Tathra
My mother walks back up the beach untying the white straps from the orange life vest around her waist. The one I had just given her to put on. I am sitting at a wooden table and chairs setting under an old creaky pine tree. I ask her what has happened, I can tell by the look on her face that something has upset her. ‘Daddy pushed me in,’ she wails. She refers to my father as Daddy. She claims she misses saying the word since her own father passed away when she was closer to my age. As she gets closer to me I can see that her blue dress is wet. She laughs and invites me to come down to the water for a swim. She might as well, she’s already wet. I strip off my pants and shirt, my swim suit underneath, and head down to the water with her. It’s warm and salty. My father pulls the kayak onto the sand. I hear the fibreglass scrape across the grains and grit. My mother has swam ahead of me, already out in the deeper parts where the water is dark is dark with reeds. I wade in to my knees and then I dive in and Freestyle out to her. As I reach her I slow and ask how deep it is underfoot. I don’t want to put my legs down to feel for the bottom until I know. She tells me that her hands are in the sand and there are no reeds here. Oh, I say. We slowly meander over towards the small sandbank my father has already walked to. Mum doesn’t want to leave the water now for the harsh wind. So I slip my hands under her arms from behind and force her up with me. We run together across the sandbank, past Dad, holding our breasts into our chests, and sink back into the water on the other side. We laugh at how funny we would have looked to the other families still on the beach by the pine trees.
———–
This is the chapter in my life called ‘Falling in love – and I missed that feeling of lightness, anticipation and joy and I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.’
Endless fields of green
Perfect summer dream
Music in the air
We all let down our hair
Falls Festival
Sunday 30th of Dec 07
You looked like a gypsy cowboy. I still have the image burned into my mind. Among an endless sea of tents, we were camped beside the heshen covered fences that surrounded the main stage and festival arena – We stole our sleep with the aid of bright orange earplugs nicked from the workplace. The sun shone brightly around us but failed to reach us through the thick dark-green tarpaulin we had painstakingly elevated above our heads. You were camped down the hill, in the valley with your friends. You stood near our tent; I was introduced to you and then introduced to your girlfriend. You missed all the drama that morning. The car accident, the police, the fire truck, two destroyed cars in the dirt beside the road. It was our fault the road was blocked. But you witnessed the signature the seatbelt had left on my belly as I lifted my shirt from the deck chair I sat crumpled in, in the shade, a plastic cup of red wine and orange juice in hand. I was in pain and already over the notion of finding summer romance. But I liked you from the moment I saw you. Your cute boyish smile, crazy brown hair, your bohemian ways. But you were unattainable, so I put you away from my mind.
Flooding rains
On muddy plains
Where sadness dies
Bright eyed surprise
Meredith Music Festival
Friday the 12th of Dec 08
My eyes lit up as I recognised you instantly. The guy from Falls. My attention was then drawn to my own appearance. Several layers of damp clothes, muddy shoes, a large clear garbage-bag-like poncho. I was wet through and through, but so were you. It was the most rain Victoria had seen all year and we were all camped out there in the thick of it. I went to bed early and when I got the chance I asked my friend if you still had that girlfriend from Falls. No, you didn’t.
Saturday the 13th of Dec 08
I flirted with you constantly, trying my best to keep my makeup in order and not look too frumpy, it was impossible for me to feel attractive in my many layers, but warmth had to be a priority. I cursed the rain and mud. Everything was wet. The underdressed looked like misfortunate cats that had fallen into bathwater. The campsite looked like a war-zone. Soggy goon boxes scattered, broken deck chairs laid to rest upside down in the rain, your futile attempt to dry your clothes under the tarpaulin hanging from a rope with no pegs.
The delightful odour of the food tent wafted in our general direction for most of the day; sweet corn, baked potatoes, curry, Belgian waffles. A small joy in this strange world we had fallen into.
We stayed under cover and played poker for jelly snakes all afternoon. We cut them into small pieces on the dirty camp table. Suddenly the wind strikes up and the tarpaulin comes loose, it flaps wildly, covering us with water. We scramble to reach the cable ties and reassemble our shelter. You hold the tarp as I feed the white plastic tie through the hole. Your hand touches mine. I blush.
