Lizard

by Iris Carden

Isabelle glanced out her kitchen window and dropped the plate she was drying. Either she was hallucinating, or there was a dragon in her back yard.

Dragons didn’t exist, so rationally, she must have been hallucinating.  Despite that obvious fact, she carefully stepped around the shards of shattered plate, and ran out to the back yard.

The dragon was huge. Well, it looked huge.  Whether it was large for a dragon, she couldn’t tell, as she’d never seen any others to compare it to.  Its sinewy body was wound around the mango tree, large front claws rested in the vegetable garden, one wing lay over the clothes line, and the other seemed squashed against the colour bond fence.

It was a sickly yellow colour, and its huge eyes looked quite jaundiced.  It might have been ill.  But then again, that colour might have been normal for dragons.

Once she was in the yard inspecting it, Isabelle realised she had no idea if dragons were the friendly beasts of The Neverending Story, or the vicious monstrosities of The Lord of the Rings. 

The dragon lifted its head weakly, made a moaning noise, and dropped the head back down on its forelegs.  Something that smelled like petrol dripped from the beast’s nose.

It was definitely ill, Isabelle decided.

What could she do?  She had no idea how to look after a sick dragon.

“Do you need a drink?” She asked, realising it was unlikely she would receive an answer.

She found a bucket, and filled it from the back yard hose.  Carefully, she approached the dragon, and placed the bucket on the ground near its head. A long tongue shot out and lapped the water just as a dog or cat would. The bucket of water went in two laps.  Isabelle refilled it.  After ten bucketfuls, the dragon put its head back down to rest.

“I suppose you need food, too.” Isabelle said, again not really expecting an answer.

What would dragons eat?

Isabelle decided she really needed an expert to take over.  She searched online and found a phone number for a wildlife rescue organisation.

She told them she had a large lizard in her yard that appeared to be unwell.

The wildlife rescuer asked her to catch the lizard in a box and bring it in.

Isabelle tried to imagine how she would do that.  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I really don’t think I can do that.  Do you have someone who could come here to get it?”

There was no-one available to do a pick up until the next day.  In the meantime, could Isabelle please keep the lizard warm and offer it a small piece of meat if it seemed to be hungry.

What would a small piece of meat be to a dragon?  Isabelle looked in the freezer and found a leg of lamb.  She defrosted it in the microwave, took it to the back yard and placed it in front of the dragon.

The dragon lifted its head, sniffed at the meat, and then dropped its head again.

Isabelle went through all the meat in her freezer, and found nothing the dragon seemed to want.

A couple of times through the day, Isabelle was able to get it to drink.  She found that filling the wheelbarrow with water proved more satisfactory than using the bucket.

At nine the next morning the wildlife carer arrived. He was a young man, who came with a cat carry box. Isabelle looked at the box doubtfully, and told the young man that the lizard was too big for that.

“It’s OK,” he said.  “I’ll just shove it in.  They tend to curl up.”

“Wouldn’t squashing it in a box hurt it?”

“Nah, lizards are tough.  They can take pretty much anything.”

“Well, you’re the expert,” Isabelle said, and lead him through the house and out the back door.

The young man screamed when he saw the dragon.  

The dragon, disturbed lifted its head, and breathed a massive blue flame over the young man, then ate him in two bites.

“Oh,” said Isabelle, “You wanted your food cooked, did you? Do you feel better after your meal? Are you still hungry?”

The dragon gently nudged her with its head.  

“Would you like to meet my ex-husband?” she asked.






Christmas, Possibly to Come

Dazza woke to find the ghostly figure standing at the end of his bed.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” Dazza demanded.

The figure sat on the side of the bed.  “I’m the ghost of Christmas, Possibly to Come.”

“Right, right, I get it.  I’ve read the book.  Three of you are going to visit to tell me why I should change my ways.”

“Nah, mate. First you didn’t read the book. You watched that Bill Murray movie Scrooged, and second you’re a special case.”

“Special case?”

“Yeah.  Special cases are the ones we know aren’t going to change, so instead of doing the whole triple-haunting, we draw straws and the loser comes to hang out with you for a while.  No point in putting our best work into one we don’t have a chance of winning.”

“Fair enough. So what do we do now?””

“We just hang out for about an hour, so I can say I gave it a go.”

“Righto.” Dazza sat up, and opened a drawer in his bedside table.  He took a pinch of powder out of a bag in the draw and laid it out on his finger, then inhaled it.  “You want a hit?” he asked.

“Nah. Wouldn’t work on me.  Ghost; no brain cells to fry.”

“So, you can walk through walls and stuff like that?”

“Yeah.  It’s really cool at first, then it’s just everyday stuff, you know.”

“Could be useful in my line of work.”

“But I’m incorporeal.  I can walk through walls, but once I’m inside, I can’t do anything much.  You need to be able to touch things, and people.”

“I guess I wouldn’t get paid much for scaring targets.  Unless I could scare them to death.”

“Only thing that makes you scary is that you kill people.  If you couldn’t do that, you really wouldn’t be all that scary.  You’d be just as pathetic as me.”

“I get that.  So if you did the whole drama, what would you have showed me?”

