Calling the Shots - by Neil McInnes

"Team five," called a loud voice from the doorway to the greens. "I need Penny Cunningham and…, damn." There was a momentary pause, "and Joycie Livermore."

"Bugger," Clarissa said. "Your first game of lawn bowls and Mabel Munzie is your skip." 

Penny looked in the direction her friend was pointing and saw a woman leaning on a walking stick. "You'll have to speak loudly or she won't hear you," Clarissa warned, as they made their way towards the woman waiting impatiently by the door. 

"What's your first name again?" Mabel asked, after being introduced by Clarissa.

"Penny," she replied.

"Right, Polly, you'll be our lead and spaghetti brains over there can be our third."

Penny was confused, she had little idea of the rules or what was required of the lead. "I've never played before," she said nervously.

Mabel glared at her. "We don't have a number four - haven't you played this game before?"

Penny sighed. "I just said…"

"Okay, okay," Mabel interrupted. "If you want to play third, behind that basket case then go ahead," she said, pointing to an elderly woman sitting by the green. "But don't say I didn't warn you, Polly."

"My name's Penny," she said loudly, but Mabel didn't appear to hear.

Clarissa whispered some parting words of encouragement to Penny as she and Mabel made their way towards Joycie Livermore, who was vigorously polishing her bowl.

"This is Polly, Joycie," Mabel said. "She's on our team today."

"The name's Penny, actually." 

"Team five," called a loud voice from the doorway to the greens. "I need Penny Cunningham and…, damn." There was a momentary pause, "and Joycie Livermore."

"Bugger," Clarissa said. "Your first game of lawn bowls and Mabel Munzie is your skip." 

Penny looked in the direction her friend was pointing and saw a woman leaning on a walking stick. "You'll have to speak loudly or she won't hear you," Clarissa warned, as they made their way towards the woman waiting impatiently by the door. 

"What's your first name again?" Mabel asked, after being introduced by Clarissa.

"Penny," she replied.

"Right, Polly, you'll be our lead and spaghetti brains over there can be our third."

Penny was confused, she had little idea of the rules or what was required of the lead. "I've never played before," she said nervously.

Mabel glared at her. "We don't have a number four - haven't you played this game before?"

Penny sighed. "I just said…"

"Okay, okay," Mabel interrupted. "If you want to play third, behind that basket case then go ahead," she said, pointing to an elderly woman sitting by the green. "But don't say I didn't warn you, Polly."

"My name's Penny," she said loudly, but Mabel didn't appear to hear.

Clarissa whispered some parting words of encouragement to Penny as she and Mabel made their way towards Joycie Livermore, who was vigorously polishing her bowl.

"This is Polly, Joycie," Mabel said. "She's on our team today."

"The name's Penny, actually." 

 "In your dreams," Joycie said, loud enough for those around her to hear. She bent down and sent her bowl firmly along the green, striking the jack a perfect blow, and hurling it into the gutter at the end of the green. There was an angry expletive from Mabel and Joycie turned to Penny and winked.

Penny's concentration was focussed on the small white ball at the other end of the green as she was about to play her next shot.

"Your bias is wrong, love," Joycie mumbled.

 "What?" Penny said, turning to Joycie who was polishing her remaining bowl.

"Thunderthighs wants you to put your bowl on the right, so you'll need to reverse the bias."

"Get on with it ladies," Mabel shouted from the other end. "This isn't a garden tea party."

Penny looked at her bowl. That's not what she was told at her practice sessions. She looked back at Joycie who was still polishing furiously, and the old woman smiled at her.

"You remind me of my daughter," Joycie said, cocking her head to one side. "You're not my daughter are you, love?" she asked.

Penny was about to reply, then shrugged. Reverse the bias she whispered to herself as she bent down and played her shot. She watched her bowl as it gathered speed. It had perfect trajectory she thought, as it began its wide sweeping arc, just as Joycie indicated it would.

