Tag Archives: writing

Fiction Friday – Cardboard Box

Cardboard Box

The coffee is bitter; the house is empty of tea bags and he thinks he should start a shopping list. The sun chases the shadows up his legs sitting at the dining room table. Where once there were shadows, everything all at once is now in the light, including the cardboard box he has left by the front door. He has spent the past couple of weeks collecting the detritus of his life he found washed up in the corners of his house and collected when happened upon by chance as he wandered from room to room. Poor pickings to sell at a car-boot sale he thinks, but probably important to his family. These fragments of a life needing an explanatory synopsis, like an artist’s statement of intent. He hasn’t found a pen. This is the last time he will have a need for the box and its contents. They will be left for others to find and sort through. He knows this will be an error he cannot correct.

Fiction Friday – Garage Sale

FICTION FRIDAY

Garage Sale
It started with a cardboard box like the ones picked up from a storage facility for two bucks fifty a pop. He had heard his parents talking about a garage sale, to make a spot of extra cash, help pay the bills. He thought he should help. From the kitchen junk drawer, he pulled a roll of black cloth tape, and gaffed the bottom of the box to seal it. The first three things he put into the box were a Pokémon card from above his bed, the magpie feather on his desk and his favourite pair of footy socks.
I wish that the boy, back then, would know the weight of the box. Or maybe it’s best the boy didn’t know. He will know, one day in his future. I want to warn the boy that throughout his life, the box will carry items of importance, objects of obsolescence, trinkets and treasures. And I would tell the boy to add another layer of gaff to the bottom seal and the sides because the weight of expectation is a burden too big to carry.

Fiction Friday – Whispers

FICTION FRIDAY

We were sitting on the couch watching a movie. And I don’t even remember what it was; it featured George Clooney, as you kept pointing out. Our hands met at the bottom of the bowl of salt’n’vinegar chips. You offered me the last chip and said I needed it. The tang on my tongue held a sourness, another slicing of my spirit like a papercut. I turned what you said, that I needed it, into whispers because I knew that this was your strongest form. Not the visible power of the rainstorm that flashes and crashes and splashes its palette of greys and blacks and whites across the sun-stretched canvas. Not in the shouted brashness of the wind that believes if it speaks the loudest, it will convince the listener it is right. It is in the whisper that truth is heard because it is meant for the hearing of one. And I listened.

Screenshot of the original text

Fiction Friday – Kindling

I was about seven years old, sitting cross-legged in the loungeroom, as I watched my father light the fire. He had pushed me back to a safe distance, but also out of his way. He struck the match and it flared, brightened, retracted. Kept alive by my father’s hand as he tilted the flame to consume more of the matchstick. He reached into the kindling and touched the flame to the shredded newspaper within. I watched in fascination as the newspaper burned, licking around the edges of the kindling, tapering down. Having enough energy to ignite the small twigs and thinner strips of cut down fence palings. Kept an eye on my father as he monitored the flame, having the knack to know when to add more fuel to keep the fire alight. It was years later I understood that starting an argument is the same as starting a fire: you introduce friction. Years of accumulated kindling would burn for decades.

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? Or, How Do You Define Success Anyway?

What metrics define success?

If you are an athlete it could be defined by times, distance, height, weight. Measurable. I started doing the Park Run at the beginning of the year with the aim of being able to run 5 kilometres in under 30 minutes. My first few runs were around the 34 minute mark. Slowly, over 23 runs completed this year, I am now under 30 minutes (on average). My 2025 goal will be not only to maintain that pace, but work towards being under 29:30 (consistently – I am defining ‘consistent’ as 4 consecutive weeks under that time), with the goal of reaching 29 minutes (consistently).

If, however, you are a creative, the definition becomes as solid as holding mist in your hand.

Today I was reading a writer’s chapbook on goal setting, and one of the exercises it had was for you to write down what you defined as ‘success’ as a writer. It linked to a a range of writers’ responses as to what they considered ‘success’ and were ever aware that the goals for a writer are forever changing. For some it was the ability to live off the income from their writing. For others it was the success of having written and submitted.

It made me think about what I considered as successful. I doubted that I was a ‘successful’ writer because there are a number of goals and dreams and aspirations I have for the future that are, as yet, unfulfilled.

