vastly different lives, yet they are all connected by the devastating effects of physical and/or emotional trauma. Everything about a person, from the way they think, remember, learn, how they feel about themselves and others, and the way they view and understand the world, is affected and shaped by their experience.

    Australia is known as the lucky country, but as we know luck is relative. Open Wounds is a collection of unflinching Australian short stories that shines a light on those moments in life that are as profound as they are traumatic.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDixi Books Publishing
    Release dateJan 11, 2020
    ISBN9786197458428
    Open Wounds: Australian Short Stories

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      Book preview

      Open Wounds - S. C. Farrow

      Lee

      Preface

      The stories in this collection have been developed over a very long time-almost twenty years. Some of them are inspired by events that occurred in real life. Others are entirely fictional.

      The characters in these stories exist in different locations and periods in time. They have vastly different lives, yet they are all connected by the devastating effects of physical and/or emotional trauma. Everything about a person, from the way they think, remember, learn, how they feel about themselves and others, and the way they view and understand the world, is affected and shaped by their experience.

      Open Wounds is a collection of unflinching Australian short stories that shines a light on those moments in life that are as profound as they are traumatic.

      Barbie Doll Bitch

      ‘You’re out!’ Patricia shouts.

      ‘I am not!’ Craig yells back as he runs like crazy to the next base.

      Through the window I can see them laughing and having fun while I stand there, numb, waiting to talk to the Barbie Doll. I take a deep breath as I look inside the classroom and see her sitting at her desk sipping coffee as she reads. She’s got a red pen in her hand, so I guess she’s looking at our morning math test. I count my steps as I make my way forward, three, four, five, six. If I count, I can’t chicken out. I focus on her black hair, teased to the ceiling, and swallow hard as her perfume, sick and sweetly, crawls up my nose and down the back of my throat. If I can push it down into my stomach, I’ll be okay. If I don’t, I might be sick.

      ‘Why aren’t you outside, Merryn?’ she says, looking up at me with black-rimmed eyes.

      ‘I want to sit next to Sandra,’ I blurt out, wondering how she can keep her eyes open at all, with all that stuff on them.

      She leans back in her chair as she looks at me, trying to figure out what I’m up to. ‘You already sit next to Patricia,’ she says.

      ‘I know. But I want to sit next to Sandra.’

      Her eyes widen in their black-rimmed sockets and I think they’re going to bug out of her head.

      The next day, I reach over to get the handkerchief from Sandra’s pocket. ‘Shhh,’ I whisper as I take it. I don’t want the Barbie Doll to see us. I never want the Barbie Doll to see us.

      Sandra isn’t like the rest of us. She’s different. Special. She doesn’t look weird or anything like that. It’s just hard for her to learn things. And she doesn’t talk much. I don’t think she knows too many words, but she talks to me ’cause I listen and let her say what she wants to say without losing my temper or making her hurry. Her eyes are swollen, and her cheeks are streaked with dirt and tears. ‘Supersonic, idiotic, disconnected, brain-infected dumb-bell...’ That’s what they chant whenever she’s around. She doesn’t know what it means, but she does know what a punch feels like. I wipe the smear of snot from her cheek. Luckily the Barbie Doll is scratching something on the blackboard. While she can’t see me, she can’t embarrass me, and she can’t embarrass Sandra. I give Sandra back her hanky. Her long thumbnail scrapes my hand as she takes it. I love Sandra’s hands. Her skin is fine, like an expensive pair of gloves. Her fingers are long with manicured nails. Pretty hands. Not like mine. And she’s always so clean. Her long golden hair is always so neat in a ponytail. Her mother must love her very much. The Barbie Doll has fingernails like Sandra’s but hers are red, blood red, just like her lips.

      After lunch, I get a fright when Sandra slips her hand into mine. I didn’t know she was behind me. ‘C’mon,’ I say, leading her up the corridor. ‘Let’s hurry up and get inside.’

      But it’s too late. The chorus begins: ‘Supersonic, idiotic, disconnected, brain-infected dumb-bell. Supersonic, idiotic…’ And Kerry corners us at the classroom door. She looks down at our hands. I whisper to Sandra to go inside and sit down. ‘Whaddya hang around with her for?’ Kerry demands as she watches Sandra go.

      ‘You leave her alone,’ I snap.

      Kerry shakes her head. ‘You’re dumber than she is.’

      ‘Yeah, well, she’s my friend.’

      Kerry shrugs and walks off.

      She is my friend. And I don’t need them.

      In the classroom, a nasty smile twists the Barbie Doll’s mouth as she walks up and down the rows between our desks. I sit down quietly, praying she doesn’t see me. ‘Everyone is to write a poem for their homework,’ she says, stopping beside our desk. My heart pounds in my chest. I hold my breath and wait. ‘Everyone,’ she says,

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