Ten-minute Tales Smashwords Edition License Notes: Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed the book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by these authors. Thank you for your support. Table of Contents Introduction – Ripples in a pond Theme – A long walk Theme – Spring Theme – Autumn Theme – Furniture Theme – Travel Theme – Winter Theme – Going it alone Theme – Magic Theme – Water Theme – Blogging Theme – Summer Conclusion and Acknowledgements About the authors INTRODUCTION Ripples in a pond? We are the ten-minuters. It started with one. While she was on a writing workshop, the fun and rewards of spontaneous, time-limited writing touched a chord for Nene. Not one to keep good things to herself, she cast the tiny stone of an idea into the infinity pond that rippled to a UK contact. Nene and Graham were exhilarated by the quick exchange and critiquing of a few exercises. Nene cast again and caught a new devotee, Laurie. Another ripple, another enthusiast, Sara. Next ripple in the pond brought in two, Carole and Robert, then finally the seventh, Marci. Will there be more? Was it a pond, or the sea, or the branching of a tree? Our cover catches the sea and the tree. We love it – picturesque Victoria Point in south-east Queensland, our meeting base, although we stretch a long way further. How does it work? The idea is that someone nominates a theme and when we can find ten minutes, each of us writes and circulates the result as an email attachment. We don’t edit the original version beyond a minor tidy-up of what emerged from the original inspiration. None of us reads another’s work until we’ve completed our own. There is no deadline and not everyone participates each time – other lives, unexpected demands. There’ve been lots of WOWs: Where did those ideas come from? Why can’t I be as quick writing scenes in my novel or short story? We are so different. We are so the same. We spark off each other. Somehow I’m clearer when there’s a bit of pressure. There’s something there I can expand on for flash fiction, for a short story. Maybe that’s the germ of another novel? So, what now? We really like the diversity of the stories and styles. As several of us are keen to explore e-publishing of our novels, we thought what better way than to use our ten-minute tales to learn the ropes, and maybe provide some entertainment for individual writers, or a spur for Writer’s Groups elsewhere as well. Of course the idea is not new, but our efforts are unique to us. For each theme the stories are presented in random order, by pulling a name blind-fold out of a bowl. We had fun and we’ll continue to have fun while also getting down to the serious stuff of short stories, novels, memoirs. And who knows what else? As you can see, we’ve achieved our e-anthology aim. And now you know our names, maybe you’ll look out for our novels and short stories when they reach the airwaves or the print shelves. Please enjoy, and tell us what you think. You can do this via our various twitter, Facebook or blog accounts. Happy reading and writing. From : Nene, Graham, Laurie, Sara, Robert, Carole, Marci THE STORIES THEME: A LONG WALK Starting story by Nene, Graham’s came later A Long Walk By Nene Davies It’s funny, when you haven’t slept properly for days, you almost get used to the feeling of exhaustion. You think it’s normal. I stood up gingerly, in case my legs had stopped working while I was thinking of other things – but they responded and held me up. I opened the door quietly and went out to the corridor. How strange, it was daylight and the big windows flanking the hallway seemed full of white glare. I looked at the ground – tiles, green and white that I hadn’t noticed before. I wondered how long it had taken someone to lay them. The corridor stretched on into the distance. It was very quiet, my heels sounded far too loud. How rude, I thought and tried to tiptoe. I reached a set of fire doors. The metal finger plates were smudged from a thousand pressing fingertips. Germ-ridden, no doubt. I hesitated - I didn’t want to get sick. I pushed one of the doors open with my hip and went through to the other side. This end of the corridor was noisy, no windows here - just doors and clanging and voices. The sounds cut through me and my head hurt. Interior windows were bright with artwork, the smell of flowers and dinner made a sickly stench and my stomach lurched. I put my head down to avoid eye contact. If I looked at someone, I’d have to say hello and maybe smile. I couldn’t do that. I waited by the lift and pressed all the buttons, up and down, just to make sure my ride would come quickly. It was carpeted and silent inside the little moving box. No music though. I was disappointed – surely all lifts were meant to have that tired old sound. It was expected. A gentle jolt and I’d arrived. The doors opened on their own, as if by magic and I stepped outside over that frightening bit where the threshold meets the gap. I think some people passed me. I think I might have been standing in their way. There was an enormous arrangement of flowers – mainly red – sitting grandly on a semicircular desk, then suddenly I was at the outside door and a blast of cold air took my breath away. I pulled my cardigan tighter round my shoulders and realised I was shaking. I saw him standing by his blue car. An anxious-looking figure, flushed perhaps from rushing. He saw me too and moved across the car park – I could see his mobile phone in his hand, but there was no need to make a call. I was here now. I’d hardly raised my head, but knew I’d have to now. He stood in front of me and must have read my face. He held my shoulders and I realised I was crying. Had I been sobbing all this time? I finally looked at his face and opened my mouth. No words came out. I shook my head, then whispered ‘I’m sorry, there was nothing they could do.’ The long walk By Graham Thomas As I lay in the grass, I could hear the sun easing its way across the sky, dodging the clouds as they passed by. Up the green stem he climbed, slow, but darting here and there, seemingly urgently seeking some gem, some jewel he would take home to his beloved. The dewdrop at the tip of the blade glistened in crystal fashion in the sunlight, but it only added complication for this creature to embrace and negotiate. Round the back he went, mooching as fast as his legs could carry him. He found a morsel, a titbit of something which he felt would appeal to those at home. Down the stem he trudged, more difficulty in moving now, just following his instincts. A buzzing noise penetrated the air and my new ‘friend’ looked anxiously about him. Fight or flight? Discretion really is the better part of valour when you have a prize in your possession and which you want, no, need, to give to the one you love. Hauling this gift, he slipped silently through the greenery, his predator on his tail. Ducking and diving, my friend groped his way through the tangled undergrowth, fretful of losing his quarry. Every shoot, plant, stem, blade of grass produced another obstacle, but undeterred he continued up, down, around the green growth until he reached his objective – home. The others rushed madly round to greet him and celebrate his safe return with such booty. Ah, such joy and celebration. A journey of some three yards or thereabouts overall, but what do I know what it’s like to be so tiny, almost insignificant in his world of giants? And the predator? Buzzed off, I guess. THEME: SPRING Stories by Nene and Graham Hope and sunshine By Nene Davies Springtime, make me gasp. Make me breathe you deeply, freshly, greedily. I can’t believe you’re here – it seemed you’d gone for ever. Springtime, make me smile. Make me stop and gaze with pleasure at your playful lambs, your rickety calves with babies’ lashes. Over and over you re-recreate. You never disappoint us. Springtime, make me think. Make me thankful. Make me glad. Remind me, whisper to me, send me running into Summer. I’m so very pleased to see you. Spring By Graham Thomas She can hear them now, twittering and chirruping away as they enjoy the soft sunshine which is dappling its way through the new verdant leaves. A cloudless, azure blue sky, who could ask for more? She could be anywhere. But she’s not. She’s here. She starts down the slope, shielding her eyes from the sun as she does so, and wanders in the general direction of the shops, meandering along the lane passing the deserted farm buildings on her left. The hum of busy buzzing insects fills the air and the soft spluttering of a light ‘plane can be heard as it heads for the old wartime aerodrome, a mile or so away. A soft, gentle spring breeze wafts through the long tresses of her red hair and she smiles to herself, musing as she does so on a long forgotten love. Forgotten, but not. ‘Where is he now? What’s he up to these days?’ Ah, what might have been, but isn’t. ‘You can’t dwell in the past’, she reminded herself silently, ‘the future is all before you. Anyway, I’m smiling, so it must have been the right decision.’ A rackety old Fordson tractor interrupts her reverie as it chunters and clatters around the bend towards her. The wizened, weather-beaten face of the old farmer beams as he encounters her. ‘A breath of real fresh air’, he acknowledges to himself ‘on this most glorious of spring days.’ It is as though she can read the mind of this ancient. ‘Yes, but they were halcyon days, too.’ she recalls silently. THEME: AUTUMN Story by Nene Autumn By Nene Davies Falling leaves have fun. They swirl down to the ground, like orange confetti. Gusty winds gather them up, and away they fly again, a flurry of crackling fire gems. The sky is blue – china blue, cool and clear. The nights are black as onyx stones in a necklace. There’s movement in the air, the promise of a new season. Long, hot dusty summer days are gone, packed away in their sunburnt suitcase until next year. Chilly promises of winter. Cosy nights by log fires, brisk walking through shoals of crunchy leaves, whispering, rustling. Ruddy cheeks and gloved hands, noses cold like well-fed dogs. The wind, the leaves, the watery clouds, the blue. Autumn – don’t go yet. We’ll stroll in your clean mornings and gather in your smoky dusk. Stay awhile. Winter’s hard hand will envelop us soon enough. Let’s play in the leaves while we can. THEME: FURNITURE Stories by Graham, Laurie, Nene, Marci Furniture By Graham Thomas Oh God I hate these sale days! People rushing in, shoving you about, abusing you, pulling at your labels. It’s not good enough, them doing that. Look at them out there, noses pressed against the windows. Snotty noses too, some of them, in more senses than one. Oh bugger, Dave’s opening up! Lord, here they come. Dave’s okay, mind, not like that Tamsin. Yes, here comes the howling mob. They see ‘Buy a sofa, get a free chair’ and they’re all over you like the proverbial. Kids running out of control, parents in a world of their own. It’s just not good enough, I tell you. And if that biggie over there decides to put his seat on mine, well, I just don’t know. Oh God, here he comes. It’s Cyril the sofa I feel sorry for. He could get two or three arses on him, poor bugger. I mean when you think of it, it’s not nice, is it? Bums on seats is all very well for them whose bums they are. But does anyone think or ask how we feel? No they bloody don’t. And I bet they all sit for meals at home with their elbows on the table. Just because you live in a pig-sty doesn’t mean you have behave like a pig, does it? Painful for the table, I should think, them elbows. Hello, Archie the armchair’s just taken someone for a ride over the other side of the shop. That’ll teach them to push him about and put their dirty shoes on his covers. Got lovely castors, has Archie. This is the best bit. Just watch this. Some lazy git’s just sat on Reg the recliner. He’s a bit electric. I just love it when they press the ‘upright/forward’ button and he hurls them through the air. Got one as far as soft furnishings last sale. It’s the shop record. Dead brill it was. I wish I could do that. Taking my covers off and checking underneath is one thing, but bouncing on my springs is something else. Get your feet off , you little sod! Where’s his mother? Nowhere, that’s where. Then there’s the haggling over prices, credit, how to pay and all of that. All trying to save a couple of bob. Pathetic. Champagne taste and beer money, most of them. The thing about being a futon though, is they open you up, fold you down, sit on you, lie on you, bounce on you without so much as a ‘by your leave’. And I’m supposed to take it lying down! There’s no justice. Bugger the sales. Furniture By Graham Thomas Silence now hangs over the room, muted as if covered by a blanket of soft gossamer down. Delicate dust motes dance daintily in the dappling light beam that pierces slanted through the curtain gap. And the furniture stands stock still, silent. The piano, grand by any standard, keys once so lovingly caressed by his gentle fingers, now stands proud and elegant, untouched for an age. While he played, she would sit at the davenport writing letters, striking her own notes, as it were, while simply musing over thoughts and dreams of what might have been, should have been. Thoughts once treasured, cherished, all unfulfilled. And at those times, she listened to his playing of music that wafted softly through the air, melodic, temperate, yet full of passion and the gift of life. Ah yes. That precious gift of life. How their thoughts at times such as these would so often drift wistfully through their imaginings to the beloved cot bought years ago and which had stood upstairs, untouched and unoccupied since. Since when? It matters not, now. With passing time he gradually played less and less, fingers stiff, unsure, mind engaged elsewhere. Her writing became uneven, untidy and shaky with longer rests between letters and, as before, never posted. The cot, standing draped in white, soft covering, its own protective womb. Alone. Of all the things that had bound them, this furniture had been their constant bond and fellow life-traveller. And the illuminated dust motes appear to glide effortlessly, trapped in the sun’s beam as it continues its inevitable westward journey, causing comforting darkness to descend once more. Silent streaming tears had long since ceased. And they are gone. A change of mind or maybe a change of heart By Laurie Gilbert I met Anthea along the road. It was good to see her after such a long time, but I got a bit anxious when she invited me to visit. I remembered what she’d said about her unit last time I saw her. I’d been intrigued when she said she was eliminating furniture from her life. She said her unit was small and she needed the space. She’d get by with floor cushions, one bar stool, and a roll-up bed on the floor like the Japanese use. Books were her biggest storage problem so she’d stack them on the floor in the corners with the spines outwards so she could get the one she wanted. When I asked if there was any other reason for giving up on furniture she laughed and said, ‘The truth is I am learning to fly and the lessons are so expensive that I can’t afford furniture, but I think it would be good to keep life simple anyway.’ The reason I am anxious now is that I’ve got a really bad knee and don’t know if I can get down to a floor cushion without hurting it. And as for getting up from the floor. That’s a no, no.’ Maybe I could make some excuse to just stand against her kitchen bench. I suppose there is one of those. I started to laugh when she opened the door and couldn’t stop. She said, ‘What’s the joke?’ I couldn’t talk and just pointed. She had one of those luxurious old leather lounge suites, an oak dining table with six antique chairs, a floor to ceiling book shelf that would look right in the best of libraries, and when I looked in the bedroom there was a four-poster bed with medieval drapes. Not much space but lots of furniture. Puzzled for a minute, she remembered. ‘My pilot instructor is an antique dealer and this is my way of keeping in touch. I don’t have much room, but I do have hope. I do love my furniture.’ Rosewood chest By Nene Davies Imagine a rosewood chest of drawers, gleaming in its rich and care-for glory, standing proudly in a regal hallway. Rosewood is lovingly dusted, admired and superior. It's beautiful, but unhelpful. No-one dares to dump a friendly coffee cup down - Rosewood's delicate skin would blemish. Occasionally, a crystal vase of flowers - on a mat of course - lends even more refinement to this handsome creature. Rosewood's sorry cousin, a mass-produced disgrace of pinewood and cheap fittings, hides in the shed. Pinewood's drawers are full of nails and screws, its top a mess of junk and paint splatters. Its coat an awful lime-green relic of the 70's. Who's to say which piece is more valuable? I'd rather have a sturdy friend to keep my nuts and bolts together, who'll roll up its sleeves and doesn't mind the mess, than a stranger standing coldly on a pedestal, too grand to offer a helping hand. I bought a house By Nene Davies I bought a house on Monday And nearly had a fit. I'll have to fill it up one day - I'll need a lot of kit. I went to town on Tuesday - I had to buy a chair. I've had a look on e-bay, But really, I don't care. By Wednesday I was stressing. My carpet looked all wrong. The rug was quite depressing, But I got it for a song. Thursday was a good day, The chairs and table matched. The bed was big, I must say Though the sides were slightly scratched. By Friday I was saying 'I need a great idea. There's no point in delaying, I'm off to find Ikea!' The Rocking Chair By Marci Dahlenburg His face was lined and dusty like a peanut shell. Thick hands wrapped around the plane, sending oak curls to the floor. His fingers were creased too and would bleed at the cracks near the cuticles had they not been packed with sap and wood. As the sun faded and his shed became dim, he rose from the work but his back remained bent. His feet shuffled toward the window where his tepid tea waited in what would have been a mug if it had a handle, but it didn’t. He eased his body into the rocker that had been fashion from his hands years ago, much as he fashioned the half finished chair before him. He rocked, and like a rock he sat, thick and heavy, allowing his weight to ease to his toes and back to his heels. Allowing the ache of his bones to settle and remind him of the good of his work. To work the wood, to create something that wasn’t before... to make a chair that could bring peace and comfort... well it was almost like breathing life back into a tree long dead, he thought.... and he thought of the babies rocked to sleep and the fathers reading the news and mum’s with their knitting and teenagers with their iPods; each rocking for their own reason, each finding their own peace, just as he did now. THEME: TRAVEL Stories by Laurie, Nene, Sara, Robert, Marc Anticipation By Laurie Gilbert My latest travel started with the glint in the mind, an ambition to be somewhere else. Wasn’t sure where that would be. How wonderful to savour the possibilities. How long, how to get there, when to go? Will I arrange it myself or have the travel agent fix it up? I waver. Such fun in the anticipation of choices, wading through brochures and the internet. So many places I haven’t been and such curiosity to satisfy. Things to do, places to stay. One country? More than one place? Stay put and be immersed in a new place? Or try for a sample of a few or a lot of places? Not an easy choice. Both are tempting. I opt for the second because of lack of time. The years are catching up and time is running out. For the same reason I give the bare bones to the travel agent –he has more time than I do, and he is the expert. Well, that is what I thought for a while. It didn’t quite turn out that way, and I had such anxiety about it all being done in time. I made compromises because it couldn’t be sorted without penalties. Scandinavia and Canada had tempted the most – I’ve seen bits of both, but