DR FINDLEY AND THE WHISPERING TREES

A finalist in an International Short Fiction Contest

Typo in heading duly corrected! Always check before you hit ‘publish’. Thanks to those who have brought it to my notice. Now you’ll have to read it again!

Since Dr. Findley took me to the finals in the Globe Soup Paranormal contest I have used him twice more. I’ve become quite fond of his quirky solutions to alien invasions. hope you enjoy his antics.

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The houses on the outskirts of town vanished first. When the homes on Elm Street disappeared, the mayor rang me; ‘Dr. Findley, Expert in Paranormal Events’, my business card states. I’m a Doctor of Philosophy with an enquiring mind, but it reads well.

The steel lampposts and letterboxes remained standing, but each wooden house became a clump of trees; saplings that grew feet each day, until within a week they towered, fully grown. Worse still, all the residents of the houses were missing.

Today, among the trees I glimpse tiny faces in knotholes, visible in my peripheral vision. On closer examination I see only gaping knotholes and swirls of almost-faces. I begin to doubt my sanity.

The earth undulates, soft and slow like a caress; not loving, more malevolent.

For the third night in a row, I’m listening, walking, watching, and at stupid o’clock in the morning the houses, one street over, begin to moan. In the dark I hear whispering, chittering, faint cries that could be owls or foxes, but I suspect worse. The wooden buildings cry and creak, their walls bend. Flat planks swell into rounds and through ceilings young saplings thrust, tossing aside tiles and iron sheets. During the cacophony I bang on doors, yelling ‘Get out. Get out!’ and scream the words through creaking windows and snapping glass. Something is turning the wood into its original form. Tables, beds, sideboards of exotic wood, sprout, reaching up and out.

I can’t stop watching, despite my heart pounding and my knees threatening to fold. Mahogany, rimu, kauri, oak, pine and walnut – all demanding space to grow. They ease and squeeze, whisper and walk on new roots, searching for space. It’s awesome, and beautiful and terrifying.

Later that day, at the town meeting, I wipe my sweaty hands on my trousers and swallow several times. These gatherings are always traumatic. People get upset when I put forward my theories, as if it’s my fault. I cough from nerves, but the crowd stills. I have their attention.

“I think it’s a virus or something like a plague of army worms. It travels through the soil and hunts for wood. Most active at night, it converts the wood to its natural form and this is why the wooden houses are becoming groves of trees. Treated wood, like fence posts, seems to be immune. It probably doesn’t like the taste.” No one smiles.

A loud query from the back. “Where are my relatives?”

Another calls, “My parents are missing,” a broken sob, “and my daughter.”

I don’t want to answer, but the queries multiply. “Probably absorbed into the trees—as nourishment,” I venture, to howls of protest. Their wave of grief hits me and I stagger back, yielding the podium to the mayor. The hall has erupted into a noisy melee and he bangs the gavel for silence.

“Doctor Findley feels a moat might stop the pathogen’s path.” He shouts above the noise, “We can join the lake and the river. Stop its progress.”

“Start tonight,” someone yells. “Use my excavator.”

“I’ve plenty of shovels,” says the Hardware store owner. I’ve arranged a percentage on each sale.

With a plan to follow the atmosphere improves and I slip away, before my credentials are questioned.

A week later I stand proudly by the moat, confident we’ve won. The young forest, opposite, rustles in the dark. The moon’s reflection ripples as tiny wakes form and beneath my feet the soil rises and belches. My stomach turns. Time for me to leave.

The bloody things can swim!

Dr Findley’s traveling bag - a relic from the past.

My books are available as e-books from: https://www.amazon.com/author/derynpittar

TELL IT TO THE BEES

A TOUCH OF DYSTOPIAN - AND A SECRET

The short story was recently published in the ‘PAUSE’ anthology, a collection of short fiction and poetry by New Zealand authors, featuring strong female characters. A great collection worth buying.

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TELL IT TO THE BEES

In the attic, the crackle of static was drowned out by the sound of someone hammering on the front door and then echoed by the pounding of fear in Julia’s ears.

She switched the radio off, threw a cloth it and flung a carton and some old clothes over that. In a rush, she lifted the trapdoor and slid down the ladder skinning her shins. She eased the trapdoor shut. Had she been heard? She stood, stock still, listening. From below, voices found their way up the stairs.