By nightfall I decided there was nothing I could do about my dishevelled exterior the anarchy of the campsite and disorderly conditions bestowed upon me and so I joined the crowd and just danced. Some of us had mixed our own punch in plastic water bottles; cheap vodka, cheaper red wine, orange juice, raspberry lemonade and pub squash. I squeezed the bottle that held some of my own concoction into your open mouth as I had done the people around me, but in a fit of coughing you spat a portion back and into my eye. To apologise you lifted me onto your shoulders with great difficulty and held me high above the crowd. I could see everything from up there, but I was more excited about being close to you. When the song had finished you slowly let me down again. After I had my feet firmly planted on the ground again I realised you still had your arm around me. You kissed me on the cheek. I was not sure if it was just the alcohol, but at this point everything went blurry and I became a bit dizzy. My heart was in a flutter and my head was spinning. I turned to my friend for confirmation that my next action was unanimous. Just kiss him she yelled. I wrapped my arms around your neck and our lips met for the first time in a fashion that would resemble a slightly muddy and intoxicated version of a cliché Hollywood kiss. The stage lights blazing, the music roaring, the rain falling on our faces. We danced into the night as mud sprang up from the ground with every uncoordinated movement.
When we left the crowd I tripped and fell in the mud, my ankle ached but I forced myself to laugh away the embarrassment and pain as you picked me up and took me back to your tent.
Sunday the 14th of Dec 08
I woke up beside you on a small single matrass beneath a small single sheet. The tall wet walls of the old fashioned dark green tent swayed slightly in the wind. We talked all morning, hung over and tired, exploring each other. You took off your necklace. A round pendant on a tatty string with a picture of a tree in the middle surrounded by flowers, two suns and a moon. You delicately placed it around my neck and told me to keep it – in case I should forget you. It still sits there now.
When everyone had left the campsite we finally emerged from the cacoon we had created inside your tent. The sun had come out so we dragged a matress onto wet grass and lay there for hours more in each other’s company, letting the sun soak into our damp cold bodies. I was grateful it had stopped raining. You held your hand in mine as the music played on in the distance and I imagined what the future would bring us.
———–
With the wind
You come into my house uninvited
- with the wind
and you scatter yourselves around as if it were your own
Through the drainpipe, the cracks in the windows, under the doors, you come
- with the wind
Under the fridge, beneath the cupboards, behind the couch, into places I can’t get to, you are blown
- with the wind
My only wish is that with the wind you would go away again
But that is up to me, dead leaves that visit – with the wind.
———–
My conception
In the city of many seasons
There are twice as many reasons
For a pair of honeymooners to escape
To a place of summer breezes
Where you won’t find winter freezes
At a campsite that is well away from home
And while the little one’s out wandering
There is no time to be pondering
With a little one it’s hard to find the time
And so then they looked around
For a place to not be found
But the only place secluded was the tent
So there was much affection
On the day of my conception
And I thank them very much for their creation
———–
My uni application (BA in creative writing)
My name is Renée, I am a creative writer and this is my approach to writing as a creative practice. I write fiction, but right now I am going to lay that aside and write the truth. But the truth can still be a story.
My earliest memory of writing was when I was about eight years old. We were asked to write a story for school. I did not know what to write about so I asked the nearest grown up; my Grandmother.
“Well, what do you want to write about?” she answered my question with another question.
“A cat, a squirrel, A bunny, a girl, a…” She stopped me. “Let’s start with the cat”, she said. “What do you want the cat to do?”
And so I began to write.
When I was fifteen my first romance ignited my passion for writing, and I filled pages with poetry for years. When the romance died, the poetry merged into other forms and other styles.
My passion for writing grew.
In high school I studied the great writers of the past. Chaucer. Writing which to most made no sense at all, but I grasped the words and strained to understand. It didn’t matter if there where parts of it that to me were completely illegible, it still sounded amazing and fascinating. Shakespeare was also a joy to read. A master of the written word; who revolutionised the modern text. Comparing these veterans of literature to today’s authors, we can see how far we’ve come. J K Rowlings, another name that in time will be renowned as one of this centuries leading authors. But maybe not for the impressive display of poetic literature of the aforementioned, but for pioneering the modern industry and in the age of technology, creating a new generation of readers. I was one of these readers.
And then one day out of the blue, a character worked his way into my head and I was compelled to put him onto paper. As I learned more about him and his life, more and more characters began to emerge, they started to create their own story. The story turned into a whole world and now that world is on paper, but it still waits, impatiently, to be put into words that can be read and enjoyed. A feat for which I’m afraid I lack the ability – not to achieve, but to achieve to the standard which I would prefer in order to do my story justice.