“Well, if you keep going at your current job, you’d be rich but have no friends and die alone.”

“And if I didn’t?”

“If you quit your job, did something normal instead, you’d get married, have kids, blah, blah blah.”

“But I wouldn’t be rich?”

“You wouldn’t be as rich.”

“I can see why you didn’t bring your A-game.”

“I know, right.”

“You know you look weirdly familiar.”
“Really?”

“Could you be someone I might have been hired to ah, kill?”

“Come to think of it, yeah.”

“No hard feelings, mate.  Just business.”

“Oh I’m not sure, but I think…. Yes I think I do have hard feelings.  I didn’t want to die, and I really didn’t want this gig.”

“So what are you going to do about it.  You said it yourself.  You’re incorporeal. You can’t touch me.”

“Dazza, Dazza, Dazza, you really should have read the book.  I’m a Christmas ghost.  I can make you see things.”

Dazza’s bedroom suddenly disappeared.  He seemed to be in a very dark place.  He couldn’t see anything but darkness, so deep it seemed physical.

“Very clever,” Dazza said. “So you can make me think I’m alone in the dark.  How long do you plan to play this stupid little game then?”

“I think forever,” the ghost respond.  “Forever works for me.  Does forever work for you? Don’t bother answering. I can see how much you’re enjoying yourself. Yeah, I think we’ll make this forever.”


New Releases

In the past two months, I've released three new books: a poetry anthology, a novel, and a children's book.



You can find them all now at www.lulu.com/spotlight/IrisCarden, and soon at most online bookshops.

Scandal

by Iris Carden

Archibald Clark spat his coffee over the computer screen.

His long-suffering wife Marigold went to the kitchen for a dishcloth to clean up the mess.  “It was never a good idea for you to read the newspaper at the breakfast table when it was a paper.  It’s an even worse idea now that it’s on the net,” she said.

Archibald pointed to the headline on the screen. “Prime Minister’s Secret: Exclusive Photos.”  There were pictures of him, obviously taken surreptitiously, having dinner with Angela, shopping with Angela, being greeted by Angela at her front door.

“So come out and tell the truth, Arch,” Marigold said matter-of-factly.  “Angela is your daughter from a previous relationship.  You spend time with her because you’re her Dad and you care about her.”

“If that much comes out, how much before everything else comes out?” 

“How bad would it be if it did come out?”

“How bad?” Archibald buried his head in his hands.

“So, you’re intersex.  You live as a man now, but in the past you gave birth to a beautiful, intelligent, caring, daughter.  You have the best of both worlds,” Marigold, as usual, missed the whole point.

“Intersex?  You know the voters don’t know what that is.  They think it’s some trendy left-wing social movement.  The media will end up using the H-word.” He was pale, shaking.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Marigold replied. She took a sip of her own coffee before she added. “Hermaphrodite is just a word.  It’s an ugly word, sure, but you’re the Prime Minister. No-one is going to chain you up and put you on display in a freak show.  The world moves on.  Society changes and people learn.”

“But I’m not going to be Prime Minister much longer am I? I’m in a catch 22. Either everyone believes I’m having an affair with an 20 year old, or they think I’m some kind of freak.  Either way, the Party is going to decide I’m electoral poison.  Murchessin’s been agitating for weeks.  This will be all it takes for him to challenge in the Party Room. Goldie, I’m totally screwed.”


Kitten


By Iris Carden

Collar bell jingles, soft paws pat her ball,
the kitten is playing her way down the hall.

She wiggles her bum as she targets a pounce,
knocks things off the shelf to see if they bounce.

She leaps into a lap for a moment or two,
but can’t stay there when there’s so much to do.

The world is all new, there’s so much to explore,
for this little kitten there’s adventures galore!

She scampers and climbs, she runs then she stays,
Life is a game, won’t you please come and play?

Then all of a sudden, she comes to a stop,
She gives a small yawn, and she falls with a flop.

And then with a deep self-satisfied purr
she forms a tight ball of warm snuggly fur.

She twitches a whisker and breathes long and deep
the sweet gentle snore of an innocent sleep.

This poem now appears in "Poetic Pets" available at www.lulu.com/spotlight/IrisCarden.


The Voice in Her Head

by Iris Carden

"You're doing it wrong and you're taking too long."
The voice in her head, it sang its old song.
"Your sister is smarter, your sister is bright,
If you were like her then you'd be all right."

"You're clumsy. You're lazy," the voice carried on.
Any hopes that I had for you are all gone.
I wish that your sister was the only one.
You're dull and you're boring. You're not even fun."

But this was unlike all of the times before.
This time she picked herself up off the floor.
She just didn't listen to all the voice said,
This time she answered the voice in her head.

"Mother you're gone, your time is not now
You just don't belong in my head anyhow,
You don't get to question, you don't get to judge,
You don't get to push, nor even to nudge."

"This life that I have, it's now all my own
And my sister 's got hers, now that she's grown
And neither of these is yours to control
So be quiet now and let loose your hold."

The voice was now quiet, the first time in her life.
She felt the freedom, the absence of strife.
She thankfully prayed to the heavens above,
And then called her sister, and sent her some love.



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