Transported

This short story received an award and was published in the Stringybark Times Past collection in 2020. All stories for the competition had to be based on historical facts. These are mine:

On 26th January1788, the First Fleet, under Captain Arther Philip, sailed into Sydney Cove and claimed the land for Britain. Eleven ships arrived at Botany Bay between the 18th and 20th January but the area was deemed unsuitable for settlement. Convicts were kept on board the ships until they were moored in Sydney Cove. Three ships carried female convicts. I have imagined that day, as seen through the eyes of one female prisoner. History tells us little about the comvicts. I have given at least one of them, the hope for a better life in New South Wales.

.TRANSPORTED

Creeping from their holds, the convicts breathe in fresh, salty air, untainted by the vomit, sweat, urine and faeces of their cramped pens. They gaze on a land of strangely shaped trees with white trunks and leaves that point to the ground. Chests swell as these scarred creatures catch a glimpse of new possibilities. Men and women, discards from the land of their birth, face lives that must be better than the ones they’ve left behind. At least that is what they hope for on this morning, the 26^th January, 1788.

One young woman stands out in this heaving mass. Around her the pristine surfaces of polished wooden decks and brass bells are the antithesis of filthy flesh and tattered rags.

She, too, wears ragged clothing but her eyes are bright, her cheeks still have a pinkish glow. Her fingernails are blackened and her hair, once the copper-coloured beacon that inflamed men’s desires, now hangs in matted clumps around her shoulders. She pouts a kiss at the first mate as he approaches the female prisoners. He’s her best chance.

No fraternizing with the convicts. Was that the regulation? He’d ignored it, as had all the others. The herd was checked over every night, the toss of any small object determining who won the juiciest piece of tits and arse and soft, bruised thighs. Ripe and over-ripe the women became as the journey continued for months and months of baking sun and blue sea. While tempests raged the women had a rest. No time for frolicking when the crew had ropes to pull and sails to fasten in the gut-wrenching fury of ocean and sky.

But today they’ve arrived. Well, not all of them. Josie, who made gloves for wealthy Londoners and got caught stealing a pair, went overboard on one of those black cloud days. And Betsy—quiet, fifteen year-old Betsy—had simply melted away amongst the rotting potatoes and stench of shit. Some of the women were pregnant, even before they left England. A few babies survived and after all the goings on during the voyage, the population in this new land should soon increase.

Today the sky is clear, the bluest blue that any of them have ever seen and the shoreline is clean and welcoming. Every female prisoner on that ship wants to stand at the railing, to suck in the unpolluted space of this strange new land; a land that will become home and the chance of a new, better life.

“Get ‘em below!” The captain bellows across the deck.

Whips crack and boots crunch on unprotected limbs as the two-legged animals are herded back to their rightful place. A slatted grating squashes hopes and wistful fantasies.

Except for that bright-eyed woman. The faded red of her skirt tucked around her legs, arms wrapped across her chest, she squats down behind the capstan.

The crew—in their tired uniforms, still flashing buttons and stripes in the right places, but with everything else coming apart at the seams and fraying at the edges—rush about, anxious to finish their duties and get off this crate of junk, human and otherwise.

She’s safe for the moment. Has she the courage to look up? Dare she pray for a different kind of life? Is there any point in praying to a God who never listens, who doesn’t seem to care for the likes of her?

She smells the captain’s leather boots. Mouse-like, she trembles. Tucking her head into the folds of her skirt she hopes, like a child, that if she doesn’t look she won’t be seen. Her heart drums so loudly she’s sure he can hear it.

His heels click together. His hand is rough on her bare arm, but he only tugs her firmly, not wrenching bone from socket, which she has come to expect. His fingernails dig into her flesh when she tries to pull away.

Her head stays low. She’s learnt not to lift her eyes in these situations. That’s okay when they want her body, when she feels the heat of their lust and knows that, despite her insignificance, she can still sting. He’s not one of them. His woman is with him on this piece of his world. She can’t play with this one; can’t taunt him and trade her flesh, her youthful, warm furriness, for an extra morsel or moment of freedom.

He yells to an underling, loosens his grip and passes her, like an unwashed rag, to the lackey. Vigorously, he wipes his hand on his trousers, removing her taint from his lordliness and stomps away as the grating is lifted and she’s flung down below.