“Yes, it’s another freezing night… No, sorry, we haven’t any coal to spare. In fact, my wife has gone to bed to keep warm and I’m about to join her.” She heard Aaron, lying to Mrs Macrae, again.

Julia tiptoed into the bedroom, avoiding the squeaky plank in the floorboards and stripped off her outer clothing, pulling her nightie on over her underwear. She crawled in under the covers, between the freezing sheets, in case Mrs Macrae decided to come upstairs to wish her well. Her concern could sometimes be a step too far and Mrs Macrae’s excuse for nosiness was often expressed, by her, as ‘being neighbourly’.

The voices rumbled on; Aaron’s deep sonorous tone and Mrs Macrae’s higher pitched whine. Not a nice description, but the woman was prone to complain, and if the weather was warm and sunny, she reverted to denigrating her family. Men were better at this sort of thing: refuting knowledge, denying possession and refusing to open doors wide enough to let people slip in. At last, the sound of the front door being shut and the locking bar being slid into place echoed up the stairs.

She stayed in bed until she heard Aaron’s footsteps on the treads, firm and resolute. He stopped in the hallway and grinned at her tucked in bed with only her head showing.

“You heard me, I see?”

“Yes, and this bed is so cold I’m going to get a warming brick…if she’s gone.”

“She has. Poor soul, but it’s not my fault her useless family can’t provide her with adequate heating. Besides I saw the MIC’s there the other day, so she might be snooping for them.”

“The Mick’s? Are they new neighbours?”

“It’s the group’s new name for the ‘Men in Charge’. You know, the local police. Apparently, checking on your neighbour is now a national pastime, worth a few kiwis in your pocket, some Sulphur rock for your infections, or even a lump of coal or two, especially if you find anyone hoarding food or being ‘unneighbourly’. His fingers made speech marks in the air.

He sat on the side of the bed and searched for her hand under the bedclothes. “She may report me for not letting her in tonight. We will have to hide the radio, before dawn.” He stroked her face and tucked strands of hair behind her ear. “Did you reach Doctor Annabelle? She might have a recipe for an herbal tonic, to get rid of your tiredness.”

“I think I reached her, but when I heard the knocking, I turned it off and hurried down here. Where can we hide it?”

“I’ve built a false panel in Walter’s stall. He’s such a bad-tempered stallion, I reckon anyone searching will steer clear of his hooves. I’ll take it out there in about an hour. The wind is strong and I can feel snow in the air. It’s a good reason to be out checking on the stock in the night, in case Mrs Macrae sees the lantern moving in the stables. Hopefully she will have gone to sleep by then.”

“We need to let Annabel know about the meeting, at the waterfall.”

“Stop fretting. You’ll make yourself sick. We can use the radio tomorrow, perhaps during the day. At least we have crystal radios to hear the true news, and to keep in contact with patriots, not those idiots converted to the New Dawn Disciples.”

Julia shuddered and Aaron wiped a tear that slid down her cheek.

“I miss Grandma,” she said, “and her stories of the old life, before that Korean idiot launched a nuclear rocket and started World War III, which filled the air with radiation. It sounded lovely before the Nuclear Dawn. They had so much: food, medicine, doctors, heating. I’m sure people were nicer then.”

“It will come again, if we all practice kindness.” He wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders.

Julia scoffed, “You’re beginning to sound like Saint Jacinda Ardern, the New Zealand Prime Minister who preached kindness during the first Covid epidemic. Didn’t do her any good. She was voted out of power.”

“But the world loved her.”

“Well, I’m not looking for world love, just a hot brick to warm the bed,” and she eased out of Aaron’s embrace. “Want one? I put them by the fire. They’ll be warm by now.”

He nodded. “I told Mrs Macrae we’re going to harvest kawakawa and horopito leaves in the bush this weekend. I promised her some tincture and ointment.

Julia paused at the doorway and screwed her face in distaste. “I resent parting with our hard-earned medicines, not to mention the precious beeswax to make the ointment.”

“That’s not kind,” Aaron teased, then added, “It was the only way I could get rid of her. I know she’ll notice we’re away.”

“And what do we get in return? Life is full of exchanges. What is she offering?”

“As yet, nothing, but I’m hoping it will stop her running us down with made-up stories to the MICs.”

Julia shrugged. Another of life’s compromises in today’s reality.

