Creative Writing

Trainer: Deborah Pepyat
Program Outline: Have you always wanted to write but don’t know how to get started? Discover how you can turn your passion for writing into a reality. Writing techniques include character and plot development, writing dialogue and how to choose the right core idea.

If you are interested in joining a writing class at HLLC, please use this form to register your interest for next term.

From Our Students

Read through some samples of writing from our Creative Writing students below:

Alana Jude Kaye Lorraine Margaret Viriginia

Black Saturday

I wake early tired after an oppressive night. Last night the Premier of Victoria, John Brumby told us that tomorrow will be a bad day. It is going to be very hot and strong winds will make the fire danger extreme. It will be a Total Fire Ban. At 6 o’clock the temperature is already in the low 30s. My vegetable garden is devasted by the heat so I pick anything that is worthwhile and put them in the fridge. I will preserve them tomorrow when it’s cooler. Henk mowed the dust yesterday. He went outside to make sure that the sprinklers are working properly. In Chaffer Street, one of our neighbours, Robyn is prowling dressed in her fire gear of overalls, goggles and boots. I feel that she is scare-mongering. Another neighbour, Bob is also stressed. We have been in Chum Creek for 20 years now. The neighbourhood meetings that the CFA has conducted over the years have warned us that such a day was inevitable but we always thought, “No, it won’t happen to us”.

It’s so hot I can’t stay outside. I collect my thick woollen jumper and long trousers, goggles and gloves and attempt to put them on but it is so hot I can’t keep them on. I strip off again and leave them lying on the pool table. Henk is out and about all morning. He’s been next door to Richard and Wai Lin to make sure they are ok.

Around lunch time there is an item on the radio about a fire at Murrindini. I can see the plume of smoke to our north. The cloud grows during the afternoon but happily is moving away from us. I have 774 on the radio. They report that there is a fire in Long Gully, Bendigo. All afternoon the reports keep coming but there is no mention of a fire in our area. Late in the afternoon there is a report of a fire at Hill Road, Coldstream. That’s miles away from us so I am not overly concerned.

Around 5:30 Wai Lin rings to ask if I can see a fire. All we can see is the smoke at Murrindindi, still moving away. Henk climbs on to the roof to keep a look out. Anxious,Wai Lin rings again, but there is still nothing to see. At around 6 o’clock Henk says, “Ring the neighbours, I can see flames. It’s coming.” I call Wai Lin but there is no answer. We stand on the veranda and watch the flames down in the gully near the quarry at the rear of our property. I think, “That’s ok. It’s a fair way away”. Suddenly it begins to rain, not water but flames. Little licks of fire are falling everywhere. It’s like the tongues of fire on Pentecost Sunday. It’s too hot to stay outside now. During this time I have put on the jumper and long trousers. I can’t find the goggles and gloves. We close the shutters on the fire side of the house and watch from the lounge room through the door to the veranda on the front of the house.

I am panicking. Walking back and forth doing nothing. My head is pounding. Henk is outside in all of this mayhem sprinkling the embers that are blowing up against the house. He comes back looking dejected and says, “I have no water”.

I ask Henk, “How long is this going to last?” He reassures me that it will pass in 10 minutes. I comment, “This is the longest ten minutes of my life.”

The noise outside is horrendous. It sounds like jet planes are landing in my front garden. The trees are bending like bananas. The wind is picking up anything that is loose and blowing it around. Suddenly I hear a crackling and see my lemon tree in the container on the veranda dry and the leaves fold over in front of my eyes. It is not burned. The frazzled leaves hang as if they are drooping, but they are crisp. I hear noise coming from the garage. Henk goes outside again but returns immediately. We know by now that the house is not going to survive.

I say to Henk, “I have the $2,000 that Dad gave me, in my drawer which I am saving to spend when Henk and Lexi come home for a holiday from Canada next month.”

Henk goes to get it but comes back saying, “We’ll have to see if we can get the bank to replace it”. The smoke alarm in screeching, the cat is running around the house screaming. The dogs are cowering under the table where I had been sitting using the computer.

Henk calls me, “Come and have a look.” I go into the rumpus room and see the fire rolling along the corridor. The flames are like a spiral bouncing from the walls, floor and ceiling coming towards us. We close the door and move into the loungeroom. Henk takes the battery out of the smoke alarm. The radio is still reporting a fire in Long Gully. The house is filling with smoke. I put the leashes on the dogs and we sit on the floor waiting at the door until the fire subsides outside. Before long I cannot tolerate the smoke any longer. I will take the dogs outside and come back for the cat. As soon as the door is opened a crack the cat races through my legs and runs straight into the flames. The dogs run outside and take refuge in the cellar. We go outside. It is hot. We grab a wet cloth to put around our necks. It’s too hot at the front of the house so we stand near the cellar and watch the house burn. The flames surge along the roof cavity and consume the house one room at a time.