so much else to explore. Eventually an itinerary came together and eventually I have two packets of documents that make it real. One for flights, and one for vouchers and tour details. Not exactly what I’d asked for. Never mind. I am ready. I haven’t started yet, but I am still travelling in anticipation. I’ve found the hotels on the internet and worked out how to get to the places I’m interested in – so many of them are free – and within walking distance. The beauty of city choices. But I have my tickets and information now and details of the tours that will take me through the countryside to dreams and myths and legends and history of old civilisations. They draw me. And I know the reality will be bigger than the dreams. No hiccups please. Or only serendipitous ones if they happen. Travel By Nene Davies Airports are the most emotional places on earth. Human behaviour is often at its most real and unselfconscious in these strangely thrilling, crowded, noisy buildings. The atmosphere in an international arrivals hall is charged with excitement and an undercurrent of tension, which explodes into cries of joy and relief whenever a loved-one emerges from behind those rather sinister sliding doors. Compare this happy hum of expectation with the vibe around departures. A mixed bag of feelings is tangible here; the sorrow and pain of separation jars awkwardly with the nervy thrill of a new adventure. Hearts are heavy. Hearts are light. A dangerous place, an airport. Fears, real and imagined really live here and pulses quicken - whatever the reason. We love the place, we loathe the place; the glittering shops, weary travellers and all. So much to drench the senses. And that’s even before we set foot on an aeroplane. Travel tribulations... By Sara Sutherland I hate travel! There, I’ve said it. Lots of people tell me they find the journey as much fun as the destination. I’m sorry, but to me the journey is the horrible bit. I just want to get where I’m going. Which makes me wonder why I ever agreed to go on a cruise... after all, cruising is all about the journey...or is it? The journey is the destination! The places you visit are just incidental, really. And no, I didn’t really enjoy it – too many people wanting a Good Time, based mainly on alcohol and letting their collective hair down. Okay, I’m a bit of a cynic, too. I suppose I travelled a lot when I was younger, and yes, I did go to some great places and see a lot of wonderful things. But getting there was always uncomfortable and exhausting. I remember once getting lost in Paris, trying to find the Gare du Nord, missing my train to Rome and sitting on my suitcase, crying because no one would help me. (I was rescued by two lovely French ladies who guided me to where I was supposed to be.) Long, tiring plane trips, squashed into a seat and having to fight your way out to go to the loo. Even worse, interstate bus trips in seats not conducive to sleeping, with tired and cranky kids to amuse. Interstate car trips ditto! I drove my kids to Melbourne once and I think they coined the phrase “are we there yet?” So when friends tell me they are off travelling, I envy them the destinations, but not the getting there. The best part of travelling, to me, is getting home again. Travel By Robert Caffrey Sitting here in the early morning, sunshine rising just above the trees. Background noises of birds singing and greeting the new day as I contemplate filling the hours till the sun sets again. The birds chorus of sounds brings me joy as each different sound reaches my ears. A breeze drifts past me, cooling my face and neck, before the rising of the sun brings the humidity with it. This calming scene is disturbed by the unrelenting roar of traffic. Periods of nature competing with the busyness of cars and trucks, which command the bitumen. Rushing headlong to their destination. Single occupants sit in these metal contraptions mostly intent on the task at hand. This frenzy increases with each minute, as they travel past. Travelling with L Plates By Marci Dahlenburg I don’t think you have really travelled, until you have travelled in the passenger seat, as the parent of a learner driver. When you are pregnant they will tell you the horrors of nappies but never the horrors of the drivers’ licence! Let me say my daughter is a good driver, good... but green as a gourd. I should be patient, but I scream. I scream when she turns into the middle lane of a 2-lane road, straddling the white line between the car’s wheels. “Don’t scream!” she says and I know she is right, but it is an impulse not to be stifled when one fears for their life. And it doesn’t help that her sibling blithely asked on our way out the door, “Mum has anyone on L plates ever killed anyone?” “No!” I scowl... well maybe.... come to think of it probably... come to think about it DON’T think about it! She tells you that her paid driving instructor says she is ready to drive to school. You remind her that he has brakes on his side of the car. And it sends me right back to my father teaching me to drive. He screamed, “Put you foot on it!” as we wound around a back road with curves like the nude ladies in the paintings hanging on the walls of museums. And I did put my foot on it... the accelerator.... he should have been more specific. We spun out and lost a hub cap! I was not near so capable as my daughter. It brings you full circle. The road you are travelling now is not about the driving. It’s about rites of passage; because you know when she has mastered this, she will move effortlessly and irrevocably to independence. It is the road of her autonomy that you are on, and there is no turning back. And thankfully, you travel this road together. THEME: WINTER Stories by Sara, Nene, Laurie Winter in England By Sara Sutherland Winter, to me, is my childhood in England. The austerity of boarding school. Meagre heating turned off too soon, with frosts still on the ground. Frozen feet creeping slowly into icy sheets, attempting to create a warm spot; curling up in the cold bed. Shivery walks in all weathers, fog and freezing wind and rain. Chilblains and runny noses. Gathering in the Common Room around an inadequate gas fire, blowing on fingers. Christmas in London, where we longed for the romance of snow, but only got rain, until January when it snowed and turned to dirty slush. Ironic to think of this now, living in Brisbane, where winters are comparatively balmy. Yet we rug up like it is Antarctica, (or Melbourne!) Before we know it, Spring comes back to warm our world again, and we take it for granted, because this is Queensland. Thinking like a child By Nene Davies St. Paul got it right in his epistle to the Corinthians; I think he had love nailed, but there’s one part of his letter, with which I disagree. As a child – yes – I spoke like a child, I thought like a child and I reasoned like a child. I’m with you on all that Paul. But when I grew up I didn’t put all my childish things away. I changed my mind about a lot of things, but something that’s stayed the same for me my whole life, is the way I feel about winter. Winter and I have a special relationship – and not just because we’ve known each other for over fifty years, catching up for three or four months at a time. I was born in the northern hemisphere where November is mid-winter. Cold, dark, dank, November. I spent my first forty-one birthdays in the cold - and I loved them. Imagine waking up to snow on your sixth birthday. Running downstairs in that steely grey light, having peeked through your curtains and glimpsed the garden draped in glistening cotton wool. That first gasp of delight as the freezing air hits your face at the back door and then the curious feeling of excitement as you crunch around the lawn, scoping out a spot for the snowman. Imagine hands so cold that you can’t feel them any more. Imagine your ears so frozen, they burn. Your toes resemble blocks of ice. Your cheeks are pink, your teeth are chattering. Imagine thawing out, cosy and safe on the sofa, clutching a mug of something lovely. Something hot. And then – how about a game of monopoly? Monopoly by the fire with your family. Funny how you always win at Monopoly on your birthday. So Paul, you’re right but I’ll say this again. When I grew up, I didn’t put all my childish things away. I still love the winter. I still love my birthday. I still love snowmen and I still love winning at monopoly. I haven’t really put those things aside – and to tell you the truth, I hope I never do. Old, and cold on the inside By Laurie Gilbert Winter used to be a tame affair, hardly different from summer as the changes were subtle and we adapted easily as temperatures eased down. Maybe we’d use a single bar heater for an hour or two on the really cold days. Sometimes there might be a frost until the sun came up. That was Sandgate in Queensland in the 1950s. But Scotland was a different story. So hard to adjust, so many different ways for winter to affect my life. New things to learn about keeping warm and safe. Two winters stand out; the ones for 1961 into 1962, and then from 1962 into 1963. I was a student midwife in Lanarkshire, working in a small hospital near a steelworks (now long gone). The hospital building was old. The work was wonderful, full of learning, new insights into social conditions, disease matters and the exhilaration of new life a constant. Not so good the occasional death, a couple of severe cases of eclampsia, and a really serious post-natal psychosis requiring admission to the local mental hospital. And sadly some botched backyard abortions needing repair and support. Times were different then. Those two winters the cold was intense, so bad that there were icicles on the insides of the windows. The advanced practice of mothers and babies rooming-in (it was advanced and unusual then) had to be abandoned. Babies to the central nursery which was safe and always warm; no outside windows. The mothers went there to feed their little ones. Not such a bad thing as they were able to joke