An adventurous woman, teacher and writer. I have a broad range of life experiences and a desire to connect. I'm passionate about telling stories about people. I'm currently working on a psychological thriller/horror. So many ideas!
The darkness was pressing in on her. It was cold. So cold she barely noticed the chill in the rough stone beneath her hips. The kind of cold that leaves a deep, everlasting ache inside your joints. The stone walls of the cell stayed cold most of the year. The walls had no windows, nowhere for the sunlight to enter and warm them. Nowhere for warm air to creep in. It was just cold.
There is a door in the house. Like any other door, it must lead somewhere but the girl who lived there had never opened it. She did not know what was on the other side of the nondescript white wood. All she knew was that it was a dark place. The light shining before it was not one of beauty. It was a hard light, almost too painful for the eye to look upon. The girl’s eyes slid off the door every time she wandered into the kitchen looking for a snack, or something to drink. The rest of the kitchen was simple. Pleasant tones, even colours. Nothing jarring anywhere. Rather the kitchen had an aura of homeliness that would not be out of place in your grandmother's house. The bench tops were a pale marble, the picture windows outlined in lemon curtains with the mouldings painted to match.
Hills like White Elephants
As a man shaped by war and sportsmanlike adventures such as game hunting (London School of Journalism, 2003), one could be surprised to read a poignant piece on abortion, sensitively written by Ernest Hemingway, lacking overt personal agender, pushed toward the audience. Hemingway did just that in Nineteen twenty-seven, writing a thinly veiled discourse on abortion, forcing the reader to acknowledge (even if only in private) their own beliefs upon reading the dialogue between an unnamed American and his lover. Hemingway’s lack of verbosity (Stone, Pg 395) is uniquely paired with his almost total reliance on dialogue to deliver this simple yet powerful story. Had Hemingway used a different set, or even placement of words the readers' interaction with the story would have been wholly different. Dialogue alone cannot tell the story, however. Three highly symbolic scenes are given at key intervals to set the stage and move the act along. These elements are supported by Hemingway allowing the reader a direct point of view and encouraging deliberate engagement. It is imperative though that the reader consider “Hills like white elephants” through the lens of Hemingway’s own ‘iceberg theory’; “the dignity in the movement of an iceberg lies in only one-eighth of it being above water” (London School of Journalism, 2003)
It was fifty degrees outside. The hard-baked ground burned under his paws as he trudged across the plain. His shaggy coat nearly dripped with sweat, matted with burs and bristling. Thistles cling to his flanks as he weaves through the long weeds.
I cannot believe I'm back here. I can’t do it; I won’t do it. I should leave, turn right around, and walk out the gates. Half turning, Iana looked to see if Mrs Poole was still watching her, she gave a small salute as if to say running hadn’t occurred to her. Not that Mrs Poole was fooled. She’d known Iana for too long. Looking up at the imposing fortress in front of her, Iana wondered if anything had changed. Would Vi still be here? Would they let her back into the same class as her friends? Looking at the military grey roof and the off-white walls she laughed grimly to herself. The cops were right of course. She was running from an institution, just not the one they expected.
- Top Story - August 2022
Depression and WritingTop Story - August 2022
I love those days when the air is still, the sun is hot and you can smell heat that lets you know you’re in Australia. As a kid in the 80s and 90s, those long hot days of summer were my favourite. The time when I was allowed to dream of my future. When the heat would bake into my skin and seep into my brain and I knew I was destined to be a writer, famous. I struggle to write when it's cold; it's like my words all go silent and my fingers refuse to form the shapes needed. My mum in particular encouraged my writing for the fun it gave me, but I still learned as I grew that becoming a writer was not an option as a career path; unless I wanted to be a reporter or journalist. Those jobs at least had regular paychecks. I don’t think anyone wanted to keep me from my dreams. They wanted to keep me safe. To teach me to aim for something that would remove me from a hand-to-mouth existence.
I struggled; it was a futile gesture, but I really tried. I couldn’t get any air into my lungs, and I felt myself getting weaker by the second. My vision started going dark and spots floated in front of me before the woman finally spoke up.
The weakening light was the only witness to her mourning. Amid the stone giants, pregnant with loss and life, she sang her grief to the howling wind. She aged as she sang, each note adding years; ever-changing, eternal. Once her grief was spent she turned away from the circle and picked her way toward the beach below. Her dress snagged on the rocks as she gave her attention solely to placing her bare feet. Barely discernable in the twilight each black thread led towards deeper darkness.
You’d think in a town the size of this one girl would be able to disappear easily – or at least quickly. I need to be more careful, spells where any pleb can stumble across….Damn, missed my alley, why do all self-appointed hunters have to be so fit! On any other day, I could outpace him. But today was not any other day and I just had to wear my heavy boots to mark the occasion. Need air…. I’ll hide here for a few moments, catch my breath. No one will think to look for a witch underneath temple stairs. Wonder if they’d let me invoke the right to Sanctuary…