It’s 6:07 and we are still alive.

Alana Vrolijks

Elsie

The last time I saw her she was holding fast to the streamers that I threw as the ship gently edged away from the wharf. She was setting off to a new life with her husband. Holding the ribbon firmly, the snap as the paper broke underscored my heartache at seeing my beloved sister leave us and our motherland. I stood on the quay buffeted by freezing wind watching the ship grow smaller and smaller until eventually if disappeared.

Elsie was born and raised in Pimlico a suburb of London perched on the edge of the Thames River. I the older sister, we both trained as needlewomen with Miss Sloan. She met Syd when he was billeted with our family during World War I. Elsie stayed close to home in bustling London. She had never been to Buckingham Palace one mile further along the Thames. Setting off to Australia on the other side of the world was daunting. She loved her husband dearly and felt safe in his company. Sadness at the prospect of never seeing her family again conflicted with excitement about setting up her new home with her husband. Her fears were replaced with hope.

The day Elsie and the other war brides embarked the SS Mahana, London was blanketed in Autumn gloom. When the final call sounded, we hugged each other neither wanting to be the first to release our embrace.

Many weeks later I received the first of numerous letters from Elsie. She wrote,

“After several weeks at sea the weather warmed up. I tell you, Ada, the weather in the tropics has to be endured to appreciate it. My heavy clothing was out of place in the stifling weather. I live in a cabin with three other wives. As soon as we return to our cabins we strip to our petticoats to escape the heat.”

“We are not allowed to be alone with our husbands (as the standing orders say, “no fraternising”). The only chance to be together is during times when we are permitted to be on deck. When the weather is good, lazing in a deck chair soaking up the sun is bliss.”

“As we passed the equator the crew threw a “crossing the line” party .They dressed as Neptune and his entourage to celebrate safely crossing the equator. It was great fun and everyone was in high spirits. We were all excited that most of the voyage was behind us.”

“On the last night at sea I fell asleep dreaming of my new life that would begin tomorrow.”

The cool November morning of the day Elsie arrived in Melbourne was metaphorical. At first she was reassured by the appearance of the rows of houses that resembled those she knew at home.They looked familiar, single fronted terraces neat and orderly. Her confidence was short lived.

Her mother-in-law, Ethel, resented being replaced as the centre of Syd’s attention. He was Ethel’s first born, favourite son. “This English intruder will not steal my son” she told herself.

Syd and Elsie moved into a small house in Williamstown that Ethel built while Syd was overseas. Before they enlisted, Ethel promised her sons that she would build them a house if they nominated her to receive their army allotment. Syd sent his money to his mother for the four years that he was away. When he returned Ethel demanded payment for the house.

Elsie’s next letter was heart breaking.

“I am not welcome in Australia”, she wrote. “My mother-in-law is cruel to me. She does all in her power to separate us. Recently she told me, “I will get Syd back”. Syd heard her and told her, “No, you won’t.”

“I am chocked with homesickness; we have decided to return to England”.

Their plans were put on hold when Elsie fell pregnant. Their son was born a year after her arrival in Australia. Elsie’s next letter was full of hope and joy.

“Our adorable son arrived safely on 22^nd October. He is a cherub and fills my heart with joy. His angelic face reminds me of our mother.”

Elsie embraced motherhood and slowly began to assimilate into the foreign land. Syd began a small business as a tailor. Elsie worked beside him, preparing the suits which were hand sewn.

The depression years were difficult for Elsie and her young family. There was little work for tailors. Ethel evicted Elsie, Syd and their two children from their house for defaulting on their house payments. They found themselves homeless until the church minister found them a house in the grounds of the Holy Trinity Church on the Strand in Williamstown. It was a hovel with dirt floors. The family was happy to have a roof over their heads. In order to make the little money they had stretch Elsie walked miles to buy milk a farthing cheaper than at the local dairy.

Ethel’s children all married and moved away leaving her to live alone. The night noises frightened her so much that she insisted that her grandson should sleep in her bungalow. Elsie said to Syd, “I would hate to think that my mother was left alone”, so they moved in with Ethel to care for her.

Slowly life improved. Elsie worked as a house keeper for a prominent businessman and Syd worked as a medical orderly at the Williamstown Hospital.

Towards the end of 1956 Elsie sent me a thrilling letter:

“I have the most exciting news. Syd heard from a chap where he works that the airlines who will be bringing the athletes to Melbourne for the Olympic Games will be selling cheap air fares for the return flights rather than sending the plane back empty”.

“We will come to visit you. I am so excited that I cannot sleep. I long to tell you face to face about everything that has happened in the past 30 years”

Alas it was a cruel rumour and Elsie didn’t get to visit her Motherland.