and share their worries. Times were hard, many unemployed. For us students the worst thing was when the heat went off. OK when the janitor was there. But one of our lessons was to restart the generator. This entailed a trip into the dirt-floor basement, a torchlight stumble to kick a pipe in a particular way, and check the gas pilot flame. Scary enough, but the janitor delighted in yarning about the souls of the dead babies who were supposedly kept there until post mortems or funerals. Not true of course, but we didn’t know that straight away. And then the walks home after a late shift when the public transport was off and taxis were immobilized by snow and frost and petrol shortages. Five miles for me, of whiteness and cold, slidy footpaths, and lamplight flickering through snow flurries. By then I’d learned about sheep-skin lined boots and layers and layers of clothing. There never was any fear. Nurses were well regarded. The knots of men on corners and the spark of their cigarettes were comforting. Shift-workers lived a dislocated pattern of activities. The red and yellow glow from the steelworks and a blast of warmth in passing reminded that many had jobs. That was good. Lots of other winter tales to tell, but these were the earliest years of drama. THEME: GOING IT ALONE Stories by Laurie, Graham, Nene, Sara Full tilt By Laurie Gilbert The boy stood on wobbly legs holding on to the side of the stairway, fingers curled around the smoothness of the round, upright railings. He stared towards the woman who was crouched on the floor looking at him, anxious and imploring at the same time. He let one hand wave in the air and his expression was mischievous. With a toothy smile of pure delight he plopped his bottom on the carpet and edged backwards to the beginning of the staircase. He pulled himself up with both hands, back so straight, and wobbled a moment before gaining balance with absolute concentration. The woman had not moved. Her focus was on him, loving the chubby rolls around his thighs and belly, his nappy threatening to loosen. She willed it to stay in place. He was nearly there. Two steps along, holding on with one hand. Then he took off, four steps in a rush and he was in her arms. Laughter, and gurgles of delight. He was going it alone. An hour later, nothing could hold him back. He was walking without help and had learned to run. He was going it alone and hurtling into life. Full tilt. Leaving in peace By Laurie Gilbert The room was quiet. Soft lights that changed colours, swept over the walls and ceiling. The sensory room they called it. Peaceful. My mother’s breath was coming in fits and starts. Consciousness had gone early in the day, but she was settled now. Her temperature had eased and the little fits had stopped. I was sure she knew I was there. The others had left to get some sleep, we’d stayed with her through last night and it was dark again. My sister would come to take my place in an hour or so. I found my eyes closing at times and dozed in short snatches. When awake, I held her hand and talked softly telling her about the family, and who had come to see her over the hours. Somehow I think it got through. But something held her. It felt as if I needed to help. I wasn’t sure what to do, until I said, ‘Mum, if you want to leave now it is alright. You have done everything you need to do for all of us. It is time to do what you want. We are happy for you to follow any path you’d like to take.’ I was almost asleep when she sighed a huge sigh. I felt the life leave the hand I held. She had departed. I was glad I had been there. She was going it alone to the place of mystery. Going it alone By Graham Thomas It can be very scary, going it alone. After all, why would one want to do it? Is it a necessity of life? That’s what Alice thought after she and Dave had gone their separate ways. All those shared intimate moments – once bonded them together – but now? Ah, and now? What should she do? Contact him, maybe? After all it had been three months at least since they last communicated. Well, two months and twenty-six days to be precise. Would he realise that? Probably not. Why should he? It’s of no significance. Her finger hovered over the speed dial button on the ‘phone. It would take but the briefest of seconds to press and only a little longer to connect. She pushed the hair away from her wet cheek, realising as she did so she was crying. Not sobbing but crying silently, teardrops trailing down her face and strangely, onto the back of her hand - the hand hovering over the telephone. Alice remained standing stock still, each teardrop plopping portentously on her hand pressing it harder and harder, pushing it relentlessly downward. She resisted in an attempt to give herself thinking time. What if he wasn’t in? Should she leave a message? If so, what should she say? But what if he was in and answered? What would she say then? Maybe he’d listen to part of the message and pick-up after she’d spoken a sentence or two. She pressed the button. A woman answered. A young voice, full of vitality, energy and excitement. Alice put the ‘phone down. She really was going to have to go it alone. Giant red letters By Nene Davies For how long am I going to stay angry? It helps in a way – pumping adrenalin effectively puts up an impenetrable screen. No way to get in and no way to get out. Lessons learned? Yes – if I’m looking for the positive. Years wasted? – Yes, if I’m not. Keeping one’s chin up ought to be simple enough - I’m British for heaven’s sake. But between the stiff upper lip, the hard line of my mouth and the growth-spurt of my backbone, I’m beginning to feel like a freak. Keeping busy does wonders. Keeping busy eats up time. It distracts for whole seconds. Too soon, I remember. The shoulders slump. The chin wobbles. The house is too big yet claustrophobic, too messy, too loud, too quiet. Are you ever coming back? Your silence answers me in giant red letters, shouted through a megaphone from the top of a mountain. ‘NO. You’re by yourself. Now quit your whining and grow up fast. It’s time to go it alone’. The outsider By Sara Sutherland She made a decision, and now has to live with it, Going it alone. Loneliness, regret, sadness, fear and courage, In a world of families; people together, Laughing; fighting; angry; happy. She’s an observer, watching through the window of life, An outsider, Like she doesn’t belong in that busy world. It’s passing her by. No one cares. It isn’t easy, going it alone. THEME: MAGIC Stories by Sara (2), Nene, Robert, Carole, Laurie, Graham (2) The fairies By Sara Sutherland “I don’t care what you say. I believe in magic!” she announced, defiantly. “There’s no such thing as magic!” he replied. “There is so too! Magic is all around us. You can feel it. Sometimes you can even see it.” “Yeah, yeah, I know. There’s magic in the air. Lot of rot!” Penny looked at her older brother, disgusted. How do you convince a mere boy that she had seen fairies at the bottom of the garden. Dancing around the flowers, they were. Having a wonderful time, with tiny little pan pipes playing pretty tunes. She had seen them very early in the morning, when the grass was still dewy and a fine mist filled the summer dawn. That was the time she liked to go out there. She would creep quietly downstairs and out of the back door, pat the dog, Rusty who greeted her with wagging tail and licks and followed her as she wandered down the garden, through the fruit trees until she reached the fence at the far end. She could still see the house – the garden wasn’t that big, and she knew not to go out of the gate. She and Rusty sat quietly and waited. Soon a tiny creature with wings appeared, laughing and singing, followed by lots of others. Penny watched and waited. A tinkle of music could be heard, and then one of the tiny creatures stopped and looked at her, smiling. “Hello”, it said. Penny just stared, fascinated. The fairy – for fairy it must be – laughed and flitted away to dance with all the others. Penny blinked and they were gone. “Did you see that?” she asked Rusty, who took no notice, enjoying a nice scratch. He licked her hand anyway. She waited a little while, but then sadly got up and went back to the house, before she was missed. Why would no one believe her? She opened the back door quietly and went inside. “Where have you been?” asked Mum, making Penny jump. “Just for a walk,” said Penny. “Oh?” Mum smiled. “I thought you must have gone down to see the fairies at the bottom of the garden.” The voice By Sara Sutherland Magic exists, I just know it. I don’t mean spells and potions and that sort of stuff: Harry Potter waving a wand and uttering a few unintelligible words. I mean life. Life itself is magical sometimes, little things can happen with no explanation, like the time old Mrs Harris woke up from the coma and looked around, and asked if dinner was ready yet! Christmas is a very magical time, especially for children, who believe in Santa Claus, elves, flying reindeer and all that stuff. Fairy lights can be magical, by just doing nothing but shine. I get emails all the time, with fantastic photography, places, people, animals, flowers. All of them prove that it’s not what you see – it’s how you look at it. I had a magical experience once. I was woken by the phone very early one morning. It was my sister in law in the UK telling me that my brother, who had been very sick, had passed away. I noticed something strange about my right eye, which gradually clouded over until I went blind, caused by a bleed I later found out – a very scary experience. While waiting to see the eye specialist, I clearly heard my brother speak to me, as if he was in the room. He said “You’ll be all right, old girl, stop worrying.” (He used to call me “old girl”) I jumped and looked around, expecting to see him as I felt him there in the room. People looked at me strangely! I was sure he had spoken out loud, but nobody but me heard it. And I was all right, after an operation and uncomfortable healing process. Life is full of magic! We only have to look. Make me believe By Nene Davies My big sister doesn’t know this, but I’m really a fairy. She thinks I look silly but what would she know? I like my wings. My brother is little. He thinks he’s a pirate. Or a dinosaur. Mum said he makes a big noise like a dinosaur. I think so too. My sister is the biggest. She doesn’t play with us but I don’t care. Sometimes I’m a butterfly. That’s because my fairy wings can be butterfly wings too. My brother doesn’t think that’s silly because sometimes his dinosaurs wear a patch on their eye and go looking for treasure. My big sister sits in the chair by the window and listens to music. She has little white headphones and a pink ipod. She got it for Christmas. I know she watches me and my brother playing, but when I go up to her chair she says ‘go away.’ I saw her yesterday in her bedroom. I saw her turning around in front of her mirror and looking over her shoulder. She went on her tippy toes and did a bit of dancing like we do at ballet. She had my fairy wings on. She looked happy. I ran into my room and got her my wand, too. A land far off By Robert Caffrey Here is my ten minutes of magic (pun intended) It had taken years to get here, and it was worth all the effort of the many people involved. It was a dream fulfilled. This new planet found millions of light years away from old earth. A habitual planet at last that ticked all the boxes. Turning, Jim looked at his crew who had come out of Stasis and had survived a faster than light journey. The best of the best, from a wide spectrum of sciences, waiting to exit the landing craft. It came down to drawing straws as to who would step on the to new world first. He was the lucky one. Opening the hatch he stepped down onto the surface, it was stunningly beautiful this new world, familiar plant life, and birds he noticed first. The sky was purple and the grass blue. A stunned silence was heard over the mics as his group gathered on the surface. They all took in the form before them, one of myth and legend. "To be sure, are there any of ya from the old country then, it sure took ya long enough to get here? Oh, and did any of ya bring any gold? And you can also be taken off those silly suits an all", The leprechaun in his green jacket and buckled shoes said, and doffed his hat at them. What’s it all about? By Carole Worthy What is magic to me? A newly born baby , pearly wet, strawberry red, wrinkled face, momentarily statuesque as it assesses the sudden total and momentous change to its environment, then mouth opens, breath, pause... and yell. The countryside after a swift, violent but majestic storm has swept over- the eerie light of a recovering sun, leaves reflecting millions of diamontes. The moment after an argument with a loved one when reconciliation offers its healing balm. Two kinds of magic By Laurie Gilbert I try to take an interest in the father who is distracting the child from his anxiety about the X-Ray ahead of him with the need for an injection first. I see his sleight of hand as the coin disappears and then is pulled out of the child’s ear and then his pocket. The little one is entranced and asks to keep the coin each time. The father agrees. The dull burden of what lies ahead for my partner cannot be lifted even by a child’s enjoyment. It is worrisome; the GP was not sensitive or careful. He said, ‘It sounds like cancer. Kidney is not the best place to have it.’ I wonder where he trained and want to send him back with a fail report and a recommendation to do a special course in bedside manner and understanding human nature. I focus on the notices on the wall. They seem good and proper and say the right things about care and concern and informed consent. I’m wondering what consent may be involved for James. More tests? Surgery? Chemo? Radiation? Pain? Could be any or all of that. Now the wait – he was called in ages ago. I imagine the dye and the outlining of the organ and the technician making provisional diagnoses. At last James comes out. He looks a bit ragged. From the examination? From recent sleepless nights and anxiety? We wait some more until the radiologist calls us in. The outcome is good. No disease found. No further treatment needed. Seems it could have been a one-off episode without known cause. The relief. The boy’s magic seems so low-key now. We’ve experienced the real magic. The work of years for medical qualification, the magic of X-Rays and technology and fast answers. The door of wonder By Graham Thomas The rain had finally ceased and a thousand puddles of varying shapes and sizes reflecting a thousand opalescent moons decorated the shopping precinct. People hurried hither and thither, heads bowed in an effort to complete that last bit of shopping before the next downpour. The toddler and his grandfather mooched around together as they awaited the return of the two most important women in their respective lives, and who were presently in the ladies fashion shop. The child was distracted by the sight of the supermarket doors sliding open automatically on the arrival of a customer. This seemed to the boy to be too good to be true. Too good an opportunity to miss. What would happen if he approached those self-same doors? Would they open for him, as if by magic, for magic it surely was. There was only one way to find out and in less than the twinkling of any eye, he was off like a little winkie, shattering and shimmering many of the thousand moons in his tread. When he reached the doors he stopped abruptly, but nothing happened. Puzzled, he took a cautious, small step forward and there! They opened bang on cue in their accustomed fashion. The child gazed around in awe of this magnificent achievement – opening doors without touching them. Wow! He turned to his grandfather who was watching from a distance, smiling. The toddler, with a look of wide-eyed wonderment, gave a shriek of delight as he hurtled into the shop as fast as his stuggy legs would allow. His grandfather followed in hot pursuit, fearing his charge would disappear in the throng of shoppers, trolleys and baskets, but he needn’t have worried. The child stopped suddenly, turned and ran back to the old man who gathered him up in his arms, swung him around at head height amid much laughter and carried him out. Once outside and back on terra firma, the child shot off again towards the doors. This was obviously going to be a great new game. Arriving at the doors, they performed their magic once again, and so the cycle was repeated several times, resulting in the grandfather having to make use of his inhaler. Every time the toddler entered the shop, his grandfather followed and gathered him up in the safety of his arms. And every time he did, they hugged, the boy resting on his grandfather’s left forearm, the other arm around the boy’s body. He in turn threw his arms around the old man’s neck and the couple exchanged a thousand kisses. The best magic. A Bit Of Nonsense By Graham Thomas ‘Get the sword out! Get the bloody sword out! he shouted in a stage whisper. ‘Magic? Magic? Bloody painful is what it is! As for this stupid bleedin’ box you’ve made me stand in! Blood everywhere, and all of it mine!’ he hissed, loudly. ‘No point feeling sorry the audience are demanding refunds. You should have thought of that sooner. You said it wouldn’t hurt, you said! And if it did, well only a bit. Well let me tell you, lady, it’s bleeding painful – literally!’ Mike stopped his rant. Mary said softly, ‘Sorry Mike. It was supposed to bend around you, you know, out of sight of the audience while you were in the box. I told you to grab the blade and ease it around you. I can’t be held responsible if you can’t follow simple instructions. And don’t even think of mentioning Health and Safety and suing me. You volunteered for this trick and you went into it with your eyes open.’ ‘Yeah, and now my ribs are open an’ all!’ he retorted. ‘Well, look,’ said Mary, wait till everyone in the audience has gone home and we’ll see about getting you out. Can’t say fairer than that, now, given the circumstances. I’ve got my reputation to think of.’ ‘Your rep... oh that’s nice, that is. I’m standing in here oozing blood from a hole in the ribs, and you want me to hang on until the theatre’s empty, just to save your reputation? And keep that little kid away, if he wiggles the sword once more or bashes the box, I’ll have him, so help me’ ‘Well, I can’t remove the sword yet. Everyone’ll see the blood on it. Good job it was my last trick.’ added Mary, thoughtfully. ‘Shouldn’t be long. There you are, look, the audience has suddenly disappeared, as if by ... er, ....’ The Farewell Token By Marci Dahlenburg She tossed away the sleep that refused to come and threw off her bedclothes. The hope chest at the end of her bed held everything sacrosanct, every prayer, every promise, and she was prepared to ravage it. She lifted the heavy scissors from the carved wood sewing box, then her bible; tucked neatly between its pages was the cross. The first present she ever remembered her Grandmother giving her. “Mark your bible with this,” she’d said “and you’ll always know your place.” She snipped the starched stiff lace crucifix from its ribbon then snatched up a handkerchief with her name and a rose embroidered fine in the corner. Her fingers flew in the dim dawn, firmly fastening the cross to the linen and drawing up the ‘kerchief’s corners. In the pouch that she’d fashioned she slipped five dried rose buds from the bouquet of her 16th birthday, and the small gold coin her father had presented her that same day. Without thinking she snipped a locket of hair and added it; quickly drew it tight with a ribbon. In her palm, moist with fear, she held an amulet. She would give it to him as she bade farewell, hoping that the mix of faith, superstition and love would make the magic to keep him safe. THEME: WATER Stories by Carole, Graham, Robert, Sara, Laurie, Nene Water in the well By Carole Worthy The water in the well was exceptionally deep. The circular, stone wall was still in good condition with its traditional A-shaped, shingle top also holding up well. The village people had drawn water from this well for hundreds of years to water the vegetable gardens which were laid out in rectangular beds on the southern, downhill side of the well. All manner of vegetables grew there, leafy greens, brightly coloured peppers and chillies, root croppers, asparagus, and many varieties of beans and peas, and in amongst them wandered nasturtium, with little clumps of Heart’s Ease and Marigolds adding their bright faces to the greenery. Without the well, these gardens would never have been able to exist as there were no taps within miles and the nearest creek was at least a five mile walk. Deep By Graham Thomas He always felt the sea would kill him, given half a chance. And here he was on tiptoe just touching the bottom, water fluctuating between chin and eyes – him a poor swimmer to boot. The shore was a mile away, he felt, but the flat calm sea offered no comfort to him as he struggled to maintain a lack of panic. The distant beach appeared deserted, the soft sand a lifetime away, and every time he rose in the water, he fell a little deeper, lower. Gradually and very slowly he subsided beneath the surface into a green blue hue. He could see the depths, feel the beckoning blackness as it pulled him gently but inexorably into the dark void. He was drowning but he felt strangely at peace. His eyes were open, his lungs oddly not bursting. He seemed to have no problem sinking, sinking. He barked his shoulder on the jagged rock as the turbulent surf swept him onto the soft white sand. His shoulder was stinging and bleeding somewhat. The sun was high overhead and the beach parasols had been replaced by palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze. As he lay there, he felt the coldness of the water rise up under his inert body, starting at his feet and gradually engulfing his whole underframe. Panicking, he sat bolt upright and found himself staring into her eyes. She smiled again. What was it all about, this wetness that surrounded him? ‘Sweat?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘Burst hot water bottle.’ she replied ‘So we can’t sue Tena Lady for a crappy product then?’ he mused. She punched him playfully on the shoulder. He looked at the blood which was still oozing. ‘It must have been the rock.’ he suggested. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, admiring her impressive engagement ring, ‘it must have been.’ Renewal By Robert Caffrey Leaving his companions behind, he rose in the heat of the day. Looking below him he saw that many others beyond number also had decided to join him. All had decided to take the journey to new horizons. Looking forward to the fulfillment of their ultimate purpose. It was certainly the day for it the conditions were optimal. Their salt loving brothers had elected to remain to ride with their brothers on the waves drawn by tides and currents, they may enjoying a journey of a different sort. As they ascended they changed form and were reborn. Upwards they still went until they once again gathered high on the atmosphere. Affected by the tide of the sky, they were blown across the temple on high until they cooled once more. Now becoming heavy and sluggish they broke in song as they fell to earth joyously singing until each raindrop landed, earth bound again. The power of water By Sara Sutherland When I think about water, I remember the poem, “The Ancient Mariner”, and the words “water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink .” That is what it must have felt like to the people watching the water rise in the floods of January 2011, gradually gobbling up their homes and possessions, dirty, muddy water, inexorably rising like an evil monster, a bad dream, taking everything away, ruining their lives. We had a huge dam which was meant to protect us from drought and flood, but it got too full, too quickly so they had to let some out resulting in a flooded river. Now, a year later, the river flows placidly, with hardly a sign left of the damage caused. Now, we seek a reason for it all, someone to blame, maybe someone to sue. Where did all that water come from? A flood on the top of a hill – Toowoomba! A tidal wave in the main street, sweeping everything before it, cars, people, lives, with no warning. Rolling down into the valley where more hapless homes and people waited to be destroyed. And the rest of us watched it all on television, horrified but helpless and thankful it wasn’t happening to us. Water, so necessary for life, and so destructive, like the ocean, unstoppable. People drown thinking they are more powerful than the ocean. Lack of water can kill; lack of respect for the power of water can also kill. Summer drenching 4pm By Nene Davies When the leaves on the trees turn inside out, you know it’s coming. When smudges of grey cloud build into a swirling black and green soup over your head, you know it’s coming. Sudden gusts, like a blast of wind heralding the arrival of an underground train will send you scurrying to the washing line, pulling newly dried laundry into your arms. You don’t need Mother Nature’s final rinse today. You run around closing windows, battening down the hatches. It’s exciting in a way – pulling up the drawbridge; your home becomes a fortress. Fat splats landing messily onto hot bricks. Seething clouds, sinking lower and lower. A slow drumbeat on the tin roof. Building, building. A split of light, a crack of noise and it happens. Thundering rods smash down on your garden, your home. You can’t see the houses over the road for the blinding white mass. And then it’s over. So fast. And all that’s left is the drip, drip, drip of a thousand droplets of water. Powerless, and powerful By Laurie Gilbert I am water. A single molecule, two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen. One molecule among gazillions. On my own I’m insignificant, but in a gathering I’m sometimes powerful, and sometimes a mass of us molecules stick together over time. It doesn’t happen often. We are at the beck and call of the winds, the mighty oceans, the effects of the sun, and wherever we are sent. We can be fluid and clear, salty, gaseous, ice, boiling, sadly polluted. Yes, powerless at times. But powerful too! I can be a cleanser of bodies, inside and out. I can reduce a temperature. I can save a life almost lost through dehydration, but only with my friends en masse. We are invested with a memory and a way of contacting our particular family of molecules. Sometimes there is a special happening and I break through the powerlessness and somehow send up a request, a sort of prayer I suppose. Up – I’m not sure about up – but I send a request out anyway, a message to know how something turns out, for all of us who were together at a particular time. Hundreds of years ago as we lapped as waves on a shore in Australia we saw a young girl throw a bottle into the tide with a note inside. My request was to know where that message might end up. Wonder of wonders, today I got my answer. Again, me and my friends were on a tidal shore in a river in South America when that same bottle was picked up by a fisherman. He was very excited and so were we. A few of the mates with me had been there in Australia all that time ago, but mostly they were far spread. I sent out the message on the air. It would travel to the poles, in the winds, in the rivers, to the irrigating pipes and down the soft spaces in hard rocks and millions of other places. And they would know too that the girl’s message had found a destination. They would rejoice. THEME: BLOGGING Stories by Sara, Laurie, Carole, Nene What is a blog? By Sara Sutherland I don’t know who invented the term “blogging”, but it is certainly one of the ugliest expressions I have heard for a long time! I mean to say – BLOG? What on earth does that mean? He or she must have had a pretty rotten sense of humour. It certainly doesn’t do justice to some of the really good “blogs” I have read lately. People who have something to say can actually say it, in writing, and other people read it. You don’t have to be a journalist and employed by some newspaper to write informed, interesting articles on world or local happenings. You don’t have to be a published author airing your views for the cognoscenti to nod at and pretend to understand, or even an aspiring published author getting in some practice and hopefully getting known. Anyone can do it. The air waves are full of people’s thoughts, wafting around... (or whatever happens out there in internet land). But why on earth call it “blogging”? It sounds sort of disgusting, somehow, but what the hell! Let’s all jump on the bandwagon and “blog” for all we’re worth... (Don’t get me started on “Twitter”.) Understanding? By Laurie Gilbert Michael was a gentle and patient lad. He knew that was why he’d been sent to keep Aunt Maeve company instead of his brother Sean who had a quicksilver response to everything and could never delay a thought or an action even if it was to his or someone else’s disadvantage. But Michael was finding it tough. The old lady had been demanding. He listened over and over to her tale of her husband’s death. He’d read somewhere that this happened when people were grieving and that listening was helpful. But he really needed to get away just for a while to get his head straight again. When there was a lull and Aunt Maeve seemed to be a bit sleepy, he said, “Auntie I’m off to do some blogging. I won’t be too long.’ Maeve said, ‘What a treasure you are Michael Malone. While you’re out be sure to bring me a barrow back.’ Michael was stuck. What could she mean? He said again, loudly, but not too loudly, ‘Blogging. I am going to do some blogging.’ ‘Yes I heard you. Bring a load back with you. I could do with some more.’ Michael went out. Too hard to explain and too hard to repeat things to get through the deafness. He went to the computer and started to send out messages, humorous anecdotes of his communications with his deaf auntie. She wouldn’t get to know about them he was sure, so he let rip and laughed to himself. He felt better with getting the frustrations off his chest. And then went back to the listening. Next afternoon after another blogging session, he returned to his Auntie’s room to hear her telling a neighbour, ‘He’s a grand lad is our Michael, but you know since he got to be a teenager he’s not as thoughtful as he used to be. He didn’t bring me any peat back from the bog yesterday when I asked him.’ To blog, or not to blog By Carole Worthy To blog, to blog, wherefore cometh this word? Sounds like- toblogganing. A slippery slope; gathering speed; bumpy ride; dangerously close to the wind; the thrill of sheer exhilaration; a moment of terror with a misguided turn; a soft landing, or a horrendous crash! What to blog? What’s in a day? What’s in a name? A rose by any other. Arise to the challenge. Fly like the wind. A wind that blows no ill. A window on the world that opens when you dare to share your mind and thoughts and feelings. To dare, to do, perchance to dream. A dream that you can only find when thoughts and words run free. Regular Joe By Nene Davies Joe was a regular guy. He was the kind of person to make eye contact with you in the street. ‘Hi’. ‘G’day’ and a nod and then he’d move on. He lived what some people might rather unkindly call a lawnmower life; he washed the car on Saturday mornings, religiously mowed the grass on Sundays. (No pun intended – but you get my drift.) He had the 2.4 children, a wife, mortgage and Labrador in the back of the station wagon, which is a lot to cram into a car if you think about it. If he could have afforded it, he’d have driven a Volvo. Their ads were cool. Joe worked in the city, whatever that means. He’d wait on the station platform every morning to catch the 7.03 to town and he’d alight onto the opposite platform at 6.21 each evening. Mary would be there to pick him up. Dinner would be in the oven. Every night before sleep, he’d write in his diary. A boring man? A little life? A dull existence? Well – some may think so, but I’ll tell you what, he’s a market researcher’s dream. And here’s his biggest secret. He’s Joe Bloggs and he’s the man who invented blogging. Where else did you think it came from?! THEME: SUMMER Stories by Sara, Laurie, Robert, Nene Memories of summer By Sara Sutherland When I lived in the UK, I longed for summer most of the year, and saw in my mind bright blue skies, and warm sunshine casting a golden glow over my world. People looking tanned and healthy, wearing light clothes, heading for the beach, or out on picnics. Tennis at Wimbledon. Strawberries and cream. Cricket and the thwack of bat on ball on a lazy afternoon. Opera at Glyndebourne. Long sunny evenings and warm nights. A wonderful change after the long months of winter snow and rain, and chilly spring. Summer never lasted long enough. It’s a gentle season. Now I live in Queensland I see summer in a different way. Plenty of sunshine, but also heat and humidity and lots of rain, slashing down in violent summer storms. Here it is exciting – but ever beautiful. A different kind of summer. Hot nights tossing under a ceiling fan moving air around, barely cooling the temperature; the sound of air conditioners and pool pump motors in every street. Lazy barbecues under the patio, with lots of wine and mozzie candles to keep the nasties away. Going to the movies to cool off and freezing in the excessive air conditioning. Walking on the beach looking out to sea and watching the waves roll in and the seagulls screeching. Thinking how lucky I am to live here... Who said the livin’ is easy? By Laurie Gilbert Summertime, and the livin’ is easy. That’s a song isn’t it? I used to think Queensland summers were the greatest. That’s when I was young and didn’t seem to feel the heat. But after living in the northern hemisphere for over twenty years I got to enjoy the cold, even the winters had their compensations. Now though, apart from the heat and humidity I think Queenslanders aren’t finding the living so easy. How many floods in how many places in the last two summers, and lives lost, and damage still not repaired from years-ago cyclones? And the insurance companies being sneaky about interpreting the policy fine print? And it’s not just us here. Look at New South Wales, the ACT and Victoria right now coping with evacuations and damage. And all that money that has been spent on levees (well at least most of them held in Queensland this year, so far). But the weather office is forecasting more rain in the next few days and lots of it and maybe even the development of a cyclone in our region. Here in the Redlands we’ve been lucky, lots of rain, the occasional closure of roads, but nothing desperate and no lives lost. How do the hemispheres measure up? Somehow I feel like a traitor but the northern summers, while not so reliable for sunshine and drying of clothes feel a bit more comforting right now. How will I feel when the next drought hits? Don’t ask me now. I might change my mind. But the living is not easy in Queensland this summer. Summer By Robert Caffrey Sweltering hot hot hot. indecisive cant think what is the best thing to do. It was a great idea to start with. The trip of a life time. I look around and all I see is the dust swirling in the distance. They say that you should stay with the car, yet I have to go and get help. I am conserving my water I have left. Just one foot in front of the other. Flat as when you look towards the horizon, but the ground is undulating gently. Still walking along this track, hoping against hope that I will run into someone. Dizzy now, I have been doing this for hours. Wife and kids still with the car must keep going. Staggering now, must now give up. A black shape appears in front of me. Three more join. Trouble now I am imagining things. It speaks to me. "Mate you want help? What ya doing out here? said the black shape that materialized into a native aborigine. I started to cry and fell to my knees. I hope that I was not too late to save my wife and kids! Summer wine By Graham Thomas Sam spent most of his days wandering from one part of cardboard city to another in his continuing and frantic search for something to drink. It was around four o’clock on this Tuesday afternoon in July, and he wasn’t on the lookout for a spot of afternoon tea to be drunk out of a pretty, refined and delicate bone china cup. In such circumstances, he might have expected cucumber sandwiches cut neatly into triangles – crusts off, of course. No. Sam was hunting alcohol. Whatever he could find, wherever he might find it – he wasn’t fussy. To Sam, this Tuesday was like any other but at least it was warm and dry, and so was he. Well, warm, anyway. He’d never be ‘dry’. In fact he’d not been dry for some fifteen years or so of his thirty one year life thus far. He met up with a couple of argumentative chums, who, like himself, jealously guarded their alcohol trophies. Sam had tried it all, the meths, the aftershave – where had he found that? Ah yes. In a refuse skip in Bloomfield Road, or was it Havering Gardens? It didn’t matter much, as long as he got some. And there’d been the exotic drinks too. They mixed their own cocktails when they were sober enough to imagine the high life that might have come their way, if life had dealt them a better hand. Too many ‘jokers’ in theirs, sadly. Petrol was something they found pretty easy to get hold of. Syphoning from the cars of unsuspecting owners had in its way become an art form. In their more lucid moments they used to laugh at going for diesel. As one of them said, it was more expensive than unleaded – and more upmarket too. They fell about when another said that being diesel, it should go further. It was later that same Tuesday night when, having indulged in an abundance of his favourite tipple, that Sam, having been persuaded by his mates that he could fly, tried it. They were right, at least for the space between the bridge parapet and the railway line and the onrushing train. Yes, it was summer, but it could have been anywhen. Sam really had been a man for all seasons. Summer Down Under By Marci Dahlenburg Summer. . . Summer, Christmas! Really? Summer-Christmas; when is that going to feel right? Is one word ever really going to evoke images of the other? They do for my children. I have heard them, blithely say, “I love summer; school holidays, Christmas....” I laugh, and they don’t get the joke. After a lifetime (albeit short in years) of Santa bringing beach towels and togs wrapped under the tree, Christmas and summer aren’t incongruous at all, they go together like vegemite and cheese on tiger toast. So we treat ourselves to a bit of both on December 25th. Crank up the air con and roast the lunch, pull the crackers and finish with a choice; pudding and brandy sauce, or pumpkin pie.... then roll outside for a swim ... float like dugongs and say, “What a beautiful day.” Sunshine and Jingle Bells, welcome home! ABOUT THE AUTHORS Robert Mark Caffrey Robert is currently writing a fiction/fantasy novel as well as short stories. Captivated by books since he could first read, fiction still is, his first choice. He laid his hands on works by Isaac Asimov as a young boy. Humanoid Robots with positronic brains, journeys to other space faring worlds, took him to another world, Stories with a twist are also his favourites. Robert has only recently discovered a burning passion for writing. It was confined to reports, within his work as a Paramedic for the last twenty two years. This has given him a unique view into human nature, which is the catalyst for his short stories . Now he is learning the craft, with the assistance of a writers group. Currently is editing his first novel, and has other projects in progress. Eventually wanting to share his world with others. Twitter: @RobertMCaffrey Sara Sutherland Sara has been writing since she was a girl – long and short stories written in exercise book to amuse friends and family, and