Others move away as she lands. There’s no sympathy when jealousies are all about the next meal or the scrap of floor where you sleep. She is the officer’s pet. She won’t get anything, not even a helping hand, from her fellow prisoners.

Sitting on the floor, she rubs her right ankle which twisted as she fell. The pain is not too bad. She should be fine by nightfall, able to ply her wares again. A naughty smile puckers her lips. The captain likes her—anyone else would have been flogged.

Pretending meekness, she stays on the floor, eyes closed, spirit floating away to the scribbly, ragged trees and the clean water lapping the shore.

Others may drop out along the days, but she will make it. There’s room for her to grow out there and plenty of men who want what she knows how to give. Willingly she’ll fulfil their desires, but they will have to pay. She’ll stash away their trinkets, grow in power, and one day, when her time of serving is over, she’ll build herself a fortress, lock up her heart and none of them will be able to hurt her again.

Go North Young Man

In 2020 I recieved a ‘Highly Acclaimed’ for this little memoir which I had entered in the Scribes Writers Prose Competition. It’s part of the series I’ve written (and am still writing) about our time at Exmouth.

During 2021 I concentrated on writing, editing and publishing Child of the War Years which many of you have read. That didn’t allow much time for writing anything else.

With the new year rapidly approaching, and the move to my new house now behind me, I can get to work on a couple of novels that have been languishing in old files. As that will take a lot of time and effort, and because I want to remind you, my readers, that I am still alive and attempting to get words onto the page/screen, I thought I’d begin by posting this. I changed the names for the competition, but it is a true story.

GO NORTH YOUNG MAN

Several times during the night I stirred from dreaming to see eerie lights wandering across the landscape ahead of us. Near dawn a twisted tree trunk, like something from a Grimm’s fairytale, appeared beside me—the scraping of its branches against the window jolted me awake. We had come to a halt, front wheels pointing skywards, rocks all around us and no sign of a road.

‘We’re lost. We’ll die of dehydration.’ I couldn’t hide the terror in my voice.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ my husband, Graham, growled. ‘The road must have washed away in a recent downpour and the grader hasn’t reached this far.’

He clambered out of the car to investigate the situation. ‘It’s a creek bed; dry at the moment, but we could dig for water if necessary,’ he said as he got back in. ‘Don’t worry; we’ll soon be out of here.’

How our Holden station wagon managed to negotiate those rocks I’ll never know, but in about fifteen minutes we were on our way again. Baby David and three year old Penelope were still asleep on the inflatable mattresses which covered our belongings in the back of the vehicle—twin-tub washing machine, playpen/cot, kitchenware, linen, clothes, toys, several books and food for two weeks.

As the sun rose, I looked around at flat, red-brown earth; tough, yellow-brown grasses edging the track; a sky free of clouds; not a tree or a trace of greenery in any direction. I love Australia, and at our wedding I’d said that I would love him forever, but I didn’t know if my vows could stretch to include this almost barren landscape. I said nothing and hoped for better as we continued heading north.

Near Exmouth we passed a beach which looked inviting—water of the deepest blue, gentle waves licking the shore. There was no time to stop but I was promised a swim the following Sunday. At six thirty we drove into the caravan park and parked beside our new home.

Stunned, I couldn’t open the door. Caravans and vehicles, all bearing scars, were dumped in a clearing in the desert-like scrub. I’d lived in a caravan in the bush before, but this looked like a refugee camp. Neither of us said anything as Graham unloaded children and belongings into the annexe, while I unpacked boxes to make breakfast. He drove off before it was ready, saying he’d eat at the camp.

Baby was soon asleep again in the playpen inside the caravan. Penelope, our adventurous three year old, wanted to explore. I found crayons and paper and set her up at the table while I tried to find a home for our kitchenware and food.

Determined to have the place organised by evening, I opened the first of our cases after wiping off the pindan. Sheets, towels, clothes—every item inside every case sent layers of red-brown dust into the air as I shook them.

At eight o’clock I had the washing machine filled with water heated by our electric plunger. The power went off.

‘Damn! How long will this last?’ Having just arrived, I didn’t think knocking on the neighbouring van was a good idea.

‘Penelope. Mummy’s going to the laundry. You stay inside and mind David.’