#

The group met at the waterfall, two dozen like-minded souls. The shared luncheon included biscuits, fresh citrus and sun-dried summer fruits. The apples had been preserved by burning Sulphur in a covered box. There was homemade bread, home-cured ham and elderberry juice. William had laced it with a dash of alcohol from his illicit still, so Julia had spring water instead. Their radio broadcasting station was powered by a stolen solar panel which was installed on the roof of Simon’s tree house and the aerial twined through the tree-tops. Simon risked his life broadcasting the real news and those with radios were also risking imprisonment if discovered. The Electromagnetic Pulse from the nuclear bombs had disabled every electronic device around the world. This in turn brought industry, transport, production, even the care of livestock, to a grinding halt. The old ways had become the normal way once more.

As far as Julia was concerned the best thing was the way horses, and all animals, were now valued. Today they had left Walter in his stall to protect their radio’s location, knowing he was very territorial about his living space. They had tramped instead, through the back trail to the waterfall. The watercress was fresh and crisp, liberally salted and sandwiched between slices of bread. Even salt had become a tradeable commodity and Aaron’s recent trip to the saltpans in Motueka had acquired plenty to share, It had been a good exchange for some of their honey.

To Julia’s relief, Annabelle arrived, her face lined with exhaustion, but her smile as bright as always. Her greying hair was plaited into a thick braid which hung down her back ‘out of the way’, she said.

“Can I see you, privately?” Julia asked, her face close as she admired the fineness of Annabelle’s new jacket, handwoven in wool.

Annabelle nodded, murmured ‘later’ and said aloud “It’s a bit bulky but it’s almost waterproof. I’m now in debt to the weaver for a year’s medical attention.” Then she laughed, so Julia wasn’t sure if that was a joke, or an actual contract.

A thread of worry crawled through her chest. They didn’t have money to spare. Would she be able to pay for Annabelle’s services; but first she had to get a diagnosis.

Two hours later the men decided to climb the hill to Simon’s house and do some maintenance on the radio mast. Once they were out of sight and earshot Julia and Annabelle left the others to chat and retired to a sheltered dip in the hillside where Annabelle examined her.

“Yes, you’re pregnant. About three months. I notice your breasts are developing well and the aureoles have darkened. Are you pleased?”

“I’m stunned. Frightened. Concerned. Worried about this child’s future. Will it be alright? Everyone’s fertility is so low these days and the authorities blame the radiation everywhere. I never expected to get pregnant.”

“What does Aaron think? He’ll be very supportive. And will make an excellent father. You only have to see how he looks after your animals to know that.”

“I haven’t told him.” When Annabelle raised her eyebrows, Julia added, “I’ve made sure we make love in the dark and the rest of the time we are dressed because of the cold. If you hadn’t been here today, I would have said something to him, but I’ve been holding it close, like a forbidden secret, for weeks now. Too scared to believe it’s true. Too anxious about how to look after a baby. There are so few about.”

Annabelle, squeezed her hand, holding her gaze. “You only have to raise the child one day at a time, Julia. Everyone has to learn with their first, and the old saying ‘it takes a village to raise a child’ is true. We are your ‘village.’” She waved her hand in the direction of the other women. “We will all help you. What a joy this will be for all of us. The first of the next generation. Perhaps fertility is returning?” Her gaze drifted over Julia’s shoulder as if she could see another future on the horizon. “I hope so.”

“I’m not sure how we will pay you,” Julia mumbled.

“Oh, you foolish child. Pay me? Don’t be silly. I will raid your ointment, tinctures and herbal tea remedies. I will enjoy your hospitality, stay overnight and devour your honey. I might even try your cheese and I will always take a loaf of bread with me when I leave.” She pulled Julia to her feet. “No money will be exchanged – ever,” and they rejoined the women to relax in the watery sunshine until the men returned.

Once they returned home, she slipped away and told the bees, because that was what you had to do with family news. Later that night, in front of the dying coals in the grate, Julia shared her secret. Aaron wept with her. Tears of joy, mingled with whispered worries, until later, when they dozed wrapped together, feeling more confident, they listened to Walter snickering.

“There’s a mare nearby, in heat. Walter is calling to her,” Aaron murmured.

“Then tomorrow you can give him a lecture on the responsibilities of fatherhood,” Julia quipped, “And you can ride him to the mare. He’ll know where to go, and you can collect a fee for his services. There seems to be an uplift in fertility around here. Perhaps the radiation is dispersing.”

On that hopeful note, they slept.