A loud groan from Mabel Munzie startled Penny at about the same time as her bowl made a sudden, erratic turn to the right. Everyone watched in dismay as Penny's bowl crossed their rink, slammed into the adjoining team's cluster of bowls and scattered them in all directions - most of them into the gutter.

There was stunned silence around the greens, except for a muffled giggle from Joycie Livermore.

"That's it," Mabel shouted to the opposing skip. "We're forfeiting the game," she said, as she collected her bowls and stormed off the green.

"So tell me, Jenny," Joycie said, as she and Penny gathered up their gear. "How did you enjoy your first game of lawn bowls?"

"Is it always like this?" Penny asked, watching the fuming Mabel Munzie hobble into the clubrooms.

"No, fortunately," Joycie replied, and chuckled wickedly. "Some days it can be quite interesting," 

Missing - by Neil McInnes

The book slipped from George’s hand, waking him with a start. He’d fallen asleep in his beach chair. George rubbed his eyes and looked around him. How could he fall asleep on a crowded beach with all these noisy kids around him?

“Damn retirement,” he mumbled to himself. “It erodes your interest in life.”

George rose from the beach chair, stretched then looked at his watch. For a moment he felt a strange uneasiness as he tried to determine how long he had slept. Thirty minutes maybe, but he wasn’t sure. 

Shielding his eyes from the sun, George looked in the direction where Jean had gone. “I’m just going for a walk to the other end of the beach,” she had told him.

For a while he had watched her, as she strolled along the water’s edge, stopping to examine an interesting shell or other marine objects exposed by the receding tide. As Jean continued on her walk he had returned to his book.

He checked his watch again and scratched his thinning hair. I must have fallen asleep almost immediately, he thought. He scanned the beach again in both directions, around the pool area and the kiosk, but Jean was nowhere in sight. He shrugged. Probably gone off to the toilets, he decided.

As George settled back into the beach chair, the feeling of uneasiness remained. 

While he waited for Jean to return, his thoughts turned to his unhappy lifestyle. George was forced into retirement after an employee embezzled almost half a million dollars from his successful importing business. Alex was a qualified accountant who handled his company’s financial affairs. He’d always trusted Alex; and why shouldn’t he? The man was his brother-in-law.

Facing bankruptcy, they sold their house in order to clear their debts, but in the end George and Jean had lost most of their life’s savings.  There were no jobs for a failed, 62-year-old businessman, so retirement to a low cost residential resort was their only financial option. His marriage too, had suffered. Jean blamed herself for her brother’s fraudulent actions and their relationship, after 40 years of happy marriage, had become strained and difficult.

George looked at his watch again. Jean had set out for her walk more than an hour ago, and she was nowhere to be seen. This was totally out of character for her and he was becoming concerned.

            He wandered down to the water’s edge between the flags, and looked out amongst the swimmers enjoying themselves in the surf. Jean was not a strong swimmer and George knew she would never venture out too far.

“Anything wrong, pop?” a voice behind him asked.

George turned to see a young lifeguard watching him intently.

 “I’m looking for my wife,” George replied cautiously. “She went for a walk along the beach over an hour ago and hasn’t returned.”

The lifeguard hesitated momentarily then reached for his two-way radio. A senior lifeguard quickly joined them and questioned George anxiously. What did Jean look like, her age, the direction she had gone and could she have entered the water without him knowing?

Within minutes a rubber dinghy was launched. “We’re just taking precautions,” the senior lifeguard said. “We want to make sure your wife didn’t go into the surf.” 

The alarm was raised and several lifeguards set off down the beach in the direction Jean had gone. From fishermen on the distant rocky foreshore to the beach-goers, sunbathing on the sand, no one had seen Jean returning from her walk.

An hour later the police arrived and began questioning him. They insisted on ringing George’s home at regular intervals. “It’s possible your wife could have returned home,” a female constable commented.

George glared at her. “Hardly likely, seeing my car is still in the parking lot and our house is more than five kilometres away.”

By midafternoon the search at the beach had been scaled down.