I often relive the day Elsie sailed away from me. I long to see her again but I know in my heart of hearts that we will not be reunited in this life. She writes to me often. The clap of the mail flap when the postman drops Elsie’s letter into our basket makes my heart beat faster and I tear the envelope open to devour her words. I am old now but the image I have of my sister is a young woman setting of on a grand adventure full of hope and love. To me she is forever young.

Alana Vrolijks

Setting for a Story

Its ruins are an eye sore on an otherwise picturesque setting. Vehicles hit the pot holes where the asphalt stops with a thud sending the hollow sound of the vehicles shuddering suspension rolling across the paddock. Dust billows behind the car like smoke from a chimney. As the dust clears the heat shimmers over the paddocks. A shabby looking man with an unlit roll-your-own hanging from the corner of his mouth, sits on the veranda of an even scruffier looking house inspecting the passersby. The house has not become ramshackle from age or wear and tear. It was always that way. It was dropped from a truck and sits on the ground encroaching on to the footpath.

Opposite the house is a collection of surplus machinery. Every time a piece of equipment broke down it was parked on the paddock. Over the years the assemblage has grown and become a junk yard. Mechanic’s in need of a rare spare come and help themselves leaving discarded leftovers strewn around the yard. Feral cats and foxes make covens amongst the wreckage attracted by mice and rats. Snakes inhabit the nooks and crannies seeking an easy meal.

Beside the junk yard the remains of a once loved garden struggles to survive. Only the most hardy of the plants remain. A large prickly pear has grown over the old building. Its gigantic proportions deter any intruder.

The wind whispers through the trees and vegetation. It carries the pungent smells of the grazing cows and pigs. As it gains intensity its whisper becomes an eerie howl. At times it sounds like somebody is calling out. The road runs to a dead end where it intersects with the river. The punt no longer runs. Its carcass litters the riverbank.

Alana Vrolijks

LOST AT SEA

It was a couple of months before any of us realised that we hadn’t seen the neighbour’s wife for some time. Living for generations on this tiny windswept island where the waves crash against the rocks day and night all year round and the salt-laden wind never stops, we islanders keep to ourselves and mind our own business in our stone cottages except when we regularly emerge for fishing or mutton-birding or to meet the monthly supply boat.

For many years the only time we’d seen her was when she hung washing out on the fence on an occasional rain-free day or when she gathered seaweed from the shore below the cottage to feed her struggling vegetable patch. She did not respond to greetings and if anyone approached she hurried
away with her head down and sought refuge inside. She always kept her back to the sea, ignoring its rush and roar as if it didn’t exist.

She’d never been very sociable but had completely removed herself from the island’s small community after her teenage children vanished at sea. The two girls and the boy had set out in an old rowboat early one morning and had never returned. There’d been much talk and speculation at the time, with everyone wondering why they’d gone out in such wild weather when everyone knew the fish weren’t running, but the memory of them had faded until most people had almost forgotten they’d ever existed. No-one knew that their mother had never forgotten and still mourned for them every day. No-one knew that their beds were still neatly made up in the tiny bare room they’d shared, that their clothes still hung on their hooks along the wall and that she spent most of her days in that room, sitting motionless near the window which looked inland, her back always to the sea, not weeping or sobbing, just sitting, her gnarled work-worn hands folded in her aproned lap, her lined face expressionless.

We didn’t really notice her absence until the neighbour’s strange behaviour became obvious: every morning at dawn we could see him standing motionless on the beach facing the rising sun, not moving until it was full daylight and then trudging, head down, up the cliff path to slam the front door and lock himself inside. This went on for some weeks without anybody questioning him until we were all gathered on the wharf awaiting the arrival of the supply boat. With some nudging from my mother, my father casually commented in our roundabout island way that it must be cold out on the beach
so early in the morning. The only response was: “She’s gawn, she’s gawn for good, dumb old cow, I reckon went lookin’ for them kids early one morning. Kept sayin’ she was gonna do it and then I reckon she just did.
Took me boat while I was sleepin’, the thieving bitch, just like her useless kids were. Yeah, she’s gawn.”

As the years passed he too became a virtual recluse, never replacing the missing boat and surviving on canned and packaged foods. The vegetable patch had vanished into the roaring wind within weeks of the woman’s disappearance and it didn’t take long for us to almost forget that she too had ever existed.
His daily visits to the beach to greet the dawn continued and were no longer questioned: it was what he did and what we all did was ignore it, just as we ignored the strange behaviour of other islanders and they ignored ours.

