Michael Fisher
Bio
Some 50 years ago, I felt I could ferret out a gem of an idea when researching, say, the Spartans for school and enjoyed polishing and presenting that gem to my audience. I’ve been at it ever since, hammering ideas into shape.
Stories (3/0)
500 words
Lately my ten year old self has been brought to the forefront. My pumpkin demonstration borrowed from what I think to be my 10 year old design and the Christmas tree decorations remind me of that time in my life as well. An idyllic vision. Carving pumpkins on the back porch with my older brother as my guide; the time of year, the smells and the atmosphere come back to me vividly. Christmas as well, with its warm cosy indoors looking outside at the icicles lit magically by the Christmas lights hanging from the eaves. The family, all together, safe from the harshness of the outside world. The Christmas tree glowing multicolour as Mum and Dad drink Rum and eggnog and Bing Crosby crones about dreaming of a white Christmas; it was here in front of us.
By Michael Fisherabout a year ago in Confessions
Late
The morning started like any other of late. The alarm went off at 7:45, my emergency time devised to maximize sleep and still squeak in more or less on-time, all going well. I’d forgotten about our meeting. We’ve had so many lately. Some before school, some after. It seemed never ending and I was over it. I’ve had enough trouble with just teaching this class let alone all this other shit they want us to pretend to do. I used to teach year one and had become kind of complacent doing the same thing every year. Now, on a 3/4 composite class, I had to re-tool. Design everything again from the ground up and it was more, much more, than a full time job. I was calling it the ‘job that could not be done’. Add to this all the school wide organisational malarkey, and you’re got yourself a regular cluster-fuck. I was getting used to just doing what I could and letting the rest of the chips, as they say, just fall where they may. Clean up on isle six!
By Michael Fisherabout a year ago in Fiction
Daisy
Spring was here and all seemed well in the valley. Yellow flowers, tiny and numerous, sprang forth on the alpine meadows, the farmer and his wife seemed to spend much more time smiling and generally enjoying themselves and all seemed well with the world. Perhaps because of the fluffy clouds, the warm temperatures or the quality of the crops. Daisy couldn’t tell. It was not as if she could speak or anything. Cows, as we all know, do not talk. So when the farmer came out with his straw hat and his pipe, Daisy had to glean his mood from his actions and the tone of his words. The wife never came near. She just stood on the porch and breathed in all that fresh air.
By Michael Fisherabout a year ago in Fiction