            “There’s little we can do here, sir,” the senior police officer said. “I suggest we return to your home, and continue our investigations from there.”

George lived in a gated residential village for the over fifties, and he sensed his neighbours prying eyes as he ushered the police into his house.

            The events of the day had been too much for him. He was tired and sunburnt and needed to use the toilet. When he returned the senior officer was on the phone and George looked at him expectantly.

“I need to check something out,” the officer said. “Would you mind if I left you with Constable Harris to take some more details? I’ll be back shortly.” 

For the next half-hour the policewoman questioned George regarding Jean’s movements earlier that day. Was she on medication, she asked, and had she suffered any recent illnesses. They were trying to select a recent photograph of Jean when the police officer returned. He was followed by George’s old friend and golfing partner, Jerry Parker. Jerry was a local GP and had been their doctor since he retired. The look on Jerry’s face told George what he did not want to hear. His knees suddenly buckled and he collapsed into a nearby lounge chair. 

“She’s dead isn’t she, Jerry?”  George stammered.

“I’m afraid so, George,” Parker replied with sadness in his voice.

“How did it happen?” George asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“We found her in the bedroom, mate. She’d taken an overdose of sleeping tablets.”

George’s chin fell to his chest and he began to weep as Parker rummaged in his medical bag. “Let me give you something, George, it’ll help you rest.”

Several minutes later George was dozing restlessly.

            The female police constable looked beyond the lounge room to the bedroom at the end of the hall. “When did they find the body?” she asked softly.

“It was almost ten years ago,” the doctor replied.

Constable Harris looked confused. “She died ten years ago?”  

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “Something must have snapped at the beach today causing George’s mind to regress; beyond that terrible incident all those years ago.”

            The doctor closed his medical case. “George and Jean had argued that morning. He stormed out of the house and went to the beach for a swim. When he returned home he found his wife dead. She’d taken her life.”  The doctor looked down at his sleeping friend. “The poor old bugger has never been able to forgive himself.”

From a distance George could hear their voices as he sat slumped in his chair. Then the voices began to fade. Suddenly he found himself back on the beach scanning the shoreline, just as he had done earlier that day.

            He stood, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun, searching the now deserted beach - deserted except for the person hurrying towards him. It was Jean, waving to him. “Where have you been, George?” she called. “I was looking everywhere for you.”

The doctor shook his head as he watched his friend slip away and, for a moment there was a contented smile on George’s face.

“Go to her, old mate,” the doctor whispered, as he closed his friend’s eyes.

A Weekend at WAM – by Jo Wilson-Ridley

On the weekend of 11^th-12^th September 2010, I attended the Write Around the Murray Festival (WAM) in Albury as both an invited writer and a guest.  After performing poetry first up on Saturday at an outdoor marque I was then free to sit back and enjoy the rest of the fabulous events at the festival.

 

The festival included in total over 50 events with 32 writers/guests.  There was a mixture of free events, gold- coin panel discussion events, workshops and dinners.  I was impressed with the ambitious mixture of events and the calibre of the guests – from successful writers such as Cate Kennedy, Jason Steger, Melina Marcheetta, Andrew Rule and Chris Masters, to cutting edge bloggers such as Angela Meyer and Derek Motion and experienced poetry performers such as Emilie Zoey Baker, David Gilbey and Nathan Curnow.

 

One of the main themes of the festival was 'Sustainability' – in regards to writing.  This encompassed discussions on how to sustain writing momentum both on a particular project and over the lifespan of a writing career.  Another interesting theme was the idea of building a readership.  The varied and different ways to build a loyal (and perhaps small) readership using different mediums were explored including smaller publishers, zines, the internet and blogging. 