He’d missed his morning beach vigils for a few days before any of us noticed and eventually my father reluctantly went next door at my mother’s prompting and returned to say: “Well, he’s gone. Good thing he went in the winter and that the boat’s due in a couple of days to take him over to the
mainland.” A long flotilla followed the supply boat across the wild straits for the funeral, the entire population crammed into the tossing boats, as has long been our custom when an islander dies.

The service was a routine impersonal affair conducted by an impassive bored funeral director who managed to get the dead islander’s name wrong on three different occasions: there were no eulogies and only one droning hymn and a couple of routine prayers. The only unusual and startling feature
was a slow dignified procession of strangers into the cold bleak church just before the service began, led by a stately well dressed old woman, followed by a group of middle aged women and men and several children, all similarly well dressed and apparently prosperous. The strangers sat in a long row on the bench at the very back holding hands and did not join in the hymn singing or the prayers.
And they were all smiling……….

Jude Power
First Prize, Griffith Riverina FAW Lit Comp, 2018
(The tutor’s trigger words were “We hadn’t seen the neighbour’s wife for some time”)

THE SHOE ON THE ROAD

Inspired by the shoe tree near Inglewood and some of my experiences in that town nearly 20 years ago

I threw that shoe in the middle of the road and I’d do it again: what’s more I’ve wished ever since that I’d run over it a few times as well. It was a red patent sling back with a cut out toe in a child’s size and it marked the end of my fruitless attempts to fit into the community I’d moved to the year before.
Looking back, I’m grateful now for the catalyst that finally forced me to accept reality and move on, but at the time I realised only that I was discharging my frustration on to an inanimate object, which always feels childish as well as pointless.
After I threw the shoe I went back to the shack, packed my belongings, loaded the truck and headed out of town. At the bridge I pulled over, clutching the steering wheel with shaking hands and on the verge of tears as I looked down at the swirling brown water below.
I thought for a moment and after rummaging in the back of the truck for what I needed, did a u-turn back towards town, pulling over again when I spotted the shoe where I’d thrown it.
“This’ll show them: yeah, this’ll show them, I’m really gonna do it, I really am”, knowing as I muttered to myself that nothing I could do would show these people anything, but at least I’d know I’d tried, just as I’d tried fruitlessly to make connection with the locals.
I’ll never know if they treated all newcomers as they’d treated me, but I suspect they did and that this was one of the reasons why the town had that frozen in time atmosphere, with most of the shops boarded up, only one of the original five pubs still open, the eucalyptus distillery silent and the school and post office and solitary bank all recently closed.
It began in the store, which called itself a supermarket but was neither super nor a market, merely a run down general store with the addition of some central shelving and a dusty display window full of blowflies, a few buzzing but most long dead. My customary friendliness was met with blank stares or shifty eyes and my requests for such outlandish foodstuffs as soymilk, feta cheese and sourdough bread produced eye rolling and muttering. The arrival weeks later of overpriced long life dairy milk, cream cheese spread and brown bread, produced with a flourish and a sideways smirk, convinced me that except for basic essentials I’d need to do a weekly shopping run to the nearest large town rather than deal with their blatant obstructiveness.
I stopped buying fuel for the truck locally after I had to prevent the smelly toothless old owner of the garage from filling it with unleaded petrol even though the word “diesel” showed clearly just above the fuel inlet. I had to practically wrestle the nozzle out of his surprisingly strong clutch while he cackled like a demented hyena.
Then there was the post mistress, who regularly returned my correctly addressed mail to my friends and family with my name crossed out in thick black texta and marked “Not known here”, but only after steaming everything open and presumably thoroughly checking and reading the contents.
However, it was that ridiculous shoe tree which ended any hope I had left about my future in the area. I’ve always loved exploring new areas and the country around the town was the sort I love: winding dirt roads with no signposts to indicate destinations; innumerable creeks rushing towards the wide river south of town, gold rush era ruins and steep rocky hillsides.
One afternoon, still fuming while trying unsuccessfully to turn my latest encounter with the post mistress into a funny story I could tell my friends, I impulsively swung the wheel and turned down a narrow track I hadn’t noticed before winding along the river bank and up into the forest.
“I wonder where that goes?” I said to the dog beside me, smiling as I remembered how often my father had said those words when I was a child and how often against my mother’s wishes he would turn down some unmarked track and follow it to the end.
“Bill, Bill, it’s going to get dark soon. We’re lost, we’re lost!”
“Rubbish woman, I’m not lost: I’m not too sure where we are, but we’re not lost.”
Still smiling I followed the rough narrowing track through the bush as it wound around mullock heaps and other traces of old gold mines, down a steep slope and around a sharp bend into thick scrub.
And then at an intersection with another unmarked track, stood the tree, rising metres above the scrub at its base: a tall old eucalypt, its smooth trunk festooned with footwear. Shoes, boots, slippers, thongs, scuffs, ugg boots, pointy toed high heels from the 50s, fluffy slippers in the shape of ducks, running shoes, gumboots, sandals, football boots – all nailed neatly in pairs, heels towards the top of the tree and toes pointing towards the ground.
I began to laugh out loud at the sheer ridiculousness of it: why would people do such a thing and why for so long? Some of the shoes could’ve been from the 1930’s and others were quite modern. High up I noticed one solitary shoe without its mate: a child’s red patent sling back with a cut out toe.
And there was its opposite number, impaled on the remains of a rusted barbed wire fence. I took it off the fence and left it in the car until the next time I reluctantly had to go to the store for a few essentials, knowing that not even this storekeeper could afford to not stock matches, toilet paper and plain vegemite.
“What’s the story on the shoe tree?” I asked, trying to pretend that every single one of my previous attempts at conversation had been ignored or rudely rebuffed.
“The what?”
“The shoe tree, the big gum south west of town with all the shoes nailed to it. It’s on a track which runs off the Dungala Road.”
“Dunno what ya talkin about, no shoe tree anywhere near here.”
My brain was telling me not to bother, but the words came out of my mouth against my will.
“But I saw it, in fact I have one of the shoes. I’ll show it to you.”
By the time I returned from the truck with the shoe in my hand the previously empty shop seemed full of customers: where had they all come from so quickly? No vehicles had pulled up and no-one had been walking along the street in that short time.
“This shoe, it was there, look.”
“Thought you said the tree had shoes nailed to it, that one’s not nailed to anything.”
“But it has been, look at the holes, see? And the other half of the pair is nailed to the tree and lots of other pairs too, some are really old so it must’ve been happening for years.”
Eyes were rolled and glances exchanged.
“I tell you, I saw it,” I went on, telling myself to shut up but having gone this far, finding it impossible to obey the voice of my own common sense.
“Why are you all pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about? You must know it’s there and know all about it, so what’s the big secret?”
“No secret, lady, we just dunno what you’re on about.”
They were all sniggering now and I knew I had to get out of there before something really nasty happened, like me totally losing control and killing a local yokel, or preferably a mob of them, with a hurled cash register.
“Fucking inbred rednecks,” I yelled as I roared down the road towards the place I’d wanted so badly to be home, but which I now knew would never be any such thing.
Realising I was still clutching the red shoe in one hand I slammed on the brakes and threw the ridiculous thing over my shoulder and out the window on to the road behind me. That was the moment I finally realised this town was no place for me, it would never be home for me and that none of these people were ever going to be anyone I wanted to know. It was time to move on as fast as I could, and that’s exactly what I did, my arm aching from using as many nails as I could manage to attach that red shoe to the faded sign displaying the town’s name.
Back in the truck, I turned the wheel again and without looking back headed down over the river towards anywhere, not really caring where at that stage, but knowing anywhere else would have to be more normal than this town.

