Thursday 8 September 2016

Local writer in the news

Local writer Christine Mackley is featured in a story by Sumeyya Ilanbey in this week's Star Weekly.
Christine, a multiple City of Melton Short Story Competition winner gave her views on what it takes to make a story stand out. She is proud that her work, Fair Fight, will be published in this year's Award Winning Australian Writing 2016.

Christine made a point of saying different things had helped her writing. One was being part of a writing group, this had helped because she had other like minded people to read and critique her work. She advised writers to use all of the five senses to put the reader into the story, so they can see, taste, hear and feel what the writer is saying.

Every word has to count in a short story so the writer needs to ask if it has a reason to be in your work.

Fair Fight took weeks of work to get it into shape before she submitted it.

Award Winning Australian Writing was launched at the beginning of Spring and should be available from a bookstore near you.

Les' Report 7th of September 2016

Captains Log 7th of September 2016

It was Mathew’s day on Wednesday – as per normal, interesting and helpful. We discussed our individual writing progress, short story writing and competitions in general, then finished up with a discussion on the Melbourne Writers Festival and its motivational implications. Everyone joined in the discussions and as usual, it was frenetic and jolly, with a dozen different conversations going at once. Of course, I tried valiantly to get everyone on track and of course, as usual, I was completely ignored. Still, it was all good natured, lots of fun and I think we achieved quite a bit.

Then Mathew pulled out a punctuation exercise (cue dramatic music – Da, da, da, daaaa). It was, interesting to say the least and caused an interesting differing of opinion and quite a bit of discussion. Which, of course is exactly what we want.


Please remember that entries to the Melton competition will close on the 7th October. It would be nice if we could all put in entries.

Wednesday 7 September 2016

City of Melton Short Story Competition 2016


The long running Melton Short Story competition is now open to entries copy and paste this address into your browser to access terms and conditions.

http://www.melton.vic.gov.au/Out-n-About/Libraries-and-learning/Libraries/Short-Story-Competition-2016

Thre are three categories again this year and are as follows
Adult Section (18 years and over)*1st Prize: $500
2nd Prize: $200
3rd Prize: $100
Teenage Section (13–17 years)*1st Prize: $250 (plus $250 for their school)
2nd Prize: $100 (plus $100 for their school)
3rd Prize: $50 (plus $50 for their school)
Junior Section (up to 12 years)*1st Prize: $250 (plus $250 for their school)
2nd Prize: $100 (plus $100 for their school)
3rd Prize: $50 (plus $50 for their school)
Entries are open to any medium: print, illustration, video, verse, voice or combinations of any of the above. Each entry should be no more than 1500 words and, for other story formats, something that takes no more than 5 minutes to experience.
*First time entry encouragement award
*Prizes for all finalists in each section
In case of two winners in any category the first and second prize will be added together and divided equally between the two winners and there will be a third prize.
Read the conditions of entry before submitting your story
Get some writing tips from a pro!
Find out who's judging.

Saturday 3 September 2016

WHAT IF? by Les Stillman


I love this place. It’s simply enchanting. So exotic. Palm trees and potted plants everywhere, and the blue of the sea, it’s simply divine. The staff look wonderful in their lovely native costumes and they cater to one’s every need. No radios or papers to disturb the tranquillity, a shield from the worries of the outside world, this place is just heaven. Hmm, the pool looks so cool and inviting.
‘I say Dickie, what about a quick dip before drinkies?

          Hate this place. What a disaster. Damn trees and spiked shrubbery everywhere, and the glare off that bloody ocean is giving me a headache. The staff look like clowns in those bloody awful costumes, constantly bothering me. Cut off from civilisation. No radios or even a newspaper, this place is a nightmare. God she wants to go for a swim, not likely after all these yokels have been in there, never know what you might catch.
‘What’s that you say, old girl? Drinkies? Rather.’

What a splendid idea they have, asking the guests to dress for dinner in these wonderful outfits they’ve given us. ‘It’s so romantic, wearing these pretty costumes. I love this veil, it’s rather seductive don’t you think?’ I wish Dickie would put his outfit on, instead of wearing his suit. He’d look like a foreign prince, instead of a stuck up, pompous Englishman. 

Couldn’t believe it when they gave us these ghastly costumes to wear to dinner. No, no, no. I have my suit, and that’ll do me just fine.
‘I say old girl; must you wear that bloody veil. Makes you look like some sort of harem girl don’t you know.  And before you ask – no, I will not wear that bally clown outfit.’

Horrible beast, if it wasn’t for the scandal, I’d chuck him out. Hmmm, still, he can be charming at times and I do make him look good when I’m on his arm.