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My books are available to purchase here: https://www.amazon.com/author/derynpittar

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Cheers, Deryn Pittar

A DRABBLE OR TWO

A Drabble is a 100 word story

Drabbles are challenging. You need to make every word count and get a complete scene opened and closed in that word limit. Lots of fun. Enjoy these:

Prompts: An artic outpost, a robotic arm, genre: horror (not too scary)

LOCKED

The wind ceases its howling and after days trapped inside the hut I venture out into the artic chill. Everything is white – except for three black dots; two eyes and a nose. A polar bear, just feet away. It stands and growls.

I slip my left hand inside my all-weather suit, unclip the harness and wait, heart pounding. It lumbers forward, black paws reaching, breath fetid, teeth bared. At the last moment I sacrifice my robotic arm and leave the bear with a tangle of metal in its jaws. I push the door to get back in…it’s locked.

Prompts: An art gallery, theme: suspicion

A ‘FOOT INTHE MOUTH’ MOMENT

I luxuriate in the hum of conversation and the clink of wine glasses. My heart pounds, waiting for the first red ‘sold’ dot to appear beside my art.

“Nice showing,” An untidy, bearded fellow says, raising his glass to me, before draining it.

A free loader?

“It’s my first exhibition.”

He replenishes his glass from the passing hostess, then points to the far wall. “I particularly like that one.”

Obviously, here for the free booze. “I doubt you could afford it.”

‘I don’t buy them. I’m the local art critic.”

I blush with embarrassment. “My apologies. Do have another drink.”

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I sometimes extend these short scenes into longer stories. Don’t forget to pass my newsletters on if you enjoy them. Have a great weekend, rest, and read lots of books

My books can be found (and bought) from https://www.amazon.com/author/derynpittar

A challenge I couldn't resist:

The challenge: an adventure, a teashop in the forest and a teddy bear!!

I hope you have had a great weekend. If you’re exhausted, take five minutes and read this month’s story.

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WE DIDN’T WIN, BUT IT WAS CLOSE

The car screams to a halt, dust and dirt circling. When the air clears, I query “Why are we here after a nightmarish race from home?” My heartbeat thumps in my ears.

The sign above the door of the cafe reads “Maid Marian’s Olde Teashop”. We are in Sherwood Forest, on the edge of Nottingham. Aaron had grabbed me, pulled me into the car with a “Quick, come now. This is our chance to win.”

To get here he ran a red light, and drove at speed across the large roundabout, instead of circling it, at the Five Crossroads intersection: all the time swearing at the Sunday drivers impeding our progress.

“And why on earth are you clutching your teddy bear. You look ridiculous. You’re thirty, not three.” I extricate my legs from the slow-slung vehicle.

He grins, his auburn curls jammed mostly under a cap, his freckled cheeks raised above a wide grin and says, “Because, beloved, this is our chance to win a holiday. It’s just been announced on the radio. I’m here as Christopher Robin, with Pooh Bear. Everyone has to meet here, and the most realistic costume will get a free weekend in Blackpool. Spot prizes too.”

“I hear Blackpool is over-rated. Looking tired. The pier is shabby,” I mutter as we traipse in and queue. Seems there are a lot of others aiming to win and there are some weird costumes.

The entrance doors sigh repeatedly as people arrive and then a guy bursts in with a gun. “Stick ‘em up!” he yells. “This is a hold-up!” He waves a pistol about, randol;y pointing it at customers. Somebody laughs. The lady behind the counter screams and faints. The waitress ducks out through a door marked ‘kitchen’. Aaron shout’s “Bravo. Great gig,” and passes me the bear. He walks up to the man and takes the gun, to look at it. “Love your style. Is this real?” and peers down the barrel. The gunman, about to grab the gun back, stiffens at the sound of a high-pitched wail.

A police-siren breaks the tension. The gunman looks frantically around muttering, “That was quick.” then shouts, “Who rang the police? I’ll kill ‘em.” He makes to grab the gun but Aaron realisings this man is not part of the contest, tosses the gun to me. Luckily, I have good reflexes. He wraps his arms around the offender, wrestling him to the floor and sits on him. Did I mention Aaron is quite large? His enthusiastic following of ‘Late-Night Wrestling’ is finally paying off.

The assembled crowd claps and we all turn as the police burst through the doors which sigh louder than ever after the last policeman squeezes past the end of the queue.

“Hurrah for the boys in blue,” someone shouts.