What a shock—used tampons dropped on the toilet floor, brown stained paper left in a corner and fear seeping out of grey concrete walls. Hatred and despair hung around that place of intended cleanliness. Terrified of germs leaping at me from every surface, I tried not to touch anything, holding door handles with my skirt and not daring to wash any part of me in the basins. The showers too, were a nightmare of disease ridden horror. I vowed to wear thongs when I had to use them, and to hang my clothes and towel over the smallest possible surface so that a minimum of other women’s grubbiness would affect them.

I didn’t get as far as the laundry that day, but hurried back to the van, determined that my daughter would use the potty and baby’s bath in the safety of our confined space.

At ten o’clock, with electricity running for an hour, I had sheets washed and hung on ropes installed by the previous occupants. By five the caravan and annexe looked almost like home. I washed the children in David’s baby bath, shook their pyjamas again and dressed them. By six, fed and falling asleep, I had them both tucked up in our bed. Once we were ready for bed, Penelope would sleep on a built-in seat beside the table and David’s cot would sit in the middle of the van.

My man had been awake for two days and a night. He arrived back at the caravan at about six thirty, hot and pindan streaked. We kissed lightly and he went off to shower while I served our dinner. In clean shirt and shorts, he joined me at the table after checking on his cherubs and kissing them goodnight.

Outside, we heard men and women yelling at children and each other. From the van closest to us came swearing of a kind I’d not heard before, as the man threw his son, aged about eight, down the steps and his wife hurled abuse at the boy.

Hearing the boy’s screams, we raced outside, almost falling over each other in our haste. My husband took one look and, pushing me ahead of him, hopped back inside and locked the door. We stood facing each other, dismayed and dumbstruck.

Living so close, we couldn’t shut out the surrounding rabble or protect our babies from their obscenities. The tears I had tried so hard to hold back all day burst the banks of my eyes. So much we had promised each other, so many expectations that were impossible to fulfil. How could I survive in that God forsaken place?

Reviews for CHILD OF THE WAR YEARS

Hi Vicki

I have finished reading your book “Child of the War Years”.

This is a thoroughly entertaining and candid expose of what life was like for you in those years. At times hilarious and other times sad, it evoked many memories of my own childhood and the times spent with your family. Your writing style means that this book should be enjoyed by all who read it, whether or not they know the characters.

Love Greg

Thankyou for such a great read + inviting us to your book launch. I initially intended to read it all in one day which would be easy because it is so engrossing. I have since realised it is like a fine wine to be savoured at the end of the day. I am so grateful for the memories you are sharing. It is special to read about my Pop (John) who I loved but never really knew eg; his curry. Also, it makes me realise that families growing up in rentals is not new. You are truly an inspiration – accolades again Vicki

Launch of my memoir.

Me signing books that guests had purchased.

Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Centre in Greenmount, was rocking by 3pm last Sunday. Guests started arriving half an hour ahead of the planned opening time, so keen were they to be a part of the launch of my third book, ‘CHILD OF THE WAR YEARS.’

Parking is limited at the centre, but we were lucky to avoid rain and once inside the cosy, historical house, everyone quickly found old and new friends and family to chat with.

Many of my friends helped, heating and serving food, making sure everyone had a wine, soft drink, coffee or tea. They also cleared up afterwards. Music from the 1940s added to the atmosphere and the borrowed microphopne system ensured that everyone could hear us.

Grandson, Andrew, introducing me.

One of the nice things about being old (I’m eighty) is that my grandchildren are all adults and one of them, Andrew, was happy to introduce me and then conduct an interesting, entertaining interview.

This is an extract from his introduction: Everyone here today knows that nothing’s off the cards with Vicki. Just like in real life when you ask her how her dating life is going, her memoir also goes into salacious, explicit detail will all things romance. You might notice that I’m looking a little concerned at this point, wondering what secrets from my past he was about to reveal, but he continued with ‘At one point in the book there’s a particularly eye-watering passage about a nun trying to teach sex-ed.’