Jude Power

Holiday Memory – 100 words

It was New Year’s Eve 2014. The reggae band was playing on the rear deck of the Dawn Princess.
Cathy and her sister were on their first cruise from Melbourne to New Zealand. “Oh, to have someone to kiss at midnight”.
There he was, a lone male with shining silver hair and a cream jacket. “Come on” she said. Grabbing her sister’s hand she ran up the stairs.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. He turned, looked into her eyes and gave her a soft kiss as the party revellers’ screams sounded out at the stroke of midnight.

Kaye McLean

I Was Never the Brains of the Family

This is a photo of my great grandmother Mary Kennedy. She grew up in Donnelly, near Ballarat, one of thirteen. Her mother died giving birth to her younger brother Freddy. Her father employed a housekeeper, who he quickly married and had five more children.
Mary roamed free as a child. Legend has it she missed her mother so much she would spend countless hours at her grave. One day she returned with a skull (her mother’s she said) and talked to her often as if she were still alive.
Mary married Jack at 17 and they moved to Melbourne where Jack was a policeman. He loved Mary very much and he understood her keeping the skull in the old wooden trunk. He often heard her talking to herself, but didn’t really believer her mother was Mary’s spirit guide. Jack was a sceptic, preferring to believe in the here and now.
Mary had four children, one of them my grandmother Molly. Molly had four children, one of them my mother Florence. And then there was me.
Four generations of women. None of us famous for our cooking or our love of housework. We all had/have a passion for life and learning. A belief that we are all connected on a spiritual level.
I believe I have inherited my love of learning. I was never the brains of the family. It all began with Mary.
After her beloved Jack died and her children had grown, Mary sold the family home and moved to a glamorous boarding house in St. Kilda. No more housework or cooking for her. She booked a passage on the “Queen Mary” and began her life anew.
Mary Kennedy – not just a pretty face. A woman ahead of her time. I can feel her here, guiding me through life’s up and downs.