“Great timing,” shouts another.

“Where’s that speeding maniac?” demands the officer. “He’s driving the red sports car parked outside. We’ve had complaints. His registration number was reported.”

I cough, politely, and point to Aaron. I told him not to speed.

A woman protests, “You can’t arrest him. He’s a hero!”

“He’s just disarmed a gunman and saved us all,” shouts another.

“What’s a bit of speeding between friends?”

Handcuffs are clicked on the prone man. Aaron rises and bows to the crowd, ever the showman.

“That’s your entertainment for today, folks,” he says.

One officer takes Aaron aside for a stern talking to and I hand the gun to the another. Now I’m standing there looking stupid, holding a Teddy Bear.

Life has its moments, living with Aaron and his passion for contests.

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I write over a wide range of genre. My books are available here: https://www.amazon.com/author/derynpittar

THE ANGEL OF COBAR

'Change the result of a historic event' was the challenge.

Day One: 25^th February 1971

Rachel was knee-deep in dirt and rocks when she heard the news on Radio Dubbo; a cave-in at the Cobar copper mine. Four men trapped underground. Hopes of getting them out were slim. The radio announcer’s voice trembled as if she had a personal connection with the victims.

For an hour Rachel wavered with indecision, then cancelled her next two days’ landscaping commitments, lifted her bicycle onto the carrier at the rear of the car and set off for Cobar. This time she had to try. If she failed, at least she’d know she’d done her best. She had always hidden her gift, but perhaps it was time to do altruistic with it, like save lives.

The heat bounced off the bitumen, causing mirages on the blacktop. Like puddles they shimmered in the distance, taunting her. If only it would rain. Her business was struggling and even the hardiest of plants were finding the dry spell life-threatening. As a child she’d been able to lift objects with her mind. Telekinesis was the fancy term and landscaping proved the perfect occupation. She could dig, plant, push wheelbarrow loads of soil and move rocks about with little effort. People admired her strength and she shielded her ability behind heavy breathing and perspiration.

By late afternoon she’d booked into a motel, and from a local map she located the area above the mine’s workings. She pretended to be a typical tourist, here for a few days to view the Aboriginal Rock Art at Mt. Grenfell and with her phone, food and drink in a carrier bag, she cycled off to look around Cobar central. An hour later she climbed and settled on a rise above the mine with only a few hours of daylight left. The afternoon sun hung in the west, a blazing ball in the washed-out blue sky.

The silence, around her, slowly filled with the hum of insects, and the flit of birds among the scrubby tea-tree bushes. She ignored the heat and took her mind deep into the earth, searching for the block passageways and the presence of life. She almost gave up. Her mind ached from the effort but as dusk settled and the earth cooled, she sensed them. There, behind a pile of debris packed tight from floor to ceiling, a sense of suffocation filled her. Air! No air! She could hear the gasps, and smell the desperation.

Her mind prodded the wall of debris, looking for the easiest route to dig through. A decision made, with care she slid each pebble forward, releasing her hold and allowing it to slip down the pile, until the first rock sat exposed. She wiped the sweat from her eyes, gulped from the water bottle and dove down again with her mind. This time she rolled the smallest rock toward the front of the pile, listening to its descent, then pushed another and another. A waft of hot air passed by and wisps of dirt slithered downward. At least she’d made a hole big enough to let air through. Would it be enough to keep them alive? Her mind begged for rest, but she pushed and shoved until her eyes and ears ached from the mental effort and the hole between the top of the pile and the smooth rock ceiling of the tunnel, grew wider. She’d made small progress and would return in the morning, early,

Exhausted, physically, yet exalted with what she’d achieved, she cycled back to the motel in the dark. The night sky sparkled, the moonlight bright enough to cast a shadow as she rode. Perhaps tomorrow night she could make a hole big enough for the men to clamber through and they too would see the beauty of the night sky once more.

Day Two: 26^th February 1971

By waking early, grabbing food and water she managed to get to the hillside as the shadows shrank and the sun rose. When her mind descended the presence of laboured breathing seemed stronger. Enough air was getting through and by midmorning she’d moved more debris from the top of the rockfall. Only one boulder stood in the way of her making the hole large enough for a man to crawl through, and over the pile to freedom. It took hours to clear the shale and dirt from below the big rock.

