Thursday 17 October 2013
That Girl In The Dream
Thomas Gibbs
Redfern, NSW
That girl in the dream. She moves with me, and at the same time not at all. It is with great care that she manages to seem preoccupied constantly. The disappearing buildings behind her are like evaporating memories. She is so beautiful, and so full of life, if only for the briefest of moments.
That girl in the dream. Slipping underneath the bypass like a ghost. She turns to me. Here, I sink into the depth of concrete beneath my legs and try desperately to speak to her through the circulating light. I can tell she is trying to listen, because her gaze catches mine and there is no one else around.
That girl in the dream. Now out of the grey, and on top of a green plateau. We are within arm’s reach of each other and only gravity keeps us from melting away into the sunrise. When I have dreams where I am falling, I must be falling from this place. I believe that the only reason we exist is to dream, and that the only reason we dream is to exist. She said that to me once, not in words, but I could see it in her blue eyes; they have yellow patterns within them.
When reality isn’t enough, or when reality is just too much, she appears. She is no angel, because she has no wings. She lives on mountains where the wind is like ice, in between heaven and the earth.
I love her. I hate her. So much; because she is only a reminder of what it would be like to die without a care in the world, and I don’t care much for dying, or the world.
Friday 18 October 2013
The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Commuter
David Anderson
Woodford, NSW
Missed it! The stupid bastard saw me running and he still let it go ... thanks prick ... half an hour to wait ... I should wipe that smile off his face. Fuck it ... I could drive. Yeah, I could drive if I still had the car. You bitch, Pattie. You took it and you’re only ten minutes from work. ‘You’ll be on your own and I have the kids – I’ll need the car. You can keep all the workshop stuff.’ Great swap. Thirty grand Cherokee for five grand’s worth of tools. Stuff it. Gordon’s going to have my arse if this proposal isn’t introduced at today’s meeting. ‘CityRail Sux.’ Nice one kid – beautiful art work. I wish I’d carved that on the seat.
‘If you leave me now, you’ll take away the biggest part of me.’
Stop it. It’s true ... all the love songs you listened to as lovers turn into crap when your woman leaves ... that psychologist is right ... I shouldn’t be going to work. Stay home? And do what? Eat all the sweet crap and booze in the house and sleep? Better take a tablet ... Doc Baker says they might help.
‘Doesn’t the bastard at this station ever clean the bubbler?’
Christ ... I shouldn’t have taken it. I’ve taken four already and it’s only just after lunch.
‘One tablet twice a day.’
Shit, I’ve got to bring it up ... it’s no use ... it’s gone. Pattie’s gone. For good? ‘I can’t live with you anymore. You say you’ve changed, but I don’t love you anymore. I haven’t for a long time. Don’t come around, I don’t want to see you. You can pick the kids up at the gate. All the best with your future life Regards – Pattie.’ Tear it up. Why do I still keep it? God, let me wake up. How can I pick up the kids and have a good time when I know you’re fucking Colin.?
‘What? Twenty minutes late? That’s another forty minutes. Stuff it. What? Locking up? So I’ve got to sit out here and freeze my arse off ... Yeah, I know ... it’s never your fault. I’ve got a board meeting in Sydney in two hours ... Oh by the way, I forgot to thank you for letting that bastard go without me ... Yeah ... stuff you too mate.’
Shit, those tablets ... heart’s beating like a drum. Don’t panic ... kids take handfuls of them and wash them down with grog. Hey ... why not? The day’s stuffed anyway. Just a small swig. How much is in these whiskey flasks? Five or seven nips? Christ, I’ve drunk about three nips ... who gives a shit? Drink five and feel alive. God it’s freezing out here. Whoa ... the drugs are working. The old face is feeling a bit numb. How long do my guts have to hurt like this? Feels like I’ve got stomach cancer. Grief pain, the old psycho called it. Pattie might come back. I can still hear her. ‘Let’s try counselling; we need to talk to someone about our relationship.’ Big joke. Why couldn’t Pattie see that psycho bitch was making me look like horseshit? Whew, shouldn’t have drunk that whiskey. Got to concentrate. I’m going to miss that meeting. Should ring Gordon. If I get the sack on top of all this I’m really stuffed. Can’t get a signal. Shit. Walk around and keep trying. Pattie again. ‘Take the redundancy. We’ll head up the coast and buy a new house and get a business.’ I don’t want to retire yet. I can handle the new position. Why didn’t she listen? It was just a sham anyway. When we sell the house she’ll move in with Colin; that bloke she’s spreading her thighs for. Slut! No, I love you Pattie ... I love ...
‘Jenny? It’s Peter. Tell Gordon I’ll be late, the train’s being delayed ... I know ... yes ... I’ll be there ... I’m still on the station ... Get Gordon to delay the meeting – tell them they have to wait for me ... I know the big boss will be there ... Look! ... I stayed up all night finishing this fucking report ... Sorry Jenny ... No, I’m not pissed ... I’ll swear to anyone I like, bitch ... You women think you ... Jenny? ... Jenny?’
She’s hung up. God, what did I just do? Especially to Jenny ... she was the only one giving me support. Now she’ll think I’m a prick. You think I’m a prick don’t you Pattie? ‘All I ever wanted was for you to tell me you love me Peter.’ Well I was always there wasn’t I? I worked my guts out to keep the family together. I left Heather and the kids to move in with you. We always had great sex didn’t we? We must have. We had two kids.
What did she say? ‘I want sex once a month but I want to make love three times a week.’ What a crazy statement. What’s the difference? You’re still doing it? At least I wasn’t doing it with anyone else bitch. I nearly did with Jenny that time though. Jenny. Jenny thinks I’m a prick. ‘At least Colin cuddles me without wanting sex.’ He must be a wimp I reckon. I need a leak. Jesus I’m stoned. I can hardly walk straight. Shouldn’t have taken those pills. Grog didn’t help either. Who gives a stuff? Just off the end of the platform. Nobody around. Shit! Nearly broke my bloody arm. No! Bitch of a briefcase ... stupid lock ... always busting open ... no!
‘A thousand fucks!’
The report ... bloody wind ... got to get them ... late for the meeting ... papers all over the line. Done this before ... walking down the railway line ... four years old ... looking for the cowboys and Indians ... Dad pointing to that big building on the hill and telling me it’s the California ... went to find the wagon trains ... climbed up through the bush ... had to cross the railway line ... that fucking train horn scared the crap out of me ... ‘You stupid little bastard. That’s only the name of the guest house.’ Dad beating the shit out of me. ‘Don’t cry ... you sound like your little sister ... grow up ... you’ve got to be tough.’ I tried to cry when you died Dad, but I couldn’t. Bloody grease all over the pages ... I’ll never get all of them back ... wind’s too strong ...