Kaye McLean

We Were There

Ron, Rosemary, Richard, Elizabeth and Catherine are the Ellis family. (Or so we thought!) They moved to Oakleigh in 1956 from a property somewhere in North West Victoria.
Mum and Dad, although younger, made firm friends with Ron and Rose. Rose often helped mum with us kids and they spent many hours chatting over tea and biscuits. Dad and Ron caught the train on weekdays to work at the Coles warehouse in Fisherman’s Bend.
The Ellis family were always polite but they seemed despondent. We never heard them laughing or having a fun time together. Mum and Dad often pondered on their past but it was a mystery. Rose never spoke about their lives before Oakleigh and Ron rarely talked much at all.
Their teenage children were at the local High School and we three were at Oakleigh Primary, so we weren’t friends as such. Even so, I did have a secret crush on Richard when I was eight and him eighteen.
The men liked to watch the wrestling at Festival Hall on Sunday mornings. They’d be glued to our black and white telly, while their wives prepared the lamb roast that we all shared.
One Sunday morning the wrestling was interrupted by a “Police Announcement”. The reporter said “Do you know this family?” A photo of our neighbours appeared on the screen. There was a collective gasp as the reality of this moment sank in.
The reporter continued “Detective Donnelly, Chief of the Homicide Squad, says they are close to solving the murder of 32 year old Czechoslovakian agriculture student Milan Edward Hlavenka. Hlavenka was savagely battered to death as he slept in his sleeping bag on the banks of the Murray River near Mildura, on the night of May 30, 1953.
Police found Hlavenka had been robbed of eight pounds and an iron bar was determined to be the murder weapon. His small fox terrier was tied up in a bag!!
After questioning dozens of Mildura residents police now have evidence that points to the Murphy family being the missing link in their investigation.”
Mum and Dad looked stunned and Ron and Rose were looking pale and hot at the same time. Sweat had broken out on Ron’s forehead. We were all looking at each other waiting for someone to say something.
Then Ron spoke in a loud threatening voice, I’d never heard before and said “You got it right. We were there. If you promise not to say anything, we might tell you about it!!……………………………..”

Kaye McLean

UNINVITED
The coals were still smouldering long after midnight. The stories faded but the eerie wake left Barry unsettled. It was the last story. The one told by the old bearded man who had wandered in uninvited, a haunting tone in his voice and the fire-flame in his eyes. He spoke of a place only he knew: a place of moaning. Where sounds fade into the full moon and disappear. Where desert flowers come and go. Where a pair of eagles circle high overhead – around and around they soar in the morning sun, casting shadows that surf over low bushes, crinkled and cracked rock formations, undulating red sand, dry rotted stumps and cracked waterholes.
He told of blood seeping into red sand, staining it with the last breath of life. The last pulse of blood. The final heartbeat. A knife glistening as the sun dips into darkness and cold starlit air snuffs it out. Then daylight heat returns the favour. The knife cast its own shadow until it fell from drying bones and the last blowfly buzzed away. The last maggot shrivelled in the heat. A place where death moans on the desert wind as it seeks a resting place where there is none.
Barry unrolled and smoothed his sleeping bag and waited and waited. His eyelids propped open with wonder at how the old man slipped away without a sound. He waited until the last star in the west blinked out and the old man didn’t re-appear. Fire coals barely smouldered and the story echoed and the desert wind found its resting place in his head.
Wherever he went it would whisper. It whispered in his dreams, and as his eyelids drooped the whispers would taunt with that endless groan. One day Barry could bear it no longer.
He packed clothes, supplies and sleeping bag and returned to the camp place, built a fire and waited until the fire flames died and the coals smouldered long after midnight.
He waited and waited, eyelids propped open and the last coal died. The last star wiped out by dawn’s finger tracing night and days border. Night after night Barry lit the campfire, propped open his eyes and watched the coals smoulder until the last star died.
He wondered about the man and his story of desert sand where the eagles soared and their shadows surfed the landscape. The knife that glistened in the sun until it fell from the bones and the last blowfly, the last maggot and how long it took the bones to crumble to dust. Whose bones were they out there in that desolate place? He shuddered and waited. On that last night, Barry heard moaning, somewhere, out there.