The effort of moving it gave her a migraine but through the pain she strained against its physical weight. It trembled. She nudged. It sank back. She shoved with all her mental strength, It teetered…and rolled. Below her a ripple of concern moved through the crowd when the rumble of the falling rock sounded in the mine. Men ran from the entrance, like ants racing out of a hole. A silence descended on the expectant group. Thankfully, the crowd collected at the mine entrance didn’t ever look up and notice her. She’d worn earth tones to blend into the red-brown dirt and the kanuka bushes.

Now, she needed to attract the trapped men’s attention. Somehow, she had to tempt them to approach the rock-fall and find the gap. Could she conjure an image and project it? Push her own essence into the fetid air and summon them? This was something she’d never imagined doing. She had to try or all her effort would only prolong their death from dehydration and hunger.

***

“Did you hear that?” Allen Albar’s voice sounded like gravel being lifted by a shovel. He risked a bigger breath. The air seemed cooler.

“It’s the damn cave-in. Probably moving again.” Ken Hodder spat dust from his cracked lips. “We’re nearly out of water.”

“I’m going to have a look. I think there’s air coming from somewhere.” Allen moved away.

“A foolish hope,” muttered Martin Elder, “but I’ll come with you.”

“We’ll all go. Damned if I’m staying here on my own. Is there any battery left in the torch?” Kenneth McMillan stumbled over a rock in the dark and cursed.

The four men moved toward the cave-in, hands on the wall to steady their way, peering in the weak torchlight. Out of the dark a ghostly figure appeared; a woman, ethereal, a floaty garment, long hair, bare feet - almost see-through. She reached toward them, beckoning, then floated away, pausing to beckon again.

“Crikey-dick, I’m bloody seeing things,” Allen wiped his eyes.

“No, I’m seeing it too, Perhaps, we’ve all died.” Ken McMillan muttered.

“No such bloody luck, If I’m feeling this crook I can’t be dead. And now I’m hallucinating.” Martin laughed, his voice high and cracked.

Her smile encouraged them as they staggered on, nearing the base of the rockfall.

“Easy mate.” Allen gripped Martin’s shoulder. “I think we should follow her, she’s beckoning…and now she’s disappearing. Bugger.”

“But there’s a breeze. Can’t you feel it? Perhaps the noise we heard was the cave-in shifting.” Kenneth Hodder stumbled forward, pushing through, hurrying on. “Come on,” he croaked, “there’s air!”

The cave-in loomed dark and menacing like a crouched beast, and at its base a zephyr brushed their hair. It carried the sweetest air a man could ask for.

“Look, at the top. I’m sure there’s a gap.” Allen turned. “Martin, you’re the smallest. Can you get through?

“If there’s a hole, I’ll shift the stuff with my bare hands until they bleed and break.”

“What if it creates another slide? Ken McMillan voiced their greatest fear.

“The angel wanted us to follow her. She knew about the hole. We have to try or we’ll die in here,” and Martin scrambled up the pile while the others stood back from the falling dirt his climbing dislodged.

An hour later, exhausted from aiding the man’s efforts, Rachel sat, her head in her hands listening to the roar of the crowd. knowing the men were free and her talent had saved them. A cheer split the air as the crowd surged forward. Below her, people gathered up the four dark figures, carrying them aloft to the ambulances that had waited for two days, hoping for a live retrieval.

Day Three: 27^th February 1971

The headlines in the Sydney Herald shouted the men’s miraculous escape.

AN ANGEL SAVED US

The four trapped men lived to see another sunrise; children were born, who may not have been otherwise. Lives were enriched, careers changed and in 2038, Martin Elder, the newly elected Labour Party Premier of the State of New South Wales said:

“I’d like to acknowledge and thank the Angel of Cobar, who saved my grandfather from certain death in the Cobar Mine cave-in, on February 24^th, 1971. Without her intervention I wouldn’t be here today, representing the workers of this great State.”

In a rest-home in Dubbo a ninety-year-old lady nodded her agreement and with her mind, lifted the TV remote from the floor where it had fallen. No need to ring for a nurse.

REAL FACTS:

On the 25^th February, 1971, in the State of New South Wales, a cave-in in the Cobar Mine killed four men. They were: Allen Albar, Kennth Hodder, Kenneth McMillan and Martin Elder.

In my story they survive and escape.

Other stories (novels and short fiction) written by me, can be bought from: https://www.amazon.com/author/derynpittar

Please feel free to pass this on to anyone your think might enjoy my creations.