Silly woman. By God, if it wasn’t for her money, I’d divorce her on the spot. Hmmm, still, not a bad set of pins on her, if you know what I mean.

I do love it here, so tranquil. Or it would be without Dickie. Now all I have to do is convince him to go and leave me here. ‘Dickie my love. What if…’

Writing Exercise: CORFU by Julee Stillman

From her point of view

I saw him when he checked in; Ralph Lauren bag and attaché case, and a swagger of confidence.
He let the porter take his bag but kept the attaché glued to his side. What secrets were hidden in there? What was so important that he wouldn’t let it out of his sight? I hoped it was five-hundred-thousand dollars.
As soon as I could I took a peek at the register. Mr Roger Butterworth was in a suite on the second floor. The suite next to mine. No connecting door, but that was not going to be a problem.
We met for dinner. Two perfect strangers on a perfect Corfu night. Our conversation was teasing.  Furtive glances, coy smiles. The clink of crystal. His silent acknowledgement that he would follow me anywhere. My ambition hidden behind my silk tangerine scarf.
My flight was booked. My suitcase packed. In five days’ time Roger would head back to his boring job in Melbourne and I…Well, I would be flying in the opposite direction, five-hundred-thousand dollars richer.
Men are so easy to bait and I already have another one on the hook.

And from his perspective.

Crisp white shirt, striped blue tie and a navy sports coat with gold buttons. That’s what I wear almost every day. That or something similar. It’s what my job as a general manager of one of Melbourne’s largest banks demands – something that says I’m dependable, trustworthy and it’s safe to leave your money in my hands.
However, I’m not dependable, nor am I trustworthy and it’s definitely not safe to leave money in my hands. At least not money I can embezzle. By all means put it in a safe deposit box, turn it into bonds or shares, but don’t leave it in an account where I can get my hands on it. Especially if I’m desperate to impress a pretty girl.
That’s why I’m sitting on the terrace of a five-star hotel in Corfu. Attentive waiters, good food and excellent ouzo. My eyes wander over a cobalt blue ocean and then back to the terrace with its terrazzo tiling. Then on to a corner table and the girl I stole five-hundred-thousand dollars for.





Thursday 1 September 2016

The Meeting By Kevin Drum


I nervously brush the lint from my jacket, withdraw a cigarette from the silver embossed case, tap it on the cover and light it. I exhale and through the smoke haze scan the poolside bar and surroundings
The relaxed murmur of the guests enjoying evening drinks soothes me. Diamond Head is aglow in the background flaunting its evening dominance in the setting sun. As if in applause I hear the huge crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean on the nearby foreshore.
Where is she? I’ve travelled half way around the world to meet her. Surely she won’t let me down. Surely?
From the first moment I saw her I was transfixed by her beauty and quiet assurance. I was drawn by her eyes, dark liquid pools, mysterious as an Arabian night. The brief contact as we were introduced, her exotic fragrance, the feigned fall, and her quiet but forceful words. ‘I want you more than life itself. Help me to get out of here.’
There’s some movement, bustling, just near the entrance. Shouting. I am adrenaline charged prepared for anything. I move quickly towards the commotion, and there she is. A large swarthy man has hold of her arm, dragging her. ’Let me go! she cries. ’Let me be.’
I drop to one knee, aim the Glock and fire. At that precise instant they stumble. I see the bullet hole to the forehead, deadly and final.


I am blessed as part of a wealthy family. I want for nothing. What more could my heart desire?
Until that fateful day.
I see him and know it is meant to be. He isn’t an important emissary or leader. Just part of one of the many retinues my family entertain in pursuit of their business. With that fluid movement I find so attractive, he works the room.
Secluded beyond my chador, I can only watch in breathless admiration.
Now he is in front of me, takes my hand and with a slight bow, ‘enchanted I’m sure.’ I trip and he stoops to help. ’I want you more than life itself,’ I whisper, ’get me out of here.’
He answers. ‘I’ll leave a note with the doorman. On it will be numbers. They are coordinates and a date. Go to the travel agent, near the clock tower, he will understand.’
‘Madam you are indeed fortunate, here is your passport, first class ticket to Honolulu, accommodation at the Chevron Surfrider Waikiki, and ten thousand dollars.’
We are on final approach into Honolulu. My anticipation is beyond belief.
The cab ride from the airport takes forever, until at last we have arrived. I jump out and call to the driver,’ leave my bags with the concierge, he will pay.’
I hurry to the poolside area, push open the doors and rush inside. I see him walking towards me.
‘Madam one moment please,’ the doorman grabs my arm and I lose balance.

Something is wrong he is down on one knee. Has he fallen?

Pilots log Wednesday the Thirty-first of August, 2016.

