Ted Conner

 

My latest book, 'Butchers Creek' is out now.

More the 170 pages and 14 short stories of light humour which would make an ideal Xmas gift.

The cover is from a water-colour by the author.

Story No 1 tells of a journey from Melbourne to Butchers Creek.  I'll let you into the first few pages

It was early morning in Melbourne. Twisting and swaying, miniature dust devils danced in the lazy breeze, burbling along Lilliput Lane.  A screwed up paper  bag and a ripped fish and chip paper tumbled along that narrow untidy street.

In front of a ramshackle motor vehicle depot, a shabby passenger bus was parked in the shade of a spindly olive tree.  Veteran driver, Brody Kray, lounged in the driver's seat of his aging vehicle, waiting to begin his weekly excursion to Butchers Creek, a small isolated community, far beyond the outskirts of the city.

Glancing at his wrist watch, he noted there was still time for him to roll a smoke.  Digging a packet of Park Drive tobacco and a book of ZigZag tissue papers from his shirt pocket, he deftly fashioned a cigarette with one hand.

Striking a match on the side of his boot and cupping his hands around the flame, he sucked tobacco smoke deep into his lungs.  Savouring the tangy taste as smoke rolled across his tongue, he leaned back into the grubby torn leather seat.

Flicking ash onto the floor, he caught the pleasant whiff of cooking smells coming from a fast-food joint in the adjoining street, reminding him he had missed breakfast.

He was about to spit loose tobacco fibres off the tip of his tongue, when the late arrival of a passenger, dragging a tattered back-pack, pushed through the open door.

Cuttin' it a bit fine ain't ya mate?" Brody barked,  The remnants of his cigarette flapping on his bottom lip.  "I was about to push off, . . . . goin' far?"  Brody's questioning grin, exposed a mouthful of chipped and nicotine coated teeth.

"End of the line, I guess,"  His passenger responded.

"That'll cost you forty bucks, Jack."

"Right," the passenger said, producing a wad of twenty dollar notes, big enough to choke a horse.  

"By the way, the name's not Jack," he retorted, slipping off a couple of twenties.  "Keep the change."

Palming the notes, Brody stared at the roll disappearing back into the passenger's pocket.

"Gee man," he mumbled, licking his lips.  "You're all bloody heart ain't ya.  Last of the big spenders, aye?"

Brody  was browned off he never received a tip.

"Thank you Brody," the passenger snapped.  "For your information, the name is Finch . . . .Jeremy Finch."

"Ahh. Huh."  Slapping the cracked steering wheel with a calloused hand, Brody tried desperately not to laugh.  "You did say Finch.  "He responded, spitting the soggy cigarette butt onto the floor.  "Finch, as in bird, eh?"

"Yeah, that's the one." Jeremy smiled.

Squinting at his passenger, Brody cocked his head onto the side.  "Say, Jack, you ain't by any chance, a kin of old Dicky, are ya?"

"What? . . . .Old Dickey Bird," hooted Jeremy.  "Cripes, I had lunch with that chirpy little bastard the other day.  He's one of me old mum's relly's y'no.  Know his well do you?"

Dust rose from Brody's shorts, as he slapped his skinny thighs and laughed out loud.

"Awe Finchy!  That's the biggest line of crap I've ever heard.  "You are just too slick for an old untaught bum like meself."

And so it continues, there is another 12 pages to that little drive into the outback.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copies of the book can be obtained from the author, at this stage, it is not available in retail shops.

Priced at $13.99 plus postage. 

Just pick one up from 24 Usk Street.  Timaru.

or

Email me at noelguthrie07@gmail.com

Or phone 6887219 for a copy.

I look forward to hearing from you.