As the interview progressed, I had to read from this passage, much to everyone’s amusement. Here is a part of that reading:

‘In Holy Matrimony a man and a woman are joined together in a bond of love, to support each other and to fulfil God’s laws, which include having children. A man’s desires make him want to have sex with his wife and she, as a loving, obedient wife, must willingly oblige him.’
That part didn’t exactly thrill me, especially the ‘obedient wife’ bit, but as the lesson progressed and I learnt about various bodily parts that were to be involved in this transaction, I thought it sounded rather fun. Of course I had to pretend to be interested purely in an analytical way, but couldn’t wait to discuss the possibilities with Denyse and Margaret.

Please email me at vicwinmiz@gmail.com if you would like to purcahse a copy. They are only $15 plus postage. I will post a couple of reviews next, so you’ll see that this story is interesting and entertaining.

If you have read it aleady, please add your review in the comments.

Reaching Out: cont.

Here is the rest of the story which I gave you last week. It was written as a short story, but I wonder if it’s worth developing into something longer. What do you think?

As always, I appreciate your comments.

Reaching Out.

Slowly, she moves from the window. He notices the slight limp in her right leg. On the beach, walking on uneven sand, anyone’s feet could falter. When he had walked into the meeting room last Sunday, she was already seated. He was the first to leave, afraid that if anyone spoke to him the anguish, loss and loneliness would come spewing out.

‘Do you have children, Isabel?’ He tries to keep the conversation general, but how can he get to know her with silly chitchat?

She leans on the table before sitting down and places her mug on the coaster, which he leaves there these days.

Briskly, he gets up, remembering his manners. She does not seem like the sort of woman— those modern, liberated ones—who will object to the chair routine.

‘Thank you, I’m fine,’ she says and sits down.

He notices the twitch at the corners of her mouth. Got that right, he thinks and returns to his own seat.

They sip in silence for a while. She studies the books on shelves beside them. He pretends to watch the ocean, but can’t help glancing at this new friend, He likes the way she purses her lips in concentration.

‘Do you enjoy reading?’ She looks at him, then points to his wife’s collection.

He’s stumped. She’ll think him a Philistine. All that arty stuff—books, paintings, theatre, music—he left to Jess.

‘Well, yes, but not that kind of thing.’ He nods at the bookshelves. ‘I’m more into news, you know, the papers, television. I do a lot of research on the internet, find out what’s happening in the world.’ He hesitates, wanting to be honest but not reveal too much about himself.

‘My wife—she died, you know—she loved her novels. I’m no good at remembering names, but she could rattle off the latest prize winner or some new author she thought worth a try.’

He blinks away threatening tears. What’s wrong with me? Stop being an ass. This woman doesn’t want to know about Jess.

‘And what about you, Isabel? I guess you have favourite authors too?’

She takes another sip of coffee. ‘Yes, and I see that your wife—your late wife—and I have several in common. I still enjoy Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy. A bit soppy I suppose and certainly not a man’s choice.’

She looks directly at him, her fingers playing with the fabric of her skirt. ‘You asked if I have children. I don’t anymore. My daughter drowned in a neighbour’s pool when she was five years old. I have a son, but I never see him. He’s a drug addict.’ Her lips tremble and she turns away.

He wants to reach out, to give her his manly protection, but that, he’s been told, is not necessarily what the other person wants. He grips his hands together under the table. How can he help? What should he say? Is there anything he can say that might give this lovely woman some comfort?

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I try not to talk about it with strangers. Friends know how it upsets me, particularly Jamie. Vanessa was an accident. No-one’s fault, although of course I can’t forgive myself for not being more vigilant.’

She pulls a tissue from the pocket of her skirt and blows her nose. ‘Sorry,’ she says again, ‘perhaps you could tell me about you. Do you have children? Yes, of course you do.’ She stands up and walks to the clump of photos on the shelf above the television. ‘And I guess that’s your wife.’

He turns around and sees where Isabel is pointing. ‘Yes. Jess was killed in a road accident. Bloody truck, pardon my French, ploughed into her. She was on her way home from the ballet. It was a wet night, slippery road. The driver claimed he lost control, couldn’t do anything to avoid her.’

Isabel steps away from the photos and holds out her arms. He stumbles into her embrace, clasps her small, rounded body to his chest and lets the tears flow.

Reaching Out

Here is the first part of another of my award winning short stories, published in May 2020 by Stringybark, in the collection entitled ‘Close to Heaven.’ There was no theme required but the story had to be set in Australia, hence the Akubra and the Arnott’s Monte Carlo biscuits. I enjoyed writing this piece of fiction. I hope you enjoy reading it. Your comments are always very welcome

REACHING OUT

‘Isabel.’ He taps her lightly on the shoulder. ‘I think we should head back now.’