‘Stuffing bitch of a wind.’
Gordon’s going to kill me ... sorry I swore Jenny. Christ, this gravel is hard to walk on. ‘If you leave me now you’ll take away ...’ Shut up ... Pattie’s gone ... maybe she’ll come back? Feel really cold ... face is so numb ... bloody pills ... what am I doing? I can’t walk on the railway line all the way to Sydney. Get off the line you silly prick ... you’ll get killed. Can’t get all the papers anyway ... got to lay down ... feeling faint ... shit ...
Head ... can’t seem to lift it ... can’t ... stop spinning ... it’s cold ... What are these rocks? ... Looks like big gravel ... there’s blood on them ... feels like my head’s laying on cement ... so cold ... hard ... broken tooth ... Pattie won’t like that ... Pattie’s gone ... She might come back ... going
to be sick ... where am I? ... What’s that noise? It’s making my whole body shake ... sounds like a big bowling ball rolling ... like an axe being sharpened ... the meeting ... shouldn’t have sworn at Jenny ... nice kid ... missed the train ... prick didn’t hold it for me! Face feels numb ... bloody pills ... that noise is getting louder. Horn! Train’s coming at last ... got to get up ... late for the meeting ... ‘I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.’ Can’t move ... here’s the train ... God it’s huge ... I love you Pattie. I tried to love you too, Dad ... I tried so hard but ... ...
© If You Leave Me Now, Chicago, 1977.
Saturday 19 October 2013 4 pm
Refugee Camp
Gregory Tome
Burradoo, NSW
They rot in camps like this.
By the millions they rot.
Life is a tent, relief
an open, fetid drain.
Dignity fled long ago.
Food slopped grudgingly,
water measured, rationed
as if heavenly nectar.
Despair lives on here,
thriving in the shallow stare;
eyes bleached of joy
by the aimless monotony of time,
time flattened of any sense of rhythm.
Still more reach here,
scorn their only greeting.
Officials come, ask questions,
avoid the stinking trenches,
write words in official books.
They go, vehicles leaving great clouds
of dust. Hope newly risen
from the grave chokes in the dust.
Trust, faith in others
choke in the dust.
Memories of home: comfort
leavened with terror and madness.
Some trick of fate lured them
from there to this;
terror with madness
exchanged for this.
Every day a taste
of death in life.
Abandoned by any god
they can conjure,
their only prayer
surely someone somewhere must care.
Sunday 20 October 2013
Child’s Play
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Peter and Sarah Kingsley had purchased their first home over the internet. Risky business their friends had warned them. Had their friends known that it was the couple’s two year old daughter who had chosen the property, risky would have become foolhardy.
Just two weeks earlier Peter and Sarah had nine homes displayed on the computer screen to choose from; two year old Melanie Kingsley reached out and touched the image of 23 Coral Avenue, Rosetta.
‘That’s it then,’ said Peter, ‘23 Coral Avenue, Rosetta.’
‘Peter, we can’t buy our first house based on the whim of a two year old. The price is right, yes, but the place is so dated. For heaven’s sake it hasn’t been lived in for over eighty years!’ Sarah had protested.
‘Remember, Sarah, the agent said that 23 Coral Avenue had been recently renovated, and you must admit the interior photos look great.’
For seven days Peter and Sarah were undecided. Whether or not it was that Melanie became ill, feverishly repeating, ‘twenny fwee ... twenny fwee’ in her delirium, or that the property’s price dropped to a ridiculous low, they decided on 23 Coral Avenue, Rosetta, and closed the deal.
They had purchased a one hundred year old two bedroom cottage on the outskirts of Hobart, for a bargain price. The move from their inner Sydney flat would be relatively stress free, as Sarah’s company had organised and paid for the entire move.
Peter and Sarah had taken leave from work to enable them to settle into their new home. The cottage had been renovated in a style that delighted Sarah. High ceilings, intricately carved cornices and modernisation of bathrooms and living areas; a perfect blend of old and new.
From the first day of moving in, Melanie had adopted the habit of facing the kitchen wall and muttering to herself. After a week of allowing this odd behaviour, Sarah decided she needed to entice her away from the wall.
‘Melanie come with me; come with Mummy and we’ll play outside.’
Melanie flatly said, ‘No! Biss my fwen,’ then moved closer to the wall, resuming her quiet babbling.
Sarah picked Melanie up and held her tight; the toddler squirmed to free herself. Hearing an unusual crackling sound Sarah looked down at the wall. About three feet from the floor the wallpaper was bubbling and blistering.
‘Peter, come in the kitchen,’ Sarah called. ‘Peter, you’ll have to get the renovators back in, heat or something has gotten into the wallpaper.’
Melanie by now was crying and repeating over and over, ‘Biss my fwen ... Biss my fwen.’
‘Hush now Melanie. Peter, we have to stop her from staring at that wall for hours on end. I’m taking her down to the shop for ice cream.’
Peter examined the wallpaper, wondering what Sarah was on about, as it was in perfect condition.
Melanie had gone to sleep without a fuss that night. Peter and Sarah drifted off about midnight, having convinced themselves that the flower patterned wallpaper had somehow mesmerised Melanie. They were agreed that stripping the wallpaper and painting the kitchen would solve the problem.
A constant sobbing roused Peter at 2 am. He slipped from the bed and crept toward the sound of whimpering. Entering the kitchen he saw his daughter facing the wall and crying with rapid inhalations of breath. With each exhalation she would say, ‘Biss ... no, Biss ... no.’ Peter scooped Melanie up and hugged her to his chest. He turned to leave, but was accosted by a sound akin to the crushing of dead leaves underfoot. He swung to face the wall. The wallpaper was bubbling, and as each bubble burst, blood flowed down the wall. Turning to flee the kitchen he saw Sarah and the look of terror on her face. ‘Take Melanie, start the car ... I’ll be out in a few minutes.’
Peter took three steps toward the wall and swiped his fingers through the blood. It was thick, and very warm. He tasted the fluid, already clotting. Yes ... it was blood.
The Kingsley family never returned to 23 Coral Avenue, Rosetta. That morning Peter had gone to Hobart town to scour historic records and newspaper articles. He discovered the names of the previous occupants of the house ... Mary and James O’Hanlon. In 1908 they were tried and convicted for the murder of their three year old daughter, Blissfleur O’Hanlon. There was controversy surrounding the case as the body had never been found.