It soon became apparent that if I was to make a habit of this and, God willing, a career, I could not just rely upon raw talent and the will to succeed.
I enrolled in a short course at CAE earlier this year: ‘Beginning creative writing’, because this is where I was going to start. The course opened my eyes to new things and allowed me to focus on specific areas of writing. I relished this rare opportunity to share my writing with others, and learn more about the trade I wish to pursue. I know that writing can be a selfish trade if you keep it all to yourself. When I complete your course I would like to go on to study teaching and then go on to do just that. Teaching others to explore their own passion in writing as my teacher had thought me. This is where I want to be.
And now you find me here.
With a passion for every written word,
A story burning inside of me,
And a desire to learn, to be educated, by you.
———–
Two Cats
As she casually strolled down the aisles of her local IGA she noticed every item on every shelf. She had something to say about every one of them too; if only someone was willing to listen. As she came to isle eight, the overhead speaker began to voice advertisements. She slowed her pace and listened intently. With a slight limp she then made her way to the middle section of the isle where her eyes met with familiar labels that read Whiskas and Snappy Tom. Her hunched neck and back would not allow her to reach the upper shelves so she extended her short skeletal arm to the shelf closest to her, and knowing she had not a penny in her purse to make such a purchase she took a can from the shelf and placed it neatly in her handbag. For the guilt of stealing did not outweigh the thought of two hungry cats in her mind. She then swiftly paced to the store exit in an effort to leave un-noticed. But she was stopped.
A man in a gray suit was seen entering a police station he left with his mother. She seemed flustered and slowly he led her to his car and began to drive her home. It took him sometime to calm her down.
Why don’t you visit me anymore Jonathan?
Mum, I’m David.
Oh, David then.
Has the carer been around?
You mean Julie? That lovely young girl, I don’t want to bother her.You need help Mum.
You’re not looking after yourself. I’ll call the agency tomorrow and get them to send someone around.
Why don’t you just come by more often Jonathan?
David. And you know I get busy with work. I can’t always be there for you.
He dropped her off outside her house, leaving her to make her own way to the door. He sped of angrily. She reached into her handbag and after a swift search located her keys and opened the door. She was met on the other side by two cats crying for attention. She headed straight to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. As the kettle boiled she gazed vacantly out the small window. It had begun to rain.
The ants have got into my honey again – she said to herself. Or was it to her cats?
They only find ways to get inside when it’s raining. Don’t they puss?
Meow – came a soft reply from the fury black one, looking up at her with large green eyes.
I bet your hungry.
She moved across the kitchen towards the laundry, where she kept, among piles of unwashed clothing and towels, a vast supply of cat food.
Meeeow – came the exited voice of the slender ginger one, loud and almost rude.
It’s coming, it’s coming, don’t be so impatient – she drawled.
As she set aside two portions of food in two small bowls and placed them on the floor, thunder began to sound outside and the sky grew darker.
As she meandered slowly towards the living room she spoke again, the way she would have spoken to own children when they were young –
Don’t worry about the thunder … It’s nice and safe inside. Come on, we’ll lights the fire and we can all curl up on the couch together. How does that sound?
———–
Winter – Spring
Every morning I leave my house around 7.30am.
At my doorstep I am met by a cold chill that follows me to my car, were I find frosted windows and an icy interior. My hands are so cold I am compelled to wear gloves.
Sometimes it rains, sometimes it only drizzles
But there is always a threat lurking in the grey-black clouds above my head.
It’s cold. I shiver.
But not this morning.
I had no need for gloves this morning.
As I left my house a cool, fresh breeze made its own way to my face, it carried with it the faint but familiar sent of spring.
The sun was shining down on me as I approached my car. The windows were crystal clear.
The clouds were fluffy white displaying a tinge of pink and a bright blue sky was escaping from beneath them.
But the horizon there were no clouds at all
Just a pale, happy blue.
———–
Daydreams and Nonsense
To slip away into the brief eternal bliss of nothingness, like a whisper from the heart to the mind, holding some deep, strange secret. A second to ponder upon contemplation and imagine beyond rules or reason.
A chain of continuous thoughts, but on paper less than a dream. A confused line of verse taking flight, only to find it’s trapped inside a cage of memory. A random structure comes to mind, but is lost again at the instant of creation.
But my heart seems to smile at my mind’s uncontrollable power to eliminate sense, when called upon.
———–