Beyond the bay, the water of the Southern Ocean is grey, blending with storm clouds that cover the horizon.

She stands with her arms folded across her stomach. Her frown, when she turns to face him, could mean disapproval, or confusion, or something else which he does not understand.

‘Do you mind?’ he asks. ‘I’m just concerned about that cough of yours.’ He pats his chest and pulls his Akubra further down on his head.

What more can he say without sounding interfering, or worse, like he’s fussing over her? Back when he was in the game last time, forty years ago, men were supposed to be protective of women; to take charge; be the knight in shining armour. He’s been told that modern women hate that.

‘What are the rules?’ he’d asked his twenty-four year old son.

The answer wasn’t encouraging.

‘Gees, Dad. What am I supposed to say? It was always you and Mum telling me what to do. Not that I took much notice. Now you’re asking me to tell you, my father, how to pull the chicks. What would Mum think? Not that she can hear of course, but . . . Dad.’

He fiddles with the buttons of his jacket and considers putting an arm around her. Is it too soon? Will he frighten her away? He only met her last weekend, in the final session of the retreat. Even then she seemed controlled, or shut off, but everyone was grieving and he didn’t give much away either.

He decides to risk it. Perhaps she just needs a nudge in the right direction. It’s his idea of the right direction and it might not be hers, but life’s too short to muck around. Look what happened to Jess. Happily married, both retired, ready for the big trip to Europe, then that bloody idiot went through a red light.

That’s in the past. Now, he’s on this beach with a nice woman. He’ll give it a go.

‘Isabel, let me show you something.’ Stepping closer, he puts his arm loosely around the back of her waist.

She holds firmly to her crossed arms, hesitates, then allows him to lead her away from the water.

What can he show her that she might find interesting? He’s worried that she’ll think him stupid.

Seagulls swoop over the ocean and scamper along the beach, screeching their claims for dominance and territory.

‘I found a nest up here the other day,’ he says, recalling the tiny woven basket and the grey-feathered parents taking turns to guard their eggs.

She tilts her head to look at him. He is reminded of a scene from an old romantic movie; the sort he went to in his teens when he was dating Jess.

‘Do you want to have a peep?’ Without waiting for a reply, he leads her up the path.

When they reach the nest, he presses a finger to his lips. She nods her head and waits. He lifts out shattered eggshells and broken twigs and leaves. Isabel takes his hand and holds it between her warm, smooth-skinned palms. Her mouth turns up a little at the corners, but her eyes are unable to participate in the smile she gives him.

He wants to ask her what happened to make her so sad; why she can’t smile with her eyes. It’s too soon for that.

‘Perhaps they just flew away,’ she says.

Reluctantly, he removes his hand from hers. ‘Will you come and have a coffee with me?’

Back at his house, Isabel appears far more relaxed than he feels.

‘You make good coffee.’ She breathes in the warm aroma. ‘Pretty china, too.’ She takes a sip and holds the mug with both hands. ‘I love your view.’

Still clasping the mug, she walks to the window. ‘It makes you feel good, doesn’t it, that shimmer on the water?’

The lump in his throat stifles his reply. That’s what Jess had said when she first saw the place. He goes to the pantry, fumbles with sauce bottles, waiting for the fluttering in his belly to cease.

‘Would you like a biscuit?’ He waves a packet at her. ‘They’re only Arnott’s Monte Carlos; my daughter must have left them here.’

Isabel turns to face him. ‘I’m sure they’ll be lovely, but I’m not hungry. You have some, though.’

He takes his coffee to the table, puts two biscuits on a plate and sits down, indicating for her to join him. ‘Come and tell me about yourself,’ he says.

To be continued:

COUNTRY LIFE

We arrived after dark, kids asleep on the back seat, dog alert, whining to be allowed out of the car. Country smells had him quivering with excitement, so Robert let him out first. I hoped he wouldn’t explore too far on our first night in a strange place.

“Can you put the lights on high beam, love?” My husband’s voice echoed in the vast space around us as he turned back to the meter box.