GETTING AWAY
I keep thinking I can hear the wind except the day is still, not a cloud in the sky. From this boulder on the west side of Billings Hill, my thinking boulder and my escape to spot, where no-one knows where I am, I can clearly see the valley below and way out to where the ocean meets the sky.
Up here it’s often windy or breezy or gale force and blustery but not today. Holding my breath to hear even the slightest sound proves there’s no wind, not even a sneaky breeze that creeps by from the other side rattles the grass and I think something is there. Instead, the air is still and calms like a soothing balm on an ache.
In the back of my mind, the wind blows, not hard and blustering, just a steady soft wind like that day when I sat here to read a book, to get away for some solitude and peace. When the wind blew behind the hill, not around me on this side, I heard voices arguing carried on wind waves. Voices that rose and fell, like the whim of the wind through the low growing bushes or the tall she-oak just below the summit. I hadn’t seen anyone on the way here. There was no one here when I arrived.
I noticed I’d read 260 pages and realised I’d been here longer than I had intended to stay. I snapped the book shut, grabbed my coat and hurried to the far side of the walking track and hid behind a nest of head-high slender boulders, five in a row, that no one agrees whether they are naturally poised or placed there by human intervention. Then there’s the Alien theory. The stargate theory.
Between two of the boulders is a narrow peeping space that has an inexplicably wide view for its size, again with many and varied theories it is so. I watched and waited, peered through the lens, as it’s known by the locals, and I saw no-one at all. Not even a scavenger crow or a shy rabbit. Not even a single blade of grass jiggled.
I thought I heard the wind rush past my back and I shuddered. A cold, almost icy water trickling cold that ran down my spine. I waited until the cold passed, then stepped away and peered apprehensively around. There was only me, the boulder, the hill, the book and bag I carried and the chill of an unexplained occurrence that I surely will never speak about.
I clung to that book and tentatively made my way down the track. Every now and then I thought I heard the wind and those wavering voices it carried. I reached the base of the hill, stopped and looked up to the top where the boulders are. Suddenly, from out of nowhere a massive wind blew, like a monstrous willy-willy that grasped the entire hilltop. The She-oak tree whooshed and whined its haunting, grieving cry. Grass and thistles bent and lashed back and forth and seed husks swirled into the air. I stood mouth gaped open clasping my book. At that moment I realised why so many stories circulated about Billings Hill and I hurried home.

FELLA
Outside of town, the river swelled and Fred moved his sheep up to the hill paddock. He was born on that property and knew what was coming. He tried to alert the hobby farm neighbours that worked in the city weekdays and stayed on the weekends.
“They’re cows,” they said. “How much nursing do they need?” Fred shook his head, remembering that first conversation and took his time looking over the fifty acres of scrub and the few fenced grass paddocks for their eight cows.
“They’ll drown on that flat,” he said aloud. Fella, the red kelpie, stood up and pawed his leg. Fred looked down at him, “Come, ole Fella. Let’s cut some wire.”
He pulled the cutters from his back pocket and snipped the wire twitched around the gate and the post, made sure the two driveway gates to the road and the neighbours forty square house was closed. “Bring ‘em in Fella,” he said as he opened the gate. Fella knew his job and raced across the paddock, skilfully herding the cows through the first gate, turned them up the steep driveway and hustled them through the old second gate that took the herd to higher ground.
The old gate was the only original gate that remained on the farm. Fred and his father had built it when he was twelve, back when the two properties were one. His heart lurched, “God I miss you, Dad,” he whispered and closed the gate behind him. He whistled and yelled, “Fella. Up the hill.” The dog circled and nudged the cattle uphill, growled and snapped at one rebellious Angus that snorted and charged at Fella. The masterful dog wasn’t put off, he circled left, right, ran in and nipped at its hock, dodged a sharp kick, barked and lunged until the Angus noticed the others halfway up the hill, bucked and trotted after them. Fella eyed it for a moment with a dog sort of satisfaction, and then trotted back to Fred leaning on the gate watching the scene. Fred cocked his head and said, “Good job.” Fella wagged his tail and licked his muzzle. Fred tried calling the neighbours again to say the cattle were safe and watched Fella work the herd through the last gate into the smaller high ground paddock.
As cows do they grouped together, ears pricked forward and watched Fella trot downhill with Fred to the last gate. Fred looked back and nodded, satisfied the cows were safe until the water level dropped. He rested on a stump of the old Gum tree he once climbed as a boy. Fella beside him, panting, his pink tongue dripped and his muzzle wet. “Fella, that Angus is a bit like them city folks. Don’t know about farmin’.” He stroked Fella’s head. “Good job Fella. Good job.”
He stood and straightened his tatty edged Akubra, “come on Fella, back to the ole house. Time for tea ‘n’ toast.” Fella trotted along, pink tongue lolling from its mouth and Fred talked on, “We’re gonna have trouble with them burbie’s. Won’t like us ole farmers buttin’ in ya know.” Fella’s amber eyes met Freds as if to say, ‘Good job Fred. Good job,” and wagged his tail.