Though Tasmanian police at first regarded the Kingsley’s tale absurd, they diddemolish the wall in question, discovering the skeletal remains of a small child in the wall cavity.
As the Kingsleys boarded the aircraft bound for Sydney, Melanie giggled and said, ‘Biss happy now.’
Monday 21 October 2013
Always Have And Always Will
Jessica Soul
East Keilor, VIC
You are the comfort in my heart
When you’re always there
Opening up your arms
Knowing you’ll always care
In your heart
With the love you carry around
Each beat summons the sounds
Echoes of your soul
You’re there when I’ve felt empty
And have continued to hold my hand
You’ve been the light to my candle
And the breath of life as we walk along together, our footprints in the sand
Terms of endearment and your abundance of love
It’s all that you give me
And all that I’ve learnt
So I thank you for everything you’ve done
And all that you still do
You’re always on my mind
And etched in my heart
Mum, I love you
Always have and always will.
Tuesday 22 October 2013
Garden Drama
Jean Bundesen
W
oodford, NSW
From my desk I witness
Night storming in
Trees coal-black
Against a translucent sky.
Cold rising as
Temperature drops.
Birds who feast,
Sing sweet songs,
Have flown from my garden
Now shrouded in darkness
All is quiet… Still.
Wednesday 23 October 2013
A Very Special Grandmother
Sallie Ramsay
Torrens, ACT
A Kid’s Tale for Everyone
Sam finished the last mouthful of his cereal. ‘Mum, may I go to school now?’ he asked.
‘As soon as you’ve brushed your teeth,’ answered his mother as she put his lunch into his back-pack.
Sam slid off his chair and hurried to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
‘What’s the hurry Sam?’ said his dad, looking up over his newspaper.
‘This morning we are going to start our family project,’ Sam replied. ‘And I want to make sure I’m there on time.’
‘Oh yes, I remember now,’ said his father. ‘Are you going to make a Family Tree?’
‘We can do whatever we like,’ answered Sam. ‘Some of us want to make a Family Tree, some are going to make a book and others want to tell the story about a special person in their family.’
‘Have you decided what you want to do yet?’ asked Mum.
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘This morning we are going to talk about it. I’ll decide after that.’ He had almost made up his mind what he was going to do but wanted to keep it a surprise.
He hugged his Mum and Dad, picked up his backpack and went out the door and down the road to his school.
The children in his class were looking forward to starting work on their Family Projects.
Sam waited impatiently for his turn. One by one the others told the class what they had decided to do.
‘I’m going to make a Family Tree,’ said Rob. ‘I have a very big family so I’ll need a very big piece of paper!’
‘I’m going to write the story about my great grandfather. He had to leave his home because of a war. He came here in a sailing ship with his mother and father when he was just a baby,’ said Maria.
‘Sam,’ said his teacher. ‘What have you decided to do?’
‘I’m going to write a story about my grandmother,’ said Sam. ‘She’s very special and the best grandmother in the world.’
‘Tell us what makes her so special Sam,’ said his teacher.
‘She makes the best chocolate chip cookies ...’ Sam began.
‘My grandmother won the prize for the best chocolate chip cookies at the Fair,’ called out Susan.
‘She knows everything about cricket,’ Sam went on.
‘My grandfather coaches my cricket team and my soccer team,’ Johnnie said with a grin.
Sam began to feel very hot and nervous as he tried to think of other things that made his grandmother special. She was a really good story reader but he was sure other grandmothers could read stories too. She always listened carefully to what he had to say and never interrupted or said ‘I think you should’. Then he remembered something he had almost forgotten.
‘My grandmother used to be my grandfather!’ he said.
At first nobody said anything, then someone began to laugh and soon the whole class room was laughing.
‘Everyone, that’s enough, please settle down,’ said their teacher. ‘You don’t need to make things up, Sam.’
‘But it is true, it is true,’ said Sam. ‘She used to be Jack but now she’s Jacqui and she’s my mum’s father and, and ...’
‘Sam,’ interrupted his teacher. ‘Please come and see me at lunchtime. Now, Susan, would you tell us about your project please?’
After Sam and his teacher had a long talk at lunch time Sam felt much better. His teacher called his parents to ask if she could walk home with Sam after school. When Sam’s mum opened the front door for them, the smell of baking chocolate chip cookies filled the air.
They went into in the family room and had just sat down, when Sam’s grandmother came out of the kitchen.
‘Sam, your Mum says you would like me to tell your teacher my story,’ she said. ‘Is that right? ’
‘Yes please, Gran.’
Sam’s grandmother settled herself down on the couch next to Sam.
‘Should I start off “Once Upon a Time”? All the best stories start off like that.’
Sam giggled.
‘Anyway, “Once Upon a Time”, as far back as I can remember, I knew something wasn’t right. My name was Jack and I did all the things boys do. I was good at sport and really liked playing cricket and football. But although on the outside I looked like Jack, on the inside I knew I was meant to be a girl. The worst thing was that I thought there was something wrong with me. I believed it must be my fault. I thought that when I was older things would change, but they didn’t. I had girlfriends and even got married and became a dad,’ she said smiling at Sam’s mother.
‘Did that make you feel better?’ asked Sam.
‘I loved my wife and baby very much but I knew Jack wasn’t really me.’
‘Gran, why didn’t you just ask someone, tell someone how you felt?’ asked Sam.
‘I had never heard of anyone like me, Sam. I just didn’t know who to ask or how to ask,’ answered his grandmother. Such a sad look crossed her face Sam reached across to hold her hand. He was sure he saw tears in her eyes.
‘When your mum was about ten, her mother, my wife died, it was very sad. Your mum went to live with her aunt and uncle. It was a really awful time for me, for Jack; it was like living under a big black cloud.’
‘But everything came out right in the end didn’t it Gran?’ said Sam.
His grandmother smiled, ‘Yes, Sam it did. One day I read a story in a magazine about someone just like me; I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t the only one. There was a telephone number, I called it and that was the beginning of Jack becoming Jacquie.’
‘Did you just start wearing dresses?’
‘Oh no Sam, it wasn’t quite as easy as that,’ his grandmother said with a smile. ‘Jacquie had always been there, out of sight, but with help from my family and lots of other people, poor sad Jack gradually disappeared letting Jacquie take his place.’
‘Mum, what was it like having Jacqui instead of Jack in the family?’ asked Sam.
His mother thought for a moment, ‘Jacqui looked different of course and she laughed and smiled a lot more than Jack but really Sam, there wasn’t much difference. The things that made Jack a special dad were still there. Jacqui still played cricket with me and we went fishing and of course, still made the best ...’
