Christine Scheiner is this month’s Bellarine Writing Competition winner.
Christine’s entry, the deliberately misspelt ‘The Day Chris Hensworth Tried to Kill Me’, was one of 24 entries.
The judges appreciated the story’s lively style and the humorous jokes. The ending had a nice touch and spoke to the often funny relationships we have with animals.
The judges enjoyed reading all the 24 stories, which covered a broad range of topics from future worlds to war to humour to tragedy.
Notable mentions to Anne Whisken, Leanne Braddick, Vicki Long and Beryl Stott.
Judges encourage anyone living in the Bellarine region to enter the next competition advertised in the Voice today. Please remember to provide your phone number as the winner is contacted by phone.
Christine moved to the Bellarine Peninsula with her husband, two children, and various horses, cats, dogs and guinea pigs in 1998. She worked in the health insurance commission and later in retail at Horseland. She is retired and now lives a much quieter life with just her husband and dog in Barwon Heads.
Next month’s competition is titled ‘Run’. Entries are capped at 750 words and close Friday June 9. Entries are submitted to acobham@bigpond.com
The Day Chris Hensworth Tried to Kill Me
By Christine Scheiner
If I had only known what the great outdoors was really like, I might never have married a farmer.
My idea of the great outdoors was dashing from my (most likely) illegally parked car to the cafe for my morning coffee, so when I married James my friends seriously contemplated starting a Go Fund Me page to finance therapy for me. A whirlwind of madness ensued, and I’m now living on a 2200 broad acre farm loving life, maybe. Certainly, it’s never dull.
The day Chris Hensworth tried to kill me started out well. James was baiting foxes for the day so I had to mind Sylvester Stallone, the highly suspicious (of me) border collie, aptly named for his luscious dark hair, robust muscular chest and strong legs. He absolutely loathed me. I took this as a challenge to win him over.
While Sylvester sulked in the lounge room balefully staring at the dog treat I had tried to bribe him with, I decided to pamper myself with a coffee face mask. I had a few hours spare before my mother-in-law dropped by for lunch, and it was at this point things began to turn.
When I jumped into the shower not a single drop of water was to be found. After a frantic phone call pleading for help, James kindly organised for a neighbour to drop by and “fix the water pump”. A quick text to my mother-in-law – “Sorry to muck you around but can you come at 1 instead of 12?” – seemed quite innocuous until I realised I had typed ‘f’ instead of ‘m’.
No brownie points there, but not to dwell on a small disaster, I needed to wash off my face mask.
Smirking with ingenuity, I realised the house yard had a small concrete stock trough which would be ideal. I had just finished rinsing, and my face felt wonderfully smooth and tight, when with perfect timing the neighbour arrived to fix the water pump.
The helpful neighbour was strangely reticent and disconcertingly avoided eye contact with me, however seemed lovely and did indeed fix the pump. It was only afterwards when I looked in the mirror that I realised he wasn’t shy, just polite, as I had small bits of mask still clinging to my chin and eyebrows, enhanced with tendrils of green algae from the water trough.
I can just imagine the gossip at the local pub – “met James’ new missus the other day….she seems nice, but…”.
Sylvester, who had greeted the neighbour with undisguised joy, leaping about like a puppy and literally crying with excitement, was again sitting in a corner with his back to me, staring at his treat like it was a poisonous toad. Surely a walk would do us both good, and I could collect some eggs for lunch. James had casually warned me to watch Chris Hensworth (the silky bantam rooster) adding “he can be a bit funny sometimes”.
This was a perfect opportunity to bond with Sylvester, and have back up if Chris got ‘funny’. Besides, how much trouble can a five kilo rooster cause?
It all went wrong immediately. Visualise the Maniac dance scene in the movie Flashdance (Chris’ opening moves), and then pretty much any sword scene from Kill Bill for his final moves as he literally knocked me over and spurred me in the leg. Sylvester watched on in silent disgust. Chris was coming back for a second attack when I spied the week old Pana di Casa breadstick I had forgotten about and put in the chook food. It had the consistency and weight of a concrete garden gnome, and in desperation seemed the perfect weapon with which to defend myself.
I’m not ashamed to say I clubbed that bird with a stroke that Sachin Tendulkar would be proud of, but which sadly only seemed to cause Chris mild discomfort. It did, however, discourage a further assault.
I sat down and began to cry quietly, resting my head on my knees. A wet nose and shaggy head pushed under my arm and gently licked my tears away. My heart soared and I knew Sylvester had finally accepted me into his pack. And to think, if Chris Hensworth hadn’t attacked me, maybe that would never have happened.