Analytic Moon

Only fresh air and moonlight soothe
Reveal the contention
And the heat between us
And the wasted time

The whole meaning killed
Our over analysing
Swelled out of context
And I wondered if we’d change

One lone star twinkled

And I wondered if we’d change
Swelled out of context
Our over analysing
The whole meaning killed

And the wasted time
And the heat between us
Revealed the contention
Only fresh air and moonlight soothe

The Library Clock

The smug old library clock
ticks second by second on the wall
The only constant rivalry
the rustle of pages in books.
It’s face white mother of pearl,
Inlaid on dark polished walnut.

Black hands like unpolished swords,
tick off moments of minute and hour
And meter the passing of time.
Or is it tick, tick, tick, tick, ticking
The ancient magic meter
That’s gleaned from every book.

Stories and verse and rumours
inspire many an author to write,
History, Fantasy, Adventure,
Murder and Satire in word
They scribe it onto blank pages
Line by line by line

How many stories and poems,
Carried on the endless sound
That tick, tock, tick, tock rhythm
Of the smug old library clock

Dirty Linen

There was something in the wind.
It was a day when her mind shifted to someone else setting out all the steps for her to follow. She had cleaned the house, put the washing out and packed her bags.
It was now the other side of the day, and it was wearing out … she was wearing out – she had lived a small life with him, but she didn’t know who to blame.
She paused, looked through the window, told herself she’d have to take the sheets from the line, make his bed, then go.
The dog saw her, lifted its head from knobbly paws, looked at her with eyes like luminous stone. It didn’t have a name, but she saw it as ‘Prisoner’. She remembered when he first dragged it home. He’d tied it to the broken cart, and how it had fought like a wild dingo trying to tear away from the chain. Over time, it accepted its fate as she had done. Waiting, always waiting for a kind word and approval.
Once outside, she told herself to focus on the billowing sheets, not on the hollow-flanked dog. Told herself not to soften.
‘Sorry fella. I can’t take you. He’ll be home soon, and you will slow my flight.’
She freed the sheets, dashed the pegs to the ground. Let the wind do their work.
They billowed, reeled and pirouetted like drunken dancers. Lifting their skirts, they spiralled upwards to become fledglings, flapping and swooping as they left the nest.
She sensed the dog was watching. Ears pointed, expectant eyes taking in that change of mood.
She turned her head away when she passed.
Bag in hand she closed the door, pushed her back against it … then unleashed the ‘Prisoner’.

Margaret

Elements of a Real Holiday Memory – A 100 Word Story

Heat shimmers off the sand, water looking inviting. A huge sand dune looming in front of me, searing hot sand burning my feet. Thongs useless. Hurray, the top! Scrambling down, the delicious coolness of water, sea breeze in my face. Frolicking in cool water, the daunting sand dune, knowing it needs re-conquering before racing to the ever hot car. Towels, buckets and spades thrown in. Ahh! The car pulls away from the crowded car-park, cool breeze from open windows and knowing the licking of ice-cream is to come. A good nights’ sleep ahead. Bliss.

Virginia Robinson

A character does something forbidden resulting in confrontation or embracement

She slunk out of the back kitchen door, her pockets full of the latest baked goods, eager to go behind the old shed to gobble down some of her stolen treasures. Her large breasts heaved as she rushed along the path, sweat pouring off her head, pudgy hands crammed into her pockets, craving the goodies she could feel.
She was nearly to the shed when the chef yelled out her name. He could see her from the back door. She looked like a rabbit caught in the car lights, gnawing at her lower lip. She could see the anger and distaste in his eyes. As she crept back to the kitchen the urge overwhelmed her and she started to cram the food from her pockets into her eager mouth. She shoved and shoved the food in, so craving that she didn’t realise what she was doing.
Then the pain hit her chest and left arm. She looked startled and dropped dead of the mossy path. Chef rushed over to her side. He had only wanted to tell her that the food she had grabbed was special dog treats for the up-coming doggie wedding that evening.

Virginia Robinson

Involving a going away party, false eyelashes and a very dark room

Squeals of delight came from the back room of the pub. Lenore was going off on her big trip around the world. After all those hard years of work, no real life and saving, saving and saving.
She had given up her rental property, had given special item to friends and put the rest in storage. Lenore was so excited, chatting to friends, hugs, some tears. The way she was talking, she may never return.
Suddenly the lights went out. People laughed and stumbled around. The room went very, very dark. Then suddenly, on the back wall a large light came on and huge fake eyelashes illuminated the room. They even fluttered every few seconds. Riotous laughter and giggles came from the guests, more hugs and the clinking of glasses. Lenore was a very stylish lady with pale, pale skin, jet black hair, long, down past her waist, and wonderfully coloured retro clothes. But her trademark was the huge fake eyelashes that she always wore, setting off her pretty face and huge eyes. Her best friend had organised this special treat for her much-loved friend, a memory to hold onto as she travelled the world.

Virginia Robinson