‘... chocolate chip cookies in the world!’ chimed in Sam.
‘Talking about chocolate chip cookies, I think it is about time we tried Gran’s latest batch!’ said Mom.
Sam wrote his story about his very special grandmother but, not only that, he took her to school with him to meet his class. Some of the children still weren’t sure whether she was his grandfather or grandmother but decided it didn’t really matter. But one thing they all agreed on was that she made the best chocolate chip cookies in the world!
Thursday 24 October 2013
A Magic Purple Carpet
Ruth Withers
Uarbry, NSW
Alone I came, as I sometimes do,
To visit you today, you know.
It’s a little less desolate there right now.
In every corner wildflowers grow.
Yellow and paler yellow,
Purple and pale, pale blue,
And the purple, it seems, are there
Almost exclusively for you.
They stroll amongst the yellow crowd
And chit-chat with the fragile blue.
Small groups gather to spend some time
With some other, selected few.
But there with you,
they’ve gathered en masse.
Their form is almost perfect.
They’ve made you a magic, purple carpet,
With a few yellow friends for effect.
The flowers I brought you seemed out of place
And the gesture seemed foolish and weak,
But I left them still, incongruous symbols
Of everything wasted and bleak.
And I wept, do you know? And I couldn’t stop.
Damn it, I’m weeping still,
When I thought that I was passed all that;
When I know it avails me nil.
Would you fly your carpet to my troubled dreams?
Would you spend some time with me?
Would you help me to understand the reasons
These things had to be?
Sometimes I’m so weary and worn with it all
That if you were to ask me to,
I think I might like to come join you and fly
Away to oblivion too.
Friday 25 October 2013
Untitled #7
Emma-Lee Scott
Callaghan, NSW
Pieces lay shattered,
Broken and battered,
Surrounding and spread,
Around the space,
Where I sit on the floor.
The glue sits by me,
To stick them back together,
But the tangle of the mess,
Makes it hard to guess,
Where they come from.
I stand up,
From the spot on my carpet,
Brushing the remnants,
Of my life from my hands,
Not caring where it lands.
I grab the rope,
From the pieces of useless hope,
Walk out the door,
Towards my chosen spot,
And tie a frayed end to the branch.
I’m ready for what comes next,
As I stand on the lower branch,
Around my neck I place the noose,
Step off, and the rope is no longer loose,
It is finally the end.
Saturday 26 October 2013
Mo Goes Missing – The Xing Saga part 6
Jane Russell
Mount Barker, SA
In which we take up the story of the Emperor’s heir, Mo, and his adventures …
The alarm siren jangled through the imperial palace. People ran nervously hither and thither with the frantic confusion of headless chooks. The Emperor Po strode purposefully down the gilded corridors towards the guest wing and flung open the doors to SnoopyLoo’s suite.
‘Where is my son!’ he boomed, as Snoopy blinked at him like a startled rabbit. ‘Mo is nowhere to be found! I demand an explanation!’ He had the courtesy to look aside.
Snoopy gathered her wits and tried to diffuse the awkward situation; she had been using the royal privvy at the time.
‘I’m sure I don’t know, your highness, but I will see if I can find out for you.’ However, she really had a pretty good idea as only the night before, Mo had confided in her his bold but dangerous plan.
‘I’m sure you can understand, Miss? One day I will be the ruler of the whole planet. How can I possibly take on such a task if I know nothing of the people and even less of the planet?’
‘But your highness, what you propose is really dangerous. Especially as you haven’t told your Dad, I mean, the Emperor!’
‘He’d just say No.’
‘That’s nothing to what he’s going to say when he finds out!’ Snoopy reasoned. ‘How can you be sure that Nanny Grey’s solution will work? It’s not as if she’s tested it, or has she?’ That was a scary thought.
Mo went off to his bed, Nanny Grey (i.e. a grey bot who once was his nanny) close behind.
Snoopy wasn’t convinced he would take any notice of her advice, and as it transpired he didn’t.
Snoopy sighed deeply and headed for Mo’s chamber, where she was disappointed to find that Nanny had gone missing as well. What on Xing was she going to do now? She reviewed the conversation of the evening before. The imperial heir was keen to try out a new invention created originally for the party scene, a complete body skin made to measure. Party bots had the choice of many outrageous colours and the skin was reusable. Mo, however, was interested in using an adaptation of the body skin in the colours of the other three bot classes. He could then go and stay with each group without being recognised as himself.
A worthy idea, but so many things could go wrong. Obviously one thing forgotten was how to explain his absence. He should have waited. Snoopy could have organised his isolation at an ashram, or quarantine for some deadly virus, or some other equally unlikely bluff. She was worried about him, and looked all through the imperial palace for someone Mo’s size who looked shifty. She was concentrating on the grey bots, who unfortunately all looked shifty. Then she recognised Nanny Grey and realised the bot was trying to attract her attention, subtly.
‘Where the dang is Mo?’ Snoopy hissed, once they were out of audio range of other bots.
‘I don’t know, Ma’am,’ whispered Nanny, obviously afraid. ‘He put on the skin and was on his way to join some relatives of mine who were going to look after him, when he was caught by palace guards who thought he was a vagrant and they kicked him outside. I went to look for him, but he’d gone.’ She was shaking.
‘Why doesn’t he just take the skin off and show he’s the imperial heir?’ Snoopy puzzled. ‘Unless he can’t. Has that skin been tested at all? Ever?’
‘It was specially made for him. We didn’t check, Ma’am, I’m sorry!’ Nanny was obviously worried about what might happen to her now.
‘Come on, Nanny. You and me, we’re his only chance! Let’s go!’ Snoopy and Nanny snuck out of the palace and headed for the town. Nanny asked other grey bots if they’d seen a bot of eleven who looked lost, and finally got some directions.
‘He headed for the docks? Oh no! That’s bad!’ she moaned. If metal hands could be wrung together, that’s what she would be doing at this point.
Snoopy hurried them both along, looking from side to side for the missing Mo. There was no sign of him. Even Nanny’s questions were meeting suspicious looks, now.
The docks seemed deserted. This part of the city was dark and dirty with a pong of rotting fish and garbage. Scruffy metal boats rocked on the gentle waves of oil in the harbour. Metal birds squawked tinnily as they preened their ugly wings. There were spooky dark alleyways and mounds of discarded waste products. There was even a fire in a bin, but no one around that they could see. Then Snoopy heard something, a faint crying. She tracked it to an abandoned warehouse. To Nanny she indicated a dilapidated door; they pushed through and went inside. At first they could see nothing but blackness, then their eyes adapted to night mode and everything went green. They followed a corridor around to where they could hear the unmistakable sound of bots, whimpering.