Obediently, I leant across and adjusted the headlights. Robert stood out against dark brown, weatherboard walls that could do with a coat of paint. The green, cabled jumper that I had knitted for him in our student days, still hung loosely on his trim frame and his corduroy trousers from the same period, looked suitably warm for the frosty night air.

Yes, I am following you anywhere, I thought. Let’s hope this new venture will give us enough money to go back home and pay the mortgage.

“The power’s not connected,” Robert said, walking towards me. “We’ll have to unload in the light from the car. There’s a kerosene lamp in one of the boxes inside.”

He opened the passenger door and reached into the glove box. “Here’s a torch. Go and see if you can find the lamp.”

Coming to this lonely farm house was bad enough. How did he think we could unload the children, make up beds and find everything in the dark? I got out of the car and walked across crunchy grass. The front door was unlocked. A pity he didn’t check the electricity this afternoon when they delivered our stuff, I thought, stepping inside.

Waving the torch around, I noted a brick fireplace, pale brown stains on the ceiling, walls painted yellowish green, jarrah floor boards, no curtains on the window. Plonked in the middle of the living room were the boxes that we had packed several days earlier.

“It has to be in one that he packed,” I muttered, pushing aside my efficiently labelled handiwork.

Robert came in, carrying two cases. “Jane’s awake,” he announced and continued walking through a doorway off the living room. “Have you found the lamp yet?”

My breath came out in a noisy rush as I ripped a box open. Towels, books, the dog’s lead and his water bowl got thrown on the floor.

“Do you remember where you put it?” I was almost in tears as I continued pulling things out of the box.

“It’s okay, love. I’ll find it.” He gave me a quick hug. “You bring the kids in. Jane’s bed’s in that room. Stuart will be in with us.” He pointed to the room where he had just put the cases.

It was one in the morning when we fell into bed. Almost immediately, it started; thump, thump in the ceiling. Eyes staring into the dark, heart thumping as loudly as the intruders, I was wide awake and ready to defend my babies.

To be continued:

One Week to Harvest part two

He hurled the plastic bottle at the fence. Harry ran to retrieve it. Dropping the trophy on the ground next to Gus, the dog lay down, paws touching scuffed leather. Gus squatted beside him, ruffled his course black fur, then brushed away a slobbering tongue.

“It’s okay mate. You don’t have to lick me to death.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth as Gus tweaked his dog’s ear. “You can’t work out what the hell’s going on, can you? Don’t worry, I can’t either, but let’s have breakfast and we might feel better.”

The generator started up when he switched the kettle on. Automatically he took two bowls from the dresser and placed them on the table.

Like barbed wire, pain wrapped around his heart. “Why, Amy?” He shoved the second bowl back in the cupboard.

Kenny Rogers, crooning about the girl who found another man, made him want to turn the country radio station off, but the news was about to start. His stomach rumbled, reminding him how little he had eaten the previous day. Nutrigrain, milk and honey; Gus filled his bowl and gave Harry a handful of dog biscuits.

Bombs dropped on Syria; refugees crushed trying to board trains to Germany; fires out of control in California; former priest arrested for molesting boys in 1978.

“Makes my problems seem almost irrelevant.”

The kettle was boiling as Gus got up to make coffee. Amy collected the cups; seven all together, from places they visited on their trip to Tasmania. The blue one, decorated with a rooster, was Gus’s favourite; bigger than the rest and without the flowers, hearts and lovey-dovey words that covered the others.

He was about to stir two teaspoons of sugar into his cup when the local news came on.

“A damaged Harley Davidson was found by a passing motorist at two o’clock this morning. It had run off the road, probably due to severe storms last night. A man and his female passenger were taken to the Geraldton Hospital.”

One Week To Harvest

This short story was published in a collection called Timber, in 2018. Some of you might have read it, but for those who haven’t, I’ve decided to post it here in serial form over the next two weeks.

There are no pictures. I hope my words paint the scene and the actions for you.

As a writer, I sit alone at my computer, imaging people in situations and creating lives and stories around those imaginings. Most of my characters remain stuck, unloved and unknown, inside this laptop. I think they all belong on pages in books, so on the rare occasions when others judge my stories as worthy of publishing, I get madly excited and want to broadcast my words to the world immediately.