And yet…

  • my debut co-authored novel, Postmarked Piper’s Reach, was published in 2019. It’s now out of print but you can read the letters like a web serial: Postmarked Piper’s Reach
  • my chapbook, Mount Pleasant, was published in 2021. I aim to re-release it next year with the art I drew for it.
  • I have had 12 short stories accepted for publication since 2022. Some of these have won awards.
  • I have sold a few pieces of art and have been asked for commissions.

This is the success of continued application and hard work and good luck.

For 2025 I have begun to plan for the writing of my first novel. Success will mean hitting the action points I have put in place. Success will mean revisiting and revising those action points and goals, and where necessary, putting in place specific steps to achieve them.

Success is elusive.

I recently submitted a short story, and I have no idea how it will go. However, it has been read by a few people who gave their feedback, and it resonated with them. If the story ends up going nowhere, I know there will have been a few people who read the story and loved it for what it was.

That is success.

2024 Blacktown Mayoral Creative Writing Prize

WestWords has released the winning entries for the Blacktown Mayoral Creative Writing Prize for the good people to read.

I have won this prize three years in a row. Time to retire from entering and focus on my novel(s).


You’ll find my story, Parallel Lines, included. There is a reference to Daryl Braithwaite’s “Horses” sung FOUR times at a wedding (this truly happened once at a gig I played).
You’ll find all the winners and highly commended entries from all age groups to read.
https://www.westwords.com.au/project/blacktown-2024-mayoral-creative-writing-prize-to-the-point/

Crowd Surfing/Circles on Circles

I wanted to go behind the scenes to my award-winning short story, Crowd Surfing (First Place in the 2024 Stringybark Short Story Award), particularly the music that I was listening to in the editing phase.

Crowd Surfing is about the search for healing in the middle of grief. A mother has lost her son to suicide, and after finding a ticket for a punk rock show in his room, goes along to the show to search for understanding about who he was, what the music meant to him, and what he meant to her and other people.

The inspiration behind the story came from a brief article I read about a mum crowd surfing at a gig. I introduced the suicide of her son as the conflict of the narrative. I love my heavy music and have been in a few mosh pits back in the day (these days I will happily take a seat if it’s offered). The catharsis I find in heavy music was the emotional core of the story and its purpose, and each draft was an excavation to achieve that goal.

In contrast to the heaviness and weight of emotions in the story, it was a quiet, melancholic and meditative song that was the soundtrack while I was editing. Circles on Circles by post-rock band Caspian was the song I had on repeat when working on this story. It was the concept of circles, of circular motion, of the cycles of grief that helped frame the narrative. My story was not influenced by the lyrics of the song but the tone and mood certainly did.

To build the narrative, I needed to get the mother in her place of grief to the venue. I imagined what it would be like to have to do the final load of washing of your child, to put it out on the clothesline, bring it in when it is dry, fold it and then put it away. It allowed me to focus on a mundane moment and endow it with a heaviness and an emotional weight, and then to build into the narrative the character of her son, Jeremy. I named him “Jeremy” after the Pearl Jam song.

When she enters his bedroom, she is confronted with all of the items that she identifies with her son: music, CDs, instruments, his laptop where he records his podcasts. This leads her to seeing a ticket for a local punk show and her decision to attend, to try and make sense of why this angry music was engaging for her son. As he says to her,

“I play angry music for happy people,” he said when she asked why he enjoyed it. She nodded like she understood in the same way she nods when people ask her how she’s doing, except she wants to scream, “If he was happy, why did he take his life?”

I noted to myself earlier this week when I was finishing a draft for a story, that it’s not until about the 4th or 5th draft of a short story, when I have really excavated its bones and begun putting on its flesh, that I can see the depth of purpose in the story and find ways to make that clear in every sentence.

Hence, it was the mundane act of washing that provided a motif for the story: the circular chaos of a washing machine in parallel to the frenetic actions of a mosh pit and the maelstrom that is grief. It appears in the narrative in different ways but was a constant thread throughout for a cohesive connection between mother and son, and between mother and her son’s music, and her own grief and sorrow. She sees it in the actions of the crowd as they make a circle pit with those on the inside, arms and legs tumbling like socks and undies in the washing machine, and those on the edge and perimeter, waiting and wanting to be drawn in, even if something is holding them back.