They came to a room full of grey children, dirty and miserable, who looked up at the intruders with pathetic hopefulness that faded, just as both Nanny and Snoopy were grabbed from behind and dragged away. Snoopy wasn’t sure, but she thought she recognised Mo among the ragged hoard they’d discovered. She activated her personal silent alarm. The bots holding her jumped back as if shot, for indeed they had just been subjected to several volts of electricity, and now could not touch her. She reached over to shock Nanny’s captors and the two ran towards the street.
‘Wait, wait! I’m sure I saw Mo in that room. We’ve got to go back!’ cried Snoopy.
‘Later, when we’ve got a plan!’ called Nanny, drawing ahead in her haste to escape.
Snoopy let her go, then hid as their pursuers thundered past. Snoopy doubled back to the room, softly calling ‘Mo?’
‘Oh Miss, I’m so glad to see you!’ blurted a small grey form as it flung itself into her arms.
‘Quickly, we have to go. Nanny’s outside, creating a diversion.’ At least she hoped she was.
‘No, we can’t leave them. I can’t leave them.’ Mo indicated the other grey children, and Snoopy’s heart sank. How was she going to manage to get all of them away from this place?
Then she heard the whooping siren of approaching police vehicles. Yes!
‘Come on kids, quickly now. The police are here, but we have to go now!’
The ragged group straggled out the door, gasping in the relatively fresh (if you don’t count the pong of rotting metal fish) smell of Xing’s atmosphere (which cannot actually be described as air).
The men had legged it and the place seemed deserted once more.
‘Nanny?’ Snoopy called, and was relieved to see the grey bot emerge from the shadows. Surprisingly she looked very smug. There were no police cars. Snoopy understood at once:
‘Those sirens, that was you, wasn’t it?’
‘Yep!’
‘Good work! Now, let’s get going quickly before they realise the same thing and come back.’
Amazingly, Snoopy and Nanny and the children all shuffled back to the palace without incident. Mo explained that the bad men had kidnapped him when he got lost, and put him with the other children. They were destined for the slave market. He couldn’t convince anyone of his real identity, especially as his ‘skin’ wouldn’t come off. This was remedied after much pulling and tweaking and swearing, after they were all safely back in the palace.
The extra children were happily absorbed into palace servant families, while Snoopy and Nanny tried to come up with a plausible reason for Mo’s absence. Finally, he was taken to his father, who was very relieved to see him.
‘So, young bot, where on Xing have you been?’ he boomed.
‘Sorry Dad, I ate something bad and got locked in the privvy all day. Snoopy got me out.’
He gave a brief smile of complicity at Snoopy. That was the best they could come up with at short notice.
Sunday 27 October 2013
Cloud Gazing – A Tercetonine
Irina Dimitric
Mosman, NSW
On a sunny, winter afternoon
I strolled out of my cocoon
Then pranced outside and upward glanced:
There across the pale blue sky
Woolly clouds are passing by
And I watch their tale, as above they sail
Hey, a kind of kangaroo I see
Not just one, but two or even three
They’re not stopping. No! Off they’re hopping!
From cloud to cloud I search
Ah! There’s a parrot on a perch
That’s exactly what I spy with my little eye
You might be spying something else
From your side of the fence
Well, whatever you can see is fine with me
Why, a monster! Of course he’d appear
A tale without him would be so queer
He’s bad, you shout. Well, we’ll soon find out.
Quite a topic for a lively conversation
Letting loose our wild imagination
So let’s together race into outer space
There to spin some curly, breezy tales
For the snazzy, snow-white woolly bales
Riding high in the pale blue sky.
Monday 28 October 2013
Copper
Alexander Ryan-Jones
Hawker, ACT
I wandered down the dusty road,
With resolve,
A puzzle in my mind.
On the other that I might be wrong.
And one coin to hear her song.
‘She is the spirit of copper wire,
She spins your brain,
And leaves copper in your head.
When the winter spirit cries.
Her truths you wish were lies.’
And still she sat and with tired eyes,
With finger fast,
And dropped the coin in haste.
I placed the golden shape
On fortune’s throne.
‘You’re the stone walls and the bars.
The long slow death,
The silent grave of bitten tongues,
Your duty calls,
Would fall if you would but try.’
‘And what are you?’ I called to her,
Such words are true,
Have knelt upon their knees.
Some like me have turned to you.
You don’t read me,
But paused to stop and say;
‘No crystal ball,
It’s not your palms (though your hands are curled)
It’s just your eyes,
And the shackles on your wrists.’
Tuesday 29 October 2013
A Day Of Reckoning
Paul Humphreys
Oxley, ACT
‘You’ve gotta do something, it’s out of control and besides, the front of the house looks terrible! It’s half way up to me knees Bill!’
‘Alright, alright I said I would get to it; just wait till the footy is finished will ya? Anyway Wal’s comin’ around later; said he might have an idea how to knock it over. That bloody kikuyu grass grows as ya watch it.’
‘Wal! He’s as crazy as a headless chook an’ any scheme he has will be crackpot or dangerous or both.’
‘Ah Sue, ya too hard on him luv! He’s a nice enough bloke, a little strange in his dress sense I’ll admit, but up top he’s smart – not dumb. He told me once that, how did it go? Oh yeah “he’s a bright star in a galaxy of imagination and inventiveness”; not sure what it means exactly but it sorta sounds impressive.’
‘Sounds to me that he is spaced out!’
‘Can I come in?’ Wal stood outside of the back door sucking on a can of Coke.
‘Good to see ya, Wal. Come in. We was just talkin’ about you. Sue is anxious to know if you had any ideas on how ta get rid of the kikuyu grass out the front.’
Wal had really outdone himself on this day. The bright yellow fluoro workers’ jacket was held in check by red braces that supported his over large safari shorts. His ensemble included dark grey knee high woollen socks and open toe sandals.
He was a large person with a large head. His blond hair was matted in random places and a slight smile of residual breakfast Vegemite hung around the side of his mouth. His face was a moonscape of acne holes and mountains although some were hidden by the obligatory three-day growth. His white-framed sunglasses provided an added fashion note.
‘Wouldn’t lose you in a crowd, hey?’
Wal ignored or did not understand the reason for my comment. ‘I think that you could get rid of the grass with me flame thrower.’
‘Have ya really got a flame thrower Wal?’