 

By far my absolute highlight of the festival was the Literary Walkabout, an event that I made a spur of the weekend decision to attend. It was a free event where writers and guests meandered their way through Albury's CBD stopping at different locations to hear stories/poems/articles that were inspired by Albury's streetscape.  Some of the stories included inspiration of local Church architecture, the recounting of an act of vandalism to celebrate a 21^st birthday, the pressure of trying on a dress in a fancy shop and the demise of the art of window shopping.   The Walkabout ended at a local pub, The Bended Elbow, where further local stories were recounted as we all enjoyed a drink.  The event was friendly, creative and cleverly appealed to both the visual and auditory nature of story telling.  I believe that a Literary Walkabout has great potential for Narrandera, particularly to be held at an event such as the John O'Brien Festival.

 

A mark of a good writers' festival is the inspiring and enduring nature of the ideas generated from attending the festival.  I've come home brimming with ideas and enthusiasm and look forward to seeing the WAM line-up for next year.

A Fast Food Odyssey - by Neil McInnes

Our local Fete is over this year

And the money raised brought much good cheer.

For your hard work, our president cracked

We’re giving vouchers - two free Big Macs.

Whilst fast food outlets I do detest

I was genuinely grateful none the less.

So I grabbed Mylanta and the freebie vouchers

 And went in search of the famous arches

Obese and languid, some coarse and loud

I stood in line with the Maca crowd.        

Ankle biters, pimply teens

An unhealthier lot you’ve never seen.

The sales girl spoke in a language odd

Some mumbled jargon from the land of Nod.

But vouchers clear and hand signs won

I got my burgers - a coffee, and a bun.

Gripped by hunger I was strangely driven

To take a mouthful of my Yankee heaven.

The burger squelched like a fresh cow pad

And it ponged like an up-chuck I’d once had.

Then shocked to the core, too stunned to speak

From around the edge, something yellow did seep.

My stomach squirmed, on the first bite

  A taste so vile I spat it out.

My bun was stale and the coffee bitter

So I placed them all in the bin for litter

And as I left I sadly realised 

American Junk food has sullied our lives.

Postcard Poetry - by Jo Wilson-Ridley

It's September and the annual "50 Books You Can't Put Down" booklet is out.  I have these booklets going back to 2004.  They're always fun to revisit, particularly if you're lookng for inspiration for a good or different read.

This year's booklet promotes a number of related events, including "Postcard Poetry".  How fantastic to see poetry included!  And the idea of postcard poetry, combines two of my favourite passions/pastimes - writing and travel.  I can't think of a better way to travel then to write as you go.

I tried recently, on an outback holiday to write at least a poem a day, featuring immediate impressions and inspirations of the new towns, habitats and drives I was experiencing.  The work was raw and randomn but I felt it provided a good platform to later revisit as a body of work.

One raw example comes from a morning spent in Hillston....

Fog froths from our breath
Wooden dinosaurs and
a toothy green crocodile
guard the muddy waters of
the meandering Lachlan

It's a slow pendulumn swing
of a wooden suspension bridge
But the weeds from recent
welcomed rains have overgrown
the beaten paths

The once thriving man-made lake
Now overcome by ferel growth
Weather beaten signs advertise the
adandoned aquatic sport

But it's the sign at the local butcher
that intrigued and split a smile -
Now smoking with redgum sawdust


I think next time I travel I will actually purchase postcards to write my poetry onto....what a great souvenir

...And with the Tranquility poem - I loved the reference to the night wearing a star-studded dress, and the stanza where the noises of nature doing what it usually does, at contrast to tranquility or could it be someone's idea of tranquility...

Poem

I'd be interested to hear people's opinions about the following poems that I want to submit to the CWA poetry competition. We have to write a poem of 24 lines titled Tranquillity. I have made two attempts which were inspired one evening while I was walking along the canal bank down by the lake.  Doreen Angove.
       
Tranquility   
                                                                                                                        
Slowly the sun sinks from the cloud filled sky
The surrounding tall gums seem to sigh
As the evening breeze moves branches to and fro.
There's a whisper like a voice I used to know.

The sky glows with an unearthly wash of light.
As the heat of day gives way to night.
Feelings of peace and tranquillity wash over me
In this place with natural features to see.

