Little Mouse

Little Mouse

Little Mouse by KB Eliza

Little Mouse

This essay was inspired by Plato’s Cave, with a dash of country town childhood and swift growth after severe life changing moments. This has been a favourite for readers and as always, everyone seems to get their own story from it. With love x

There was a little mouse, who was a kind and happy mouse, always looking after the other mice.

One day her leg broke. Then she had three legs instead of four. She was sick for a very long time and lived in a cold little hole in a wall with bugs. The doctor mouse told her she would never recover. Never is a very big word for a small mouse. Many of the other mice were scared to come near her, for they were worried they might get sick too, but most of all they didn’t want to feel her sadness. The little mouse became lonely.

This made her very glum. 

One night the little mouse looked out from her hole and saw hope hanging from the sky like a star. She put her little paws up and held the image of it in her heart and part of her believed she captured some. The next day she woke up and decided not to give up. She believed goodness was coming her way. She had the days when she cried, and felt her feelings. Then the day arrived when her heart filled to the brim with sunshine, like a basket of peaches and fond thoughts of tomorrow. It was like a rainbow. 


Then one day, her miracle arrived. Her sickness faded. Her pale fur became brown again. She felt glorious and so very grateful. For a miracle is scarce and a super special thing indeed. She said her prayers and gave thanks, and the most wonderful things began to happen. She found a new hole to live in with no bugs, it was cosy and warm. 


She was faster than ever on her three legs and with good use of her tail, she was quicker than the other mice. Watch her go! The other mice would exclaim as she flew by like lightning. This prosperity was a welcome gift. 


Then the strangest thing happened. One day those she held dear no longer came out of their holes. A great hunger overcame them. Hiding away they ate and ate, they ate their feet, their little mouse tails and their memories until they all became too big and got stuck. 


Aghast the little mouse missed them, and she begged them to come outside. She tried to sing to them, she left food outside for them to nibble on, but the only thing they would cry out was –Where’s Mine? 

They were happy for the little mouse, but they were hungry too, miracles are the very best of feasts and how their tummies rumbled. For no one resents a miracle, but everyone starves for one also. 


The little mouse became lonely again, and no longer wanted to be separate. So she tucked herself into her petite mouse house, and scratched and nibbled away at the miracle until it was all worn and nobody noticed it anymore. In between bites, she whispered to the other mice between the walls. They talked about mouse things, nothing at all special. She was so busy doing this, bugs snuck into her house and started making a mess. 

She forgot about her gift.

She no longer had a calamity.

She no longer had prosperity.

She wanted to feel safe.



She might have stayed there forever. But something niggled at her little mouse heart. It wasn’t a shout, because the best niggles always start out quiet. The niggle told her that staying there and forgetting her miracle was very wrong. 

SO SHE DID WHAT ALL BRAVE LITTLE MICE DO, SHE PACKED UP, PUT SOME hope in her pocket and set out for an adventure.

Because adventures aren’t always easy, but they always show their worth it in the end.

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We acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land on which we work, the Kulin peoples. We pay our respect to elders past present and emerging, we acknowledge and and all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders. The land we on which we live, breathe, work, eat and sleep always was and always will be Aboriginal land. KB Eliza supports the


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The Battle At Trauma Glen

The Battle At Trauma Glen

The Battle At Trauma Glen

There is nothing quite like the use of metaphor to really set a scene, and the monster battle trope felt right with this essay. This is an excerpt from Vignettes of The Possibly Dying. I hope you enjoy. 

She ties the sash of red around her waist; the tassels are like the last strands of faith hanging at her hip along with her Grand- mother’s voice.

A pouch is tied to her belt. Her heart is beating fast. The task before her is crushing. She pushes through the bracken and branches the soft murky ground sponges beneath her feet. Finally, the branches thin out, and she can see the cabin clearly in front of her. 

HER EYES SCAN ACROSS THE FAMILIAR TRIMMED HEDGE, SUNLIGHT dusting small beams through the leafy branches. The milky yellow porch posts and the duck blue window frames remain picture-perfect; the large french doors are darkened by overhanging ivy and jasmine. The glossy white weatherboard cladding contrasts with the brass frog door knocker; its mouth is stretched too wide with the hammer in the shape of a distended tongue resting on the Lilypad struck plate. 

Her stomach acid turns cold and rises in her throat. She takes a deep breath, and as she exhales, her breath turns to fog. The skin on her arms prickles. She glances over her shoulder, and her long dark curly hair is damp now from sweat. The muscles next to her lip twitch on one side as she raises a flat palm to touch her thumb to her forehead then brings it down to her heart. She is ready. 