‘Yeah I built it myself. Works on the same principle as a primus stove. Fill it with kero and pump it up and away you go. I could drop it around later if ya like.’
‘Yeah, the day of reckoning for the kikuyu! I’ll be glad to get rid of it – and Sue outta me hair.’
Next day was predicted to be a hot one, so I started early in the morning.
I ran through in my mind Wal’s instructions. ‘Wal said all I had to do was pump the kero tank up to pressurise it, then light the taper at the end of the firing nozzle, aim and pull the trigger and presto! – a large flame would be ejected. Sounds simple enough.’
I thought that I would start the fire action away from the house, near the letterbox. I gave the kero tank some really good pumps, lit the taper, aimed underneath the canopy of the noxious foreign grass and pulled the trigger. At the same time the taper went out. A great whoosh of kerosene left the nozzle and permeated the understorey of the grass. I tried again after giving a few more pumps on the tank. The taper went out again before igniting the stream of kero. Another burst of kerosene vapourised under the kikuyu canopy.
The next time it worked – and how! The flame of kero pushed into the grass canopy and met up with the vapours of the previous two dud efforts. There was an almighty burst of flames that engulfed the whole area of the
front yard. I was knocked from my squatting position back on me bum with the force of the explosion. I sat in shock and amazement at the front yard that was now a lake of fire.
I rushed to find the hose. And by the time I had it connected to the tap and operating the fire brigade with sirens blaring stopped outside our house.
After they had extinguished the flames and all the neighbours had gone back inside their houses, the senior fire officer started to quiz me on how I had managed to set the whole front grass area on fire at the same time. I confessed that I did not know exactly and it was some unforseen consequence of the malfunction of the flame thrower or words to that effect.
‘A flame thrower? You’re joking with me aren’t you? You know that they are classified as a WMD – weapon of mass destruction – in certain countries!’ The Chief Fire Officer was not a happy chappy.
‘No I didn’t, officer … well, it looks like I have got the grass cleaned up; Sue will be happy.’
‘Get rid of the flame thrower! And don’t even think of using it again.’
‘Yes Officer, I promise.’
Wednesday 30 October 2013
Orchard
RL
Bathurst, NSW
Skeletal fruit trees in uniform lines
Abandoned by the farmer who once tended them
With wooden fingers straining for life
Once burdened with the weight of prized fruit.
Like ornaments, the fruit would hang
Begging to be devoured by ravenous pickers
Now carcasses of their former beauty
They quiver in the chilly winter mornings
Yearning to be nurtured
By their languid farmer
A tiny bud forms and grows
Hangs preciously on the delicate frame
In time, it matures
Until it blends in with the light of the dusk
Plump and fleshy and pleading to be taken
It waits … for someone to grasp it, admire it
No one comes
Except the whisper of the wind through the pasture
Leaving behind the harsh quiet
Of the forgotten orchard
Now as withered as a prune it hangs
Its lifeless body suspended in the air
Swaying motionlessly like a hung man
Not even cockatoos want it now
The leaves have fallen, grass overgrown
The once uniform lines blurred
He sits on his perch, hat upon his head
Decked in flannel he dozes in the stillness
Reflecting on a lifetime of work that got too hard
And wasn’t worth it anymore
Thursday 31 October 2013
The End?
John Ross
Blackheath, NSW
I am the last.
The culmination of mankind’s genius.
The perfect human being.
I see all. I know all. I never grow old.
Millenniums, ages, eons stretch out behind me.
I look down on the city from my lofty tower.
I see order, beauty, industry.
Created, maintained, by cold lifeless machines.
I am the last.
We came from star dust.
We fought, learned, loved, hated.
We grew, prospered, imagined great things.
We dared to believe we would live forever.
For a brief second we thought perfection was achieved.
I am the last.
We cast aside so much.
The joy of new life, youth, discovery.
The challenges of failure, hardship, striving to achieve.
No need for compassion, forgiveness, repentance.
We knew all but had nothing.
I am the last.
I have seen the stars slowly dim and die.
Burnt out, exhausted.
We reached for them; they eluded us.
Now they and us, me, I, will end.
The universe is ready to die.
I am the last.
Loneliness is a constant cloak.
They are all gone, we may not age but we still die.
Love, friendship, a look, a touch. No more. Never.
I feel the weight of untold billions of people.
Their lives, their very being instilled in me.
I am the last.
Millenniums drift by.
The sun. The giver of life dims.
Time now to wonder. Why? Who? What? Meaning?
Soon it will end. This journey of Mankind.
Will there ever be another story?
Perhaps another beginning.
I am the last.
Bios and contact details
Anderson, David
David Anderson was born in the Blue Mountains and worked on the railways of NSW. He is a musician, singer, film and stage actor. The last six years he has worked on films, in both professional and Sydney film school student films, and commercials.
David has been writing for thirty years, but never offered anything for publication. The publishing of a short story in narrator induced him to rework his earlier short stories and poems and begin writing new works.
You may view David’s work on narrator sites, and also some of his film and musical work at https://www.starnow.com.au/haz1902/.
Assumpter, Irene
Irene Assumpter is a budding writer. She has previously written for narratorAUSTRALIA and was nominated for the 2013 Caine Prize for African Writing for her short story Odd Footy Boy. Irene’s first novel ‘No Bigger Mistake’ was published in 2013.
Bruton, Judith
Judith Bruton PhD, artist/writer, relocated from South Australia in 2012 to the Summerland Coast, New South Wales where she continues to photograph and paint ‘poetic-scapes’.
Judith’s short fiction often highlights aspects of the contemporary art world. Most stories relish a few surprise twists as many a flawed character searches for love, meaning and authenticity. The taste of sea air and the nudge of a faithful dog are never far away.
Judith’s stories and poems are published in several Australian and international anthologies including Short and Twisted 2013, 2012, 2011, Celapene Press, and Alfie Dog Fiction. Please visit: https://www.judithbruton.com/.
Bundesen, Jean
Jean Bundesen moved to the Blue Mountains in 2003 from Sydney, where she had worked for many years. Her interests include photography, watercolour painting, reading, gardening and writing. While her first piece of prose, ‘A Rock Pool’, set in Caloundra, Queensland, was published when she was 15, it was not until she attended a number of creative writing courses in 1999–2001 that she wrote her first piece of poetry, ‘Give me a Dollar’, in 2000. Jean continues to write prose and poetry, has had a number of poems published in different publications and has won some prizes.