later typed painfully on an old manual typewriter. Her other big love has always been tennis and she was very proud when an article she wrote was published in a tennis magazine. After a lifetime of travelling, bringing up children and working in the community sector, Sara has now retired happily, with the ambition to write. She has just completed a novel set in Brisbane, which she hopes to publish having, as her husband says “worn out three printers” with drafts. She also writes poetry and paints flowers in her spare time. Sara joined the Victoria Point Writers Group to learn more about writing, and appreciates the friendship and help of like-minded people. Ten Minute Tales started as writing exercise, and has taken on a life of its own; challenging and fun. Email: sarasutherland@bigpond.com Marci Dahlenburg Marci Dahlenburg was born and raised in the USA. After studying theatre and dance, and spending several years as a starving artist in Los Angeles she moved to Papua New Guinea. Yes, her parents thought that was an unusual choice too. In 2004 she moved to Brisbane with her Australian husband and three Aussie children and acknowledged the niggling secret that she would like to write. Because she loves stories almost as much as she loves children she began with a correspondence course in Children’s Literature, which led to a novel for readers 8 to 12 years. Marci was encouraged when this manuscript was long listed in the Allen & Unwin Development competition, and having made significant rewrites she is currently looking for a good home for it. Subsequently Marci has had a short story Commended by FAWNS and a memoir published in the Redlitzer short story anthology. She is currently working on a Novel for young adults. Marci Is a member of the Queensland Writer’s Centre, and a proud member of the Victoria Point Writer’s Group. Graham Thomas Born at an early age into an ancient Welsh family (mother aged 92, father 87), Graham knew he was an unwanted child, because his parents moved house just a few days before he was born. When, at the age of three, he finally caught up with them, he became obsessed with singing sea shanties, many of which he learnt at his mother’s knee - they were tattooed on her thigh. This foray into musicality propelled him towards fame and stardom as a musician. Sadly, the musical progress of this incipient child prodigy was cruelly cut short, when, at the age of five, the string of his triangle broke. Undaunted and undeterred he sought solace in another form of the arts as his life took a turn towards writing, and a brief fifty nine years later he put pen to paper. His first effort at creative writing drew wide acclaim when, on the back of a buff coloured envelope he wrote ‘Sorry about the bent triangle, Mum.’ We should emphasise that Graham wasn’t on the back of the envelope. The writing was. Once started, there was no stopping him. We all know you cannot put the genie back into the bottle. This prodigious talent was to know no bounds as evidenced by his second literary offering which he produced just a few short months later, namely ‘The string is in my pocket still.’ The indications were there for all to see. This talent had to go somewhere, and many people have suggested the very destination for it. He is in the throes of completing his first book, and when that’s done and dusted, he’ll start reading his second. A quick turn towards the dramatic side of the arts led Graham to form a drama group, productions of which produced such critical acclaim as that prominently displayed in the renowned Scottish and Outer Hebrides Ironmongers Gazette, which credited the magical works with the immortal words forever etched in the artistes’ souls ‘.......worth travelling miles to avoid.’, ‘Try Arsenic and Old Lace before you try this.’ Oh, what it meant to be associated with such illustrious company. But Graham’s restless soul cajoled him into turning back to writing, or at least, turning his back on everything else. So here we are dear reader. I still have the day job as an English language teacher. It’s just the students I feel sorry for. Poor devils. I hope you derive (or deride?) some measure of pleasure from these my paltry offerings. I wish I could do better. You deserve it. Nene Davies In 2002, Nene and her husband sold their family home in Wales, packed up their three children, said goodbye to family and friends and emigrated to Australia. It was a daunting yet exciting time and at the age of forty-two, it seemed silly not to at least have a go at following a treasured dream. What if, thought Nene, we look back in ten years and say ‘if only we’d tried’? Now, ten years down the track, the children have grown up, left home and are thriving, while Nene and her husband continue living their dream in beautiful Brisbane. The icing on the cake for Nene, is the freedom these days to focus full-time on her lifelong love of writing. She belongs to the Queensland Writers Centre and is a proud member of the Victoria Point Writing Group. They say you should write about what you know, so Nene’s first novel ‘Distance’ is about a family of five who emigrate to Australia, while Ten Minute Tales emerged from a combination of writing workshops and e-mails between group members. Nene feels blessed to be part of such a close-knit and supportive writing community. She’s moved house many times over the years, but whether in Brisbane, Newcastle, Melbourne or the UK on family visits, Nene feels close to her band of writing buddies. She believes it’s truly a privilege to be living this blessed life in the country of her dreams, with love and friendship spanning the globe – and with the gift of time to spend on her writing, things are better than she ever dared hope. E-mail: nene.davies@hotmail.com Twitter: @Nene_Davies Facebook: nenedavieswrites Website: www.nenedavieswrites.weebly.com These Carole Worthy Carole was inspired to take up writing after the death of her sister to cancer. In her early sixties at the time, Carole felt she could honour the struggle her sister faced coming to terms with the terminality of the disease, by writing a memoir based on their time together during the last six months of her sister’s life. This is still a work in progress. In between working on the memoir, Carole has tried her hand at writing short stories. She has been very interested in researching family history over the past few years and has used some of this material as the basis for a few stories. She has submitted several entries to short story competitions, and currently awaits the results for two of them. The ten minute tales also seemed to be a fruitful way to exercise the imagination. Hailing originally from Melbourne, Carole now lives in Brisbane with her husband and three adult children. She trained and worked as a primary school teacher in Victoria and then moved to Queensland and retrained as a social worker. Later in life she returned to teaching as a Learning Support Teacher. Her work as a teacher of children with learning difficulties has invigorated her love of language and now, creative writing. Email: caroleworthy@gmail.com Twitter: @CasWorthy Laurie Gilbert Laurie dreamed of life as a writer, fuelled by enthusiastic applause for her first drama at age seven. Fiction was the thing. But life had other ideas. Writing – yes – non-stop; but the mundane kind dominated, through many over-the-top family, study and work years. It started with personal letters and cards from distant places, about moves and work and rites of passage. Then continued as an academic slog, from assignments to post-graduate theses. Became professional; from nursing notes, lesson plans, operational research documents from proposal to outcome evaluation reports. All interspersed with clutches of bureaucratic writing, within national, state and local authorities in three countries: the gamut, from ministerial speech notes to writing large tracts of the National Women’s Health Policy (1989). Now joy of joys: retirement and the freedom to meld fiction writing with a lifetime’s experience; no picky constraints from legal interpretation or graceless facts. Laurie’s husband reckoned she would never get past ‘bureaucratic think’, her son is mildly bemused. Readers must be the judge. With a small collection of short stories and the draft of a family saga to edit, the writing future promises fun challenges. Next step publication? Email: ttlgilbert@hotmail.com Twitter: @el_author Blog: sagalines.wordpress.com CONCLUSION We would like to thank the Redland City Council Libraries for initiating the Authors in Action Program through encouraging and supporting the formation of Writer’s Groups to meet monthly in local libraries. Other aspects of the program include regular talks by published authors who enjoy the opportunity to speak about and promote their most recent publications, and workshops about the art and craft of writing. This year sees the second Redlitzer short story competition to encourage emerging authors. It was our delight that for Marci’s wonderful short memoir, The heart of the matter, she was selected to participate in a weekend developmental workshop, and to have the story published in the 2011 Redlitzer Anthology. Our Victoria Point Writer’s Group near Brisbane really clicked; but not until we’d navigated the classic development journey: started enthusiastically, hiccupped, had a few leavers and arrivers, almost folded, received a couple of new members from other groups in the area; then pulled together again with seven steady members, one participating faithfully after moving to Melbourne, and back again. Over time there was enough trust for our critiques to become more honest, more constructive. As our critiquing improved, so did the writing. Four of us have finished novels or memoir drafts at final editing stage. We also wish to acknowledge the help given to us by photographer Penny Franke who gifted us our wonderful cover picture which we chose from several other local scenes she provided. Victoria Point Writer’s Group July 2012