So now in the silence 'neath the western sky,
I'll ponder memories that will not die.
I dream of the past and what might have been,
'Til the call of nature intervene.

Wild ducks rise and fly to their nest.
Galahs screech goodnight as they settle to rest.
The gnats do their last little glide on the water,
Before the green frogs come out for a slaughter.

House lights shine across the lake
As the creatures of night slowly awake.
My mind wonders at the beauty of this tranquil place
Whose serenity holds me in a sweet embrace.

The soft light of twilight fades into darkness
And the night creeps in: in a stear studded dress.

I must leave behind this tranquil scene
And the memories of what might have been.

This is the 2nd attempt... only slightly changed. Which do you like best?

As the sun sinks slowly from the cloud filled sky,
The surrounding tall gum trees seem to sigh.
The evening breeze moves the branches too and fro.
I hear whispers like a voice I used to know.

The evening sky glows brightly with an unearthly light,
As the heat of day gives way to the cool of night.
Feelings of peace and tranquillity wash over me.
In this place where natural features surround me.

Now in the gentle silence, ' neath the western sky,
I ponder over memories that will not seem to die.
I dream of the past and of what might have been,
Until the calls of nature rudely intervene.

The wild ducks rise and fly off to their nests.
Pink galahs screech goodnight as they settle to rest.
The tiny gnats skip and glide upon the water
Before the croaking frogs come out for a slaughter.

House lights shine across the glass like lake
And the nocturnal creatures slowly awake.
My mind wonders at the beauty of this tranquil place,
Whose serenity holds me in a sweet embrace.

The soft light of twilight fades into darkness
As the night creeps in; in a star studded dress.
I regret to leave behind this tranquil scene,
And the memories of the past and of what might have been.

 Author: Doreen Angove

She left us recently - by Julie Briggs

My mum-in-law left us last month. Her eulogy celebrated all her strengths and there were many. She worked - she worked all of her life. First caring for her younger siblings - only two of the 14 living were older than her, while her mum worked for others. She worked - carting water from the river, chasing down an unruly sister or brother, catching fish from the 'Bidgee.

She got into fights at school. Didn't like the names they called her. Spent most of her time outside, working at picking up papers and weeding.

Her first job, at 15, was at Narrandera Hospital. She and her younger sister Jean were doing well until the Matron spent time away and her stand-in harrassed the girls.  They went straight to the police, not to complain, but to ask where there might be work.

"The Cannery", was the suggestion. So the two caught the train to Leeton and joined the line at the Leeton Cannery.

When they reached the window, they were told the Matron had called to say they already had jobs at the hospital.

Too late, and the determined girls worked the packing season out.

Year one done, in the working life of Bessie Briggs.

Time and Money - by Jo Wilson-Ridley

I've attended a number of Writers' festivals and workshops over the last couple of years. One consistent message thrown about is the fact that most people are unlikely to make any money from writing.  At one festival, a poet I was keen on hearing, basically quipped 'You'll spend far more on poetry than you ever make from writing it.'

We were talking about this issue at the Writing for Pleasure course mostly about the glass is "half empty approach".  I understand the need to provide information at festivals and workshops, but as an emerging writer the negative message about "no money to be made here folks" can make the pursuit of writing feel futile and depressing.

I have however, read of a number of successful approaches to incorporating writing into one's life. In particular, poets that pursued successful money making careers and left writing for an activity of pleasure on the side (and they ended up being quite successful at writing).

I've recently returned to the workforce, after a 2 year hiatus of being a primary career for young children. During the break I concentrated every single spare moment on writing, in a way that I had not previously been able to do.  I was concerned that returning to work I would loose the focus for writing, given the loss of time.  It has been the exact opposite.  I've found a renewed enthusiasm for the time I do now have for writing and I'm finding a new productiveness during this writing time.

It is less than a week til the Write Around the Murray (WAM) festival starts– can't wait.  I'm attending a workshop at the festival about blogging conducted by Angela Meyer. I'm looking forward to picking up lots of gems to bring more sparkle into my blogging.