Burgess, Shirley
Shirley Burgess comes from Rosebud, Victoria, and is a new creative writer. She won a competition entitled When I Was Ten Years Old in February 2013’s Positive Words Magazine, and her most recent story, ‘A Fortunate Push’, was published in September’s Positive Words Magazine. Shirley can be contacted on https://www.facebook.com/ShirleyYBurgess.
Chaffey, Robyn
Robyn Chaffey is from a very large family and shares a love of writing with several of her siblings and their children. Writing is for her a hobby, a love, a daily topic of conversation. She finds that inspiration abounds in the humdrum of life and living; in the beautiful scenery and the rough places of earth; in the faces, characters and differences found in humanity.
Clay, Sarah
Sarah Clay declared her retirement the ‘Age of Smorgasbord’. After a lifetime of necessary discipline she finds the freedom of smorgasbord exhilarating. Post-career choices include swimming instructor training, reading newspapers on air for print-impaired people, joining a writers’ group, bookclub, telephone counselling, learning to play ten
nis and golf, renovating a needy house, establishing a weedy garden, leading a meditation group, and becoming a student of Buddhism. She recently began to learn oil painting and is currently a volunteer in palliative care. Sarah’s greatest joy is playing with her four year old grandson. She writes poems and stories in her spare time.
Craib, James
James Craib has been contributing poems and short stories to narrator almost since its inception. He describes himself as a part-time musician, actor, writer, wine drinker and full-time dilettante. James is, in addition, an unrepentant puntificate and purveyor of dreadful jokes. He delights in using acrostic and anagram to confound the punters and often himself! James is also the present convener of the Blackheath Writer’s Group. Check out other examples of James’ work at: https://biarcsemaj.blogspot.com.au/.
Cumming, Jennie
Jennie Cumming is president of Marion Writers Inc., and you can see more about Marion Writers at https://sites.google.com/site/marionwritersinc/ and on facebook https://www.facebook.com/MarionWritersIncorporated.
Jennie has had work published in printed magazines and anthologies, as well as being published online. Jennie is a volunteer at the SA Writers Centre, where she produces their fortnightly e-bulletins and assists in the production of the quarterly magazine Southern Write.
Dimitric, Irina
Irina Dimitric enjoys writing poetry and short stories. Her writing has flourished since she joined gather.com in 2011. Her recent passion is photography and many of her poems have been inspired by her photographs. She likes both free verse and form poetry. Her writings have been published online and in print. Irina is the creator of the ‘tercetonine’, a new form of tercet which can be seen at www.bregana.gather.com or on her blog at https://www.irinadim.com.
Edgar, Bob
Bob Edgar is the author of the young adult adventure novel, ‘SOS from Rhodon Valley’, as well as the newly released ‘Tom Tuff to the Rescue’ for the younger child. Tom Tuff to the Rescue tells the story of a little tug boat with a big heart. It has been beautifully illustrated by Todd Sharp (www.toddsharpartworks.com.au/) and is available in print through Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Tom-Tuff-Rescue-Robert-Edgar/dp/098748320X/.
For more about Bob, visit https://www.robertedgarauthor.com/.
Fowler, Mark
Mark Fowler is a writer/poet who has only recently discovered a passion for the written word. Writing occupies most of his free time and varies in content from purely fictional works to humour and faith poetry. He is an experienced teacher who generally works with upper primary aged children. He is married with two sons and three grandchildren. Mark loves long walks, long coffee chats, movies and of course writing. He belongs to two writing groups and an online writing group so that he receives broad feedback for his work. He keeps a blog of spiritual poetry. https://spiritspace3.blogspot.com.au/.
Gibbs, Thomas A
Tom A Gibbs is an author based in East Maitland, NSW. Please email
[email protected] if interested in purchasing his books or visit https://www.thomasagibbs.com/.
Gow, Virginia
Virginia Gow lives at Blackheath. It is here that she creates her works of art.
After teaching for 40 years, she has come here to devote her time to writing short stories, poetry, painting, and musical installations. Living and working in her garden home, she is very proud to be part of the Blackheath community. A member of Blackheath Creative Writers Group and of Blackheath Art Society, she also belongs to the Manly Poetry Society and the Gurringai Aboriginal Education Consultative Group.
Virginia’s book of Fibonacci poetry, ‘Escarpment’, is available from your favourite ebook retailers and in print from Amazon.com. For more about Virginia, visit https://vgow.blogspot.com.au/.
Heks, Andris
At 17 in 1964, Andris Heks came to Australia from Hungary. He learned English through Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, and following his HSC completed an Honours degree in politics at the University of NSW. He became a trainee reporter for three years with TDT (This Day Tonight), ABC TV’s legendary current affairs program and subsequently became a social worker, psychodramatist, yogi, singer and comedian. He won the Best Actor award for his parody of Howard in his comedy at the Blue Mountains Theatre Festival in 2007. He has had numerous poems and short stories published and is currently working on his autobiography.
Howell, Connie
Connie Howell is a western trained shaman and healer; she has been in the alternative healing field for twenty years. In her spare time she loves to write short stories and poetry. Since her teenage years she found that she had a natural ability to write poetry but has had no formal training.
Connie loves nothing better than to see people become self-empowered either through the healings they receive or through information that she is able to impart. Happily married and living in the Blue Mountains, she enjoys the community spirit and scenery.
You can find out more about her at https://www.bmholistictherapies.com.au/.
Humphreys, Paul
Paul Humphreys has written and told stories for his own and others’ pleasure and enjoyment almost all of his life. He gets great delight from reading and writing fiction and faction stories. He is currently the convenor of a short story writing and reading group called The Write Stuff based in the ACT. He gets a considerable thrill from language where there is a generous, but, as required, frugal use of words allowing a weaving of nuances and atmosphere around memorable characters and a credible storyline. He has had stories published in all narratorAUSTRALIA volumes to date.
Jensen, Heather
When she’s not lost in the Otherworld of her stories and imagination, Heather Jensen lives in Tasmania with her partner and children, where she fills in her time mothering and reading: often simultaneously!
Heather’s story, ‘A Sustainable Dream’, was written for a challenge, to craft a story following Todorov’s Theory: equilibrium, disruption, and solution leading to a new equilibrium. It also had to be under 500 words. The story has evolved since then, to become one of her favourites of her own writing. Heather’s other work has been published both in Australia and internationally. Links can be found at https://www.heatherjensenauthor.com.
Johnston, Henry
Henry Johnston is a full time writer specialising in the short story format. Henry divides his time between inner city Rozelle in Sydney and a 1950s style beach house at Cudmirrah in the Shoalhaven. He is presently finishing the ‘Last Voyage of Aratus’, a Pacific telling of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Henry is inspired by proximity to the sea and is planning a compilation of sea stories for submission to narratorAUSTRALIA in 2014. Contact Henry on Google+ or on Facebook and look for his stories on the narratorAUSTRALIA website.