SHE STEPS UP ON THE PORCH BOARDS, AND THE LACK OF NOISE IS jarring. She holds the door handle, and the cool of the metal adds to the chill. The door swings open silently, not even a groan. She feels like she is walking through a hole in a nest. 


Malevolence incarnate; gnashing and snarling, a malignant beast with trauma dripping from its teeth like an ooze, storms through the doorway. 

WELCOME, SHE SAYS, HER FISTS DARING TO TAKE HIM DOWN AND SCREAM her rage, but she knows it will infuse into her skin. She resists with all her might. It is time. Her nostrils flare, and her hands clench. 

He whispers to her in a scratchy husky voice.

My little effete, tender and sickly one, abandoned again? Discarded like a tissue, pathetic ruination. I can’t believe you’ve come back for more! What a time we will have you and me. 

Burden! He screams at her. The weight of his quip tears at her; she skitters backwards. 


He spits and snarls the words, the force throwing her against the bench and onto the ground. 

She crawls in agony from the whips of his words to the bench.

He stands over her and the stench of him makes her want to reach.

No one wants you. 

Your father didn’t want you. 

Your family didn’t want you. 

Your friends don’t want you. 

Interloper! He bellowed. 

You will not make old bones.

You are scarred. 

Who are you fooling?

Who do you think you are?

What a joke. They feel sorry for you, you wretched girl.

He opens the drawer and pulls a long leather belt, worn and torn. 

He slaps it against his thigh, and it makes a thwack sound. 

Do you think you are special? 

Do you believe what you saw was real? 

It’s all in that piteous woeful head. He growls. 

She flinches, a small split tears her lip and blood flows. 

You are unloved and craving like a dirty little beggar. thwack 

You will break. Pity pity pity. thwack

Do you remember what you once were? He bawled. 

The words are drilling down, down and down into her stomach, nails in her gut; she ignores the pain. 

She pulls herself up to the bench; her bloodied lip feels ripped open like an old tent door in a storm. She grabs the cup. She touches her heart and holds her hand over the cup, and tiny pink tendrils run from her fingertips into the tea, and it steeps. 

You are loved, she says softly to the liquid. 

You are forgiven, she urges in a forced whisper. Her tears fall, and her head feels squeezed like a rung towel. 

He whimpers and jumps back; all of the pottery shakes in the cabinets, teacups and beer mugs clink. 

Come, she says kindly. She places the small cup on the table. 

He tilts his head and looks at her, dropping the belt to the ground. 

Come, she says again. 

He doesn’t object and begrudgingly staggers like a drunkard; he sits at the table, his bursting hairy body barely fitting. He scratches at an invisible itch and reaches for the cup, so dainty in his gristly hand. He sips the sweet drink, a sly eye upon the woman, his bruised and black drooped eyelids closing slowly. He yawns. He hiccups, the cup drops. 

Have you poisoned me? He asks in a small voice. 

With snapping and squeaking sounds, he yelps and starts to shrink quickly. Golden rays burst from his fur like sunbeams, and his ugliness and body crumble like old cellophane disintegrating, smaller and smaller. He is as tiny as a baby bird. She swiftly picks him up, placing him in the palm of her hand. He is captured—a warm little ball of fluff and scales. 

SHE WHISPERS HER SECOND PRAYER OF GRACE, SHE BLOWS A SWEET breath upon his scaly body. He closes in on himself, his little body spinning and turning. She sings the song. 

Very slowly, a wing unfurls from his furry body. His dark muck glitters and shivers into a shimmering band of light. Another wing unwraps, and the summer hue of yellow glints around its tiny body. The elytra reflect light around the room, the same colour as the green of the scribe’s eyes. 

He opens an eye in surprise. The little wings start to flap and twirl. He folds in on himself, edges form, and angles jut out. He disappears, and in his place sits a large diamond. She places the diamond in the pouch on her hip. A bird sings, how sweet the sound is. 

THERE IS NO NEED TO RETURN HERE. SHE UNDERSTANDS THIS NOW. NO longer a prisoner, she walks into the night.

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We acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land on which we work, the Kulin peoples. We pay our respect to elders past present and emerging, we acknowledge and and all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders. The land we on which we live, breathe, work, eat and sleep always was and always will be Aboriginal land. KB Eliza supports the


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Hello, Thanks For Dropping By

Hello, Thanks For Dropping By

Hello, Thanks For Dropping By

Welcome to my first blog entry for the website. Daunting much? You could say the last few months have been exciting and taxing on so many levels! The paradox has not been lost on me.