Pilots log Wednesday the Thirty-first of August, 2016.

This morning, I climbed aboard my shiny craft, the Mark I Ego, and flew into what I thought would be a warm welcome at the Wordsmiths. Little did I know. Warm? Warm indeed.

As I entered the controlled space of the library, a dark shadow flitted above my craft and opened fire. The rat-a-tat-tat of cannon and bursts of, ‘More like homework – More life homework – More like homework’ exploded around my ears as it tore holes in the Mark I Ego.

In a sweat of panic, I took evasive action and escaped, only to fly into heavy artillery fire from below. Not fun - Not fun - Not fun burst around my intrepid craft, ripping into the Mark I Ego’s fuselage and sending it into a death spiral.

As the flames crackled and blinding smoke billowed from the doomed craft, I bailed out.

Landing in front of my attackers, I held my hands high in surrender and cried out, ‘Don’t hurt me, I’ll do better next time. I promise I’ll make it fun.’
I was let off with a dire warning of extreme punishment if I mucked up again. ‘Next time, it will be fun.’

It was a full crew today, except for Kristen who is on a temporary sabbatical.

Everyone put the two pieces together (except for Terry who was away and didn’t get a chance to put pen to paper this time).  We all read out our stories and there were some cracking yarns, most of which would make good competition entries.
If you would like your story put up on our blog, please send it direct to Terry. However, if you want to send it into a competition, don’t put it onto the blog.

After that, we tried a progressive story, based on a picture of a bride in a tractor with the groom running behind. With each person, in turn, adding a few lines to the yarn, the story stumbled ahead, weaving and jerking its progress. Chaos reigned and it sounded like a chicken pen at feed time.
At the start, before anyone else could move, Joleen grabbed the best job – scribe. She scrawled away furiously on the white board. In constant motion, she wrote comments, rubbed them out, changed them as the crowd roared their advice, until at last we had a rather good, totally disjointed story about a failed wedding, death, and mayhem.

After that, it was general chit chat time until, one by one, we limped away ready to re-charge our batteries ready for next week’s session at the Wordsmiths.   

See you all next week

Les

FUN DAY EXERCISE - - JUDY RIGBY

WORDSMITHS EXERCISE FOR OUR FUN DAY WEDNESDAY THE 31 AUGUST

JUDY RIGBY

͠

My heart soars when I see his face. I have him.
He stands as if frozen in my open doorway. His lips are parted and his eyes are blinking as if dazed in the headlights.
I resist the urge to reach out and smooth the furrow that has formed between his eyebrows. I allow a smile and the skin tightens and moves around my eyes. He registers the movement and, with a tiny shake of his head, rearranges his face. He drops his eyebrows and tries to return my smile, but only manages something between a grimace and a grin.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘where are my manners? You surprised me. I didn’t expect—’
‘You didn’t expect me to dress up?’
‘No, well, yes. I did expect you to dress up, but not like this.’
‘You don’t like what I’m wearing?’
‘I love what you’re wearing, but I—’
‘It’s too showy?’
‘Oh, no, it’s…’ he pauses and colour begins to rise in his cheeks. ‘I’ve only seen you in black before, and—
‘You think I’m immodest for abandoning black?’
He opens his mouth as if to protest and I allow myself to laugh. His eyes widen and now he smiles a smile that transforms his face and dances in his eyes.
Yes, I have him, I tell myself as I step towards him and shut the door behind me.
‘Shall we go?’ I say to him, ‘You lead the way.’

͠

I feel her presence behind me as I walk down the corridor. The fabric of her dress sighs and beads clink with each step she takes. I confess that the sight of her, backlit by lamplight in the open door of her luxury penthouse suite, did startle me. She looked otherworldly, a diaphanous being, and for a moment I wavered under her spell, drawn into those brown, languid eyes and aware of her siren call in the deep recesses of my brain.
Don’t be a chump, I tell myself, now. Remember who she is and why you’re here. Don’t let yourself get side-tracked.
I mentally check my pocket with its holstered Glock 27 and ignore the itch in my fingers to touch it. I try to focus on my breathing. Too fast and too shallow.
Breathe in, one, out two, in three, out four—
‘You haven’t said where we’re going,’ her voice sounds breathily close to my ear.
My heart skips a beat and the vision of her in the doorway rises into view. I gulp in more air and turn my head towards her voice. 
She’s almost at my shoulder. I catch a waft of her perfume and recognise it, Hypnotic Poison. She laughs, a melody of dancing notes that seem to swirl around my head. Sweat prickles on my brow, my mouth feels dry and my tongue won’t move.
‘Are you all right?’ her voice is barely a whisper.

No, I think, I don’t think I am.