However, that wouldn’t be fair to the publishers who hope you and many other readers, would pay for the joy of reading all the stories in the collections like Timber. Stringybark Publishing does a great job, encouraging writers like me.

I’d really love to know what you think of the story so far and please come back next Saturday, the 19th September, for more.

Here is part one of:

One Week To Harvest

Grey clouds tumbled overhead, like waves in a stormy sea. Ripened wheat danced in the paddock.

From the doorway of his shed Gus watched the motor bike – a Harley Davidson, its shiny black metal splattered with mud. His ears throbbed at each rev of the throttle; the pain was nothing compared with the agony gripping his heart like the thrust of a sword, forge fired, cutting deep and searing flesh.

Amy didn’t wave, didn’t even look back, just wrapped her arms around the object of her passion and buried her face in his leather jacket.

Drops of rain mingled with his tears as Gus turned away. Inside the shed that was meant to be their temporary home, Amy’s bras and panties, normally scattered on chairs, the floor, their bed, were glaringly absent. In the corner where she sat to write her stories, the desk he’d made from a she-oak felled on their land, looked pristine. Devoid of laptop, printer, books and paper, the photo of him and her, taken on their honeymoon, stood out as a solitary reminder.

Harry, his black coat dripping, wandered into the shed. Doggy eyes sought answers from his master. He had followed the bike, bearing Amy, as far as the gate. His tail normally wagged so fast it knocked cups off the coffee table. Now it drooped, leaving a wet trail on the floor.

“Come here, fella.” Gus sat on the couch and patted his knee. “It’s just you and me, mate. You don’t know what she sees in that fucking mongrel either, do you?”

Man and dog ate alone that night—two tins taken from the unpacked box of groceries. Gus warmed his Irish stew in the frying pan that he and Amy bought when they moved in together. Harry sniffed at the contents of his metal bowl. Outside, rain continued pounding on the tin roof and gurgling down the pipes that fed into a tank, several metres away.

The bed was cold; empty and cold. White sheets were unforgiving as Gus lay down, his right arm automatically reaching for the warmth of Amy’s body. Gentle tears turned to wracking sobs, their sound blocking out the rustle on the other side of the bed. Never permitted, Harry crept in beside his master. Together they survived that first night.

At sunrise Gus crawled out from a tangle of sheets, pillows and doona. Harry was waiting by the door, tail wagging intermittently, as if he wasn’t sure such behaviour was appropriate, but a new day awaited and he was eager to be outside, exploring its possibilities.

“Okay, fella. You can go for a run. I’m having breakfast first.” Gus opened the door and let his dog out before stumbling back to the clothes rack where, until yesterday, three floral dresses and a rainbow rack of t-shirts were jammed in alongside his collection of shirts and jeans. Black, grey and navy appeared more depressing than convenient without the contrast of Amy’s wardrobe. He pushed coat hangers along the bar in an effort to close the gap.

Harry was back, snuffling at the door, when Gus walked out to fill the water bottle from the tank.

“Shit.”

In every direction, as far as he could see, ripened wheat lay prostrate in the paddocks.

“Just one bloody week to harvest.”

Write a Book in a Day

**The name and cover for last year’s book in a day**

Today I want to tell you about last Saturday, when I joined eight of my writing friends at the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writing Centre in Greenmount, to write A Book In A Day. This is a competition to raise funds for children’s cancer research. It’s a group writing project, with usually 8 – 10 people who come together for one day (twelve hours only) to produce a book, including illustrations, to be read by children aged about 10 -16. The books are given to the children in hospitals, but anyone can procure and read them. Each group nominates a day to suit them between 1st June and usually 31 August, but this year it’s September. The parameters are different for each group. No-one can pre-plan or try to guess the situation, issue or characters as this is not permitted until 8am on the selected morning.

As this is a fund raising venture as well as a fun activity, we all donated monies towards our entry. I’m hoping that, once you’ve read about our day, you might want to also participate in sponsoring our team for WABIAD. (WA Book in a Day)To get to the sponsorship page for our group, TNGers, click on this https://writeabookinaday.com/team-sponsorship/?id=86 or copy and paste the link. You can then scroll down to fill in your details and donation amount. All the money goes to the Children’s Cancer Research. A big thank you from all the children you’ll be helping, and from us.

