writer | editor | artist
Personal writing challenge in which I attempt to write a new piece (almost) every day. Each one 200 words.
Today’s guest post is by Elizabeth Kasmer. I met Liz a few years ago, when she first started working on the manuscript of a beautiful Young Adult manuscript called ‘Aurora’. I’m still waiting (impatiently!) for her to finish the novel and find a publisher, but in the meantime I’m delighted to have the pleasure of reading…
Some afternoons I would sit on the back deck and do nothing for so long that the light would fall out of the world. There is a moment, unfixable, between day and night, when you still believe you can see the wrens darting about. But then the light is truly gone, and you aren’t sure whether…
Over the weeks leading up to my mother’s death, I went out into the orchard each night and trained myself to see in the dark. This was at her insistence. A training I at first refused. Initially, the only things I could see were shadows. I navigated by scent and memory. This is the lemon tree; here the orange;…
It was 1955, and she was twenty-three, living in Sydney and selling dresses in a department store. She had realised that she didn’t have the money to finish her medical training, and, after a year working in various hospitals, that she didn’t want to be a nurse. Nevertheless, she was bored with selling dresses; she…
Ten generations ago the queen entered the earth. And each generation has had its drummer. Wee Whittler is ours. Small and dark and sombre, she sits cross-legged on top of the mound, at dawn and at dusk, and patters and pounds the world into waking. Into sleep. When I was a child I would go with the…
Kay was one of those they’d Banished. Like prisoners in the old days, or the mad or the homeless, the Banished were as good as dead. In the eyes of the law, anyhow. They had no right to roof or food or love, no right to speak (in public or in private places), no right to…
Today’s guest post brought to you by the beautiful, and talented, Rebecca Jessen. As some of you know, Bec is very dear to me, so I won’t rave on about her talents as a writer, at the risk of appearing prejudiced. BUT, she’s an impressively alert, attentive and tender writer. After you’ve read this small…
— for B– It’s true what they say; that you’re too young for me. And so I’ve decided to stop here, at the age I am, and wait for you. Later tonight, while you’re sleeping, I will walk into the forest near our home, and find a shaded grove with a tree whose topmost branches…
Today’s guest post is brought to you by a young performance poet I first met at a strange little poetry gig at Rick’s Garage in Palmwoods. Indie Adams blew the rest of the poets off the stage with her combination of strength and vulnerability. This short piece was inspired by the lovely artwork by the Polish…
There was nothing, and nobody, left to save. It hurt to look at the emptiness, but it was no good turning away, or closing our eyes; because the absence was also inside us. So we walked away. What else was there to do? We packed our suitcases and put on our coats. Laced our best boots onto our feet…