La Porte, Judith
Judith La Porte is a former librarian who began writing short stories a couple of years ago. She is a member of the ACT Writers Centre and also belongs to a local writers’ group.
Linn, Marilyn
Marilyn Linn writes short stories and poems and has some of each of these published this year on narrator. She has had poetry published internationally and stories and poetry published in several anthologies. She is a member of Seaside Writers and Bindii Haiku Writers. She is also a member of Marion Writers Inc where you can read some of her work in Marion Writers’ anthology, ‘Relay’, which is on sale now.
Go to https://www.facebook.com/MarionWritersIncorporated or Google Marion Writers Inc.
Lutta, Fayroze
Fayroze Lutta is a work-a-day-kind-of-girl in the planning office. However, by night it is just her and her 1937 French Triumph Number 6 typeset typewriter that comes out from its black box, the jazz radio on. As Hemingway put it, she is a writer, she sits in front of it and bleeds, her life re-imagined on paper before the night is over running after the moonlight.
Find writing notices on her Facebook groups page https://www.facebook.com/groups/bibliograhyvandalszines/.
Buy Fayroze’s handmade handbou
nd books at the Etsy shop https://www.etsy.com/au/your/shops/PostcardsdeParis/.
Martin, Julie
Julie Martin was raised on her family’s sheep and rice property in the Riverina district of southern New South Wales. As a young girl, she attended a single-teacher primary school in the bush, and later a boarding school in Geelong. She now lives in Melbourne where the memory of her years growing up on the land continue to be a rich source of inspiration for her writing. These days she juggles her work with family life and a passion for writing. She also enjoys reading, photography and gardening, when time permits. You can follow her on Twitter at @Juli3Martin.
MD, Evelyn
Evelyn MD is an artist and occasional writer. Evelyn faces the disruption of bipolar disorder on an all-too-regular basis. She says in her poem ‘Idle’ that she ‘keeps on trying and endures’. Her work is made of her inner rumblings and thoughts that she shares in our physical world. Further still, a place for Evelyn to exist and be happy, sad, true and meaningful.
Murphy, Robert
Robert Murphy is an Irish-born short story writer who moved to London in May 2013 after spending four years in Sydney.
Nickols, Lynn
Lynn Nickols is a freelance writer based in Canberra, ACT. She has had travel articles and short stories published, won an award from the Fellowship of Australian Writers and has also ghost-written an autobiography for a migrant who was not confident in written English.
Ross, John
John Ross is a retired airline manager who lives in the beautiful Blue Mountains. In 2010 John was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia but after a bone marrow transplant is now in remission. His passions are writing and gardening. John has had two e-books published: ‘My Patch’, a collection of short stories about a policeman in the UK in the early 20th century, and ‘The First Man’, a full length sci-fi novel. These are available on online at your favourite ebook retailers.
Russell, Jane
Jane Russell has been scribbling stories since childhood, but only joined a creative writing group in 2012. She has lived and worked in the UK, Australia, Italy and Fiji and has travelled to many other places. Apart from writing, she paints portraits, teaches Italian and has a dog. Submitting stories to narrator inspired the expansion of the Xing saga, from one dream-induced tale to a whole planetful of characters. Jane writes for enjoyment – her own, and hopefully that of her readers!
Smith, Winsome
Winsome Smith, a retired teacher, grew up in New South Wales country towns. She is passionate about reading and writing. She has won prizes and has been highly commended for stories, articles and poems.
Winsome’s twelfth book, ‘Tales the Laundress Told’, is now published and available online. It is also on sale at a Lithgow bookshop and your local bookseller can obtain it from Balboa Press.
Stanton, Craig
Craig Stanton lives in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, and writes weird fiction and various other things when the spirit moves. His poetry has been previously published in the University of Newcastle’s SWAMP Anthology in 2011. He works with books, particularly antique and second-hand ones, and his collecting activities in this field are recorded at his blog, Moon Of My Delight (www.pehlehvi.blogspot.com).
Craig’s collection of short stories – ‘Love Songs and Other Weirdness’ – is available for download from your favourite ebook retailers.
Despite any evidence to the contrary presented here, he runs mainly on coffee.
Tome, Gregory
Gregory Tome is a retired history teacher, with a Master’s degree in Egyptology.
A first novel, ‘Jimbo Finds His Way’, has been released as an ebook and Gregory has written a short play which was performed at the Bundanoon Crash Test competition; the competition judge commended the play. Having also written a number of short stories, Gregory is at present writing a novel set in Ancient Egypt.
Gregory has been writing poetry regularly for the past four years. Much of it can be found on his blog at https://www.sandaymel.wordpress.com/
Warren, JL
JL Warren is a poet extending her writing abilities into the field of short stories and micro fiction, which she is studying. She is working towards a volume of short stories. Current writing successes can be followed on her website. Visit mountaincorner.weebly.com and click on ‘Writer’s Corner’. She derives her inspiration from faith, social issues and the beautiful Blue Mountains. Two poems: ‘Mist in Blue Mountains’ and ‘Flooding Vistures’ were published as ‘Weekly Poem’ on ozpoeticsociety.com.
Withers, Ruth
Ruth Withers is a housewife and mother, whose major accomplishment has been to raise a family of which she is very proud. Like most people, she has known both great joy and great sorrow. Writing allows her to express emotions that she finds difficult to verbalise. It also allows her to play with words in a more light-hearted fashion. Ruth mainly writes verse, but has been known to make an occasional foray into prose.
Zaknic, Athena
Athena Zaknic started writing in 2008 after she retired as a pharmacist. She writes short stories memoir and poetry including Japanese genres which have been published all over the world. Her short stories and poetry have been published in several anthologies.
MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more
Why enter a narrator competition?
The narrator concept has been developed by MoshPit Publishing (www.moshpitpublishing.com.au) to help you as an emerging or established writer reach a worldwide audience quickly and easily, and to then turn that audience into fans who might go on to purchase your longer works.
The narrator competitions have two main purposes:
to help you develop an audience for your writing
to help you market yourself and your published works by giving you the opportunity to include a short bio with links to published works and/or your website or blog.
Regular reading of narrator entries helps broaden your awareness of ‘what’s out there’, regular entry to the various narrator competitions helps encourage you to polish your writing, while regular publication will help increase your author profile.
Visit https://www.narratorcentral.com/ for more information.
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