Australian fiction writer and reader, always on the lookout for good writing.
An Intake of Breath
“Breathe! You have to breathe!” Thump, thump, thump. The sound of my fists thumping Michael’s chest reminds me of the heavy bass that used to shake our walls every Sunday morning. Like a religion, our neighbour blasted rock music, assuming everyone else in the neighbourhood wanted to worship like he did.
Once upon a time there were three Bears: Poppa Bear, Mumma Bear and Baby Bear. One Sunday in late August, Poppa Bear cooked them all porridge for their breakfast. It was a tradition that had been going for six generations: Sunday breakfast was always porridge and always cooked by the patriarch. The secret recipe was handed down from father to son and they were the only ones who knew the proper proportions of oats to water to milk to honey to sultanas. Sometimes, Poppa Bear varied the recipe and replaced the sultanas with dates, which was even more delicious.
- Top Story - December 2022
The Last WindowTop Story - December 2022
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. The embroidered hem of her white dress trailed behind her across the gritty granite tiles. Her dark hair curled and floated behind her, almost touching the floor.
The Ash Man
The long plaintive wail of a train horn startles me awake. I blink rapidly then close my eyes and sit still while my mind tries to catch up to my body. I take deep slow breaths, in through my nose, out through my mouth, as Dr Hughes taught me. The breaths coming in are silky and smooth, the ones going out jagged and rough, matching the beat of my pounding heart.
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. But, like everyone else, Hale didn’t remember a time when there were none. She was thinking about dragons as she stepped carefully over the trickle of icy water that in spring would become a fast-flowing stream. Instinctively, she glanced up. Raindrop icicles clung desperately to the leafy canopy determined not to let go, much like this year’s winter. Oppressive grey clouds skimmed the tops of the trees, visible where some of the dry yellowing leaves had given up and released their grip.
- Runner-Up in Mother's Day Confessions Challenge
BowerbirdRunner-Up in Mother's Day Confessions Challenge
Dear Mum I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. I’m not sure what to call you. It feels like a betrayal to the Mum who actually raised me, but I don’t think she’d mind now. Mum always said you must have had a good reason to give me up. She made sure I never blamed myself or you.