With Jeremy as a known entity in the scene, it is discovered that his mum is in the audience, and the band brings her up on stage, acknowledges her loss, and their loss, but want to show her what Jeremy meant to them, too. Again, Circles on Circles was the soundtrack in my ears when I was working on this last section of the story as a vehicle for helping me focus on the emotional core of when she is taken to the edge of the stage, the edge of her own grief and sorrow, to lean back and be carried by the hands of the crowd. When she is safely returned to terra firma, the crowd embraces her in community, closing the circle and providing the beginning of her healing.

Crowd Surfing is available from the Stringybark website or a digital version is available on Smashwords.

Publication News – The School Magazine October 2024

A little earlier this year I announced that my short story, A Shoebox of Changes, had been sold to The School Magazine.

This week my contributor copies arrived, and I was eager to see the story in print, and who the illustrator was. Alen Timofeyev has produced these beautiful and whimisical characters to support the story.

The New South Wales Department of Education releases 10 issues a year to public school students, catering for all reading levels through different titles aimed at stages.

A Shoebox of Changes is the story of Alannah and her best friend Diya, who find out they won’t be attending the same high school in the new year. The extended metaphor running through the story is the shoebox of silkworms Alannah is taking care of, from their hatching through to their growth, spinning silk coccoons and their metamorphosis into moths, as representative of the changes we go through in life.

There is a scope and sequence HERE.

Lesson Sequence for Figurative Language HERE.

Lesson Sequence for Extended Metaphor HERE.

Thanks to my friend, Benjamin Dodds for sending me photos of my work in the wilds of the primary school staffroom
This is my favourite image from the story.
Illustrated by Alen Timofeyev

Hit and Misses

Last week I had the great success of a creative writing WIN!

I won First Place in the Stringybark Short Story Award 2024.

Crowd Surfing is about the search for healing in the middle of grief. A mother has lost her son to suicide, and after finding a ticket for a punk rock show in his room, goes along to the show to search for understanding about who he was, what the music meant to him, and what he meant to her and other people.

I knew I had been shortlisted for the anothology, which of itself, is a WIN. To win a place was quite the surprise.

Today I received a lovely email from David, who passed on a message from the second place winner, Rob, who had this to say about my story.

Before getting down to business I will say cheekily, any disappointment I may have felt (hypothetically) being beaten for First Prize (such arrogance) disappeared in an instant upon reading “Crowd Surfing”.
Adam Byatt generated a surprisingly strong emotional response.  My heartfelt congratulations to him.

I haven’t had a chance to read Rob’s story yet, but it will be on the agenda for the weekend.

And then the misses arrived.

The very next day, Tuesday, I had a rejection for a story. Followed by another rejection on the Friday.

But that’s how it is.

Time to refine. Rewrite. Resubmit.

Crowd Surfing is available from the Stringybark website.

You can pre-order print copies, or if you’d like a digital version, head to Smashwords and you can get 25% off the price using the code: PJ97B. It is valid for as many uses as you wish but please note it expires on 15 August 2024.

The Dead Letter Office – A Pome

Author’s Note: Sometimes a random reading will lead to random inspiration and a random result. I like this way.

Create an imaginary friend.

Find a newsagent and buy a postcard. Send it to them.

Whenever the fancy takes you, you buy another postcard from a local convenience store or tourist shop and tell your imaginary friend you were thinking of them and hope they are well.

On a holiday to the beach up the coast, you buy a postcard each morning and tell your imaginary friend the ins and outs of work, the minor procedure you had last autumn and that you’ve taken up running. Each evening you post it.

One day you find a postcard that is a little suggestive, perhaps raunchy, and with trembling hand you write to your imaginary friend that you’ve been thinking of them. You’ll let yourself imagine they are your lover, and fantasise, and then consummate the idea at home. Later you’ll write a breakup postcard but you say you’ll hope to remain friends.

A few years will go by and the urge to write to your imaginary friend will pierce your stomach as you watch a gig at a local café. You write a note on a serviette as an apology.

The distance between postcards lengthens, stretching out to fathoms, and finding a working pen in the house is a miracle.

One day, you will realise you stopped writing to your friend. Regrets hurt.

Finally, as a salve, you will sit down and write a lengthy letter to your friend, taking the thoughts  from the shelves of your mind, and cataloguing them as museum pieces for an audience of one because it will help if someone knows the truth.

Set aside packs of postcards and pens for your funeral.