So what to write? I thought I would start with the questions hitting my desk, and these seem to be the standouts. Thank you so much to those who have taken the time to get in touch. Your photos, feedback and support, have been a blessing.


Why the mystery about who you are?

 So why the mystery about me? My intention was for the words to resonate with each reader, without bringing the author’s life story into the equation. Much of the book felt like it dropped in through the state of flow, and to honour this, and a promise I once made- I use the beloved name (with a lot of meaning) KB Eliza.  

The pages of Vignettes of the Possibly Dying are for the absorber’s interpretation. I did not want credit nor recognition but rather for readers to look for themselves in the pages. The companion journal was designed as a bit of fun to help the reader pause for reflection. Write your own if you like! 



Do you read your reviews?


 I guess you could say reviews for Vignettes are the peripheral edge of happiness to the writing experience this time around. 

YES! A dear friend, another best selling author, asked me- “Why are you reading the reviews? You know the drill!” Here’s the thing, it was too much fun not to! I wanted to get a sense of where the pages were landing with people and the different interpretations they might have. 


Why do you love independent book stores so much?


I love the commercial space because, without it, I would not be writing these words right now! Big online spaces make it possible for authors under contract along with independent authors to reach people all around the world. The competition has opened up, and it’s exciting! However, my passion for bookshops, the scent, the paper, the walking, perusing, selecting and touching- Sigh. The person running a bookshop who more than likely LOVES BOOKS and has dedicated their business to the mystical marvels of the written word are wonders in my mind. I have met so many over the years, and they are the gatekeepers of stories. So yes, I love independent book stores that much. Especially those brave enough to take a risk on an independent or an Australian made book and make it available to readers. 


Have you experienced heaven? 


What do you think? (smiling)


What are your favourite words reviewers have used?


That’s easy; lyrical, enlightening and ambiguous, hope inducing. Some of the Vignettes are likened to a Rubik’s cube for a few readers, yet for others, they tell me it is as though the words absorb into their hearts, and they experience feelings about the verse at the perfect time. When I get messages like this, it is wonderful and humbling. 


Are you a Christian? 

Yes, my faith is Christian. I am getting asked this a lot.  I believe God is an incredible, mind-blowing creator that loves us very much and holds the grand design of the universe, including free will and the ability to transform through faith, hope, and surrender. I do not believe God is a firey annoyed Gandalf in the sky puppeteering the world. God in action along with the intrigue of the trinity is beyond comprehension, even though I love trying! I also love hanging out and having awesome conversations with all God’s children, including those who are Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Zoroastrian, Jewish, and so many more. I am an inclusive open hearted and optimistic Christian and everyone is on their journey, as I am on mine. 


What other things are you interested in? 


Trees, lions, family, friends, including the fur kind. Quantum physics, multiverse theory, laughing, reading the Bible, the life and times of Jesus, ancient cultures, studying new things, meditation, yoga, neuroplacticity,  hiking, anthropology, . I also love Stranger Things, Marvel, Star Wars, Mr Hemingway and Ms Dickinson. None are in the correct order. It depends on which day it is. 


What is Quest of the Possibly Dying About?


Fingers crossed, this will arrive in time for Christmas. I am very excited about Quest. It is a collection of short stories; they are all threads in a larger tapestry. There are easter eggs and more than a few clues leading to Vignettes. The very interesting and talented Quentin Tarantino once said, “Write the book you want to read that no one has written, make the movie no has made you want to watch.” This changed my life. My mind expanded outside the first rule of writing – Who is your audience? 

Quest of the Possibly Dying is the book I wrote for me that no one has written. It has been a joy-filled and maddening process of love. I hope that it finds its way to those who may love it as much as I do. This isn’t a humble thing to say. Well, it is the truth. There is no sweeter elixir than honesty poured with the heart of good intentions. 


Who helped you publish the book? 


A big thanks to Ponderings Publishing in Australia. So much has happened thanks to their help. 


What would your advice be to people thinking about writing a book?


No one owns stories, we all have them, and we were born to tell them. But, unfortunately, a platform of academia in the literary world has held people back and paved the way for self-doubt for too long. So many people believe that only really smart people write books. Not true. If you have a story to tell, find the words, edit, edit, and edit again; polish your work with as many tools and as much energy as you have. Make sure you honour your story, be professional and back yourself. Don’t die with regrets. Turn the story from ‘possibly’ into ‘happening.’  xx KB 

Schedule an Event

We acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land on which we work, the Kulin peoples. We pay our respect to elders past present and emerging, we acknowledge and and all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders. The land we on which we live, breathe, work, eat and sleep always was and always will be Aboriginal land. KB Eliza supports the


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