Armed with food—fruit and biscuits for morning tea, soup and crunchy breads for lunch, home-made brownies and other nibbles for afternoon sustenance and the promise of a home cooked Indian feast for dinner, plus liquid refreshments to help celebrate our success—we arrived at our venue well before 8am. We brought laptops, cords, USB ports, paper and pens to make notes and anything else we might need for a full-on day of writing. Our skilled artist came laden with paints and pencils, pots and paper, ready to create hilarious renditions of characters and situations as the rest of us developed our ideas.

On the dot of 8, coffee, tea or chocolate beverages to hand, we were given our clues. This year’s competition hasn’t finished yet, so I’d better not broadcast ours, but I can tell you what we had to write about last year, to give you an idea of what’s required.

In 2019 our characters were a piano tuner, a dentist and a necklace (we always have one non-human character). The setting was a motorway and the issue was the discovery of magic powers. Creating a story suitable for 10 to mid-teens is a challenge. Setting it on a motorway had several of us tearing our hair out. No swearing allowed in the publication either.

Each year we also have five words to be included anywhere in the story, block letters making it easy for the readers to find. Community, skipped, magic, canvas and sings appeared with little effort.

This year, with our characters, the setting and the issue noted, our first task was to decide boy, girl, man, woman, age, names, appearances and the fun part – who will be the baddy? Setting and issue already decided for us, we found it fairly easy to fill in the details of who, where, when how and why. The discussion got quite heated, with nine enthusiastic participants keen to contribute ideas. Our group leader had the task of noting suggestions on the white board. As we needed to get around to the actual writing as soon as possible, this part of the process was a bit messy. Fortunately this year our leader was calm, organised and a quick writer. Unfortunately, his handwriting was often difficult to decipher, but he didn’t mind repeating himself, several times.

Eight of us were there to write, so the story was broken up into eight chapters. We then chose which chapter we wanted to create. This method works quite well, except that it’s easy to miss some vital bit of information that needs to be in your chosen chapter, or, as often happens, the information is repeated in the previous or following chapter.

We had an added problem this year. One of our most enthusiastic members was recovering from major surgery and couldn’t be with us. Face book Messenger to the rescue; he was able to participate in the initial discussions, although with limited understanding of all the conversations the exercise proved a wee bit frustrating for all.

Once a big chunk of writing was done, around lunch time, each participant read out what they had written so far. The omissions and double-ups were obvious. After lunch—everyone enjoyed the soup, many returned to the pot for seconds, and much of the bread and butter disappeared—bodies moved around tables, paragraphs were removed, inappropriate representations swapped for agreed replacements and generally, solutions were found that helped the story to flow.

Our ninth member is an artist as well as a writer. Without her illustrations our stories would lack the necessary sparkle. She worked on a separate, long table at the head of the room and visited each of us to discuss details about the way we imagined characters and scenes. Hair—long, short, curly, blonde, grey etc. Facial features—eye colour, head shape, facial hair? Is the character smiley, grumpy, studious, etc? Are the characters fat, thin, tall, short? Clothes—style to portray the character. And of course we all had to remember those details in our section of the story. We’re so lucky to have a talented artist on our team. Her illustrations were often hilarious and always perfect.

Our leader had to write his chapter as well as edit all of ours as we finished, plus scan the pictures and story, in correct order, to come up with our finished book by 8pm. Writers had finished by about 7pm and the last illustration just needed to dry before being scanned, closer to the deadline.

Cameras and phones captured appropriate images of diligent creators, bottles were opened (and our leader was still working) while we dragged out the last of our creativity for funny reviews and a synopsis for the back cover. Coming up with a suitable name for our story required several sips of wine for most of us and (thank goodness) a stroke of genius from our youngest member.

There were cheers all round as the finished book was sent off, via the internet, well within the time limit. Now we just have to wait for at least a month, until judgement day.

We believe we have produced a winner and I hope you will want to purchase a copy or three. They make great Christmas presents for children in that 10 – 16 age group.

If you are prepared to add to our financial donation, you can sponsor us by clicking on this link, https://writeabookinaday.com/team-sponsorship/?id=86 or if that doesn’t work, copy and paste it to connect to WA Book in a Day. The TNGers sponsorship page should appear. Scroll down to fill in your details and donation. Many thanks from us, the organisers and the children.

When we get the results of the competition I will let you know.