Monthly Archives: November 2015

University of the Sunshine Coast Anthology

University of the Sunshine Coast Anthology

Well at long last the Anthology has finally been published.  I am so fortunate to have been part of this team of enthusiastic and dedicated emerging writers who made this all happen.  To Mel and Ross who guided and worked through every step of this process – thank you for giving us the opportunity.  To the Microfiction team  you are guys were wonderful. From day one you worked and worked and never lost your sense of purpose. It was a pleasure to be your production manager/publications manager  you made my job a dream. To the larger team, we did it!  Now here is the link  please  enjoy Within Without



Am I Real?


My husband Bernie wrote this based on  the lead line “my life began with the  written word”   Wish I had thought of this one


I keep coming back to the same question – “Am I real?”

I exist because I’m here. He created me, my life began with his printed word but now does that make me real? He can make me do anything, he determines my appearance but I’m still me.

I’m not free because I’m tied to his will but don’t many people believe that they are subject to the will of a higher being?  Is my case so different? Once he created me I began a life, true it was dependent on his ideas but it’s still a life.

I guess it’s really a bigger question because if I’m real then all the characters in fiction must also be real. A whole world of characters! If we’re real then where are we?  Some are very famous some are not well known at all but they all exist.

Some people say we’re just figments of authors’ imaginations but we are known far and wide so once we are brought to life on the printed page surely we become more than that.

I’ve lived through three novels now and the reviews have said I have developed quite a following so I must be real to those people, I’ve even had letters sent to me, not that I get them.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines “real” as – actually existing or occurring but then gives a second definition as – genuine , not artificial. I know I exist but am I genuine and not artificial?  It defines “artificial” as – produced by human art or effort rather than originating naturally. This seems to indicate that I’m not real but the dictionary defines reality as – What exists, the real nature of  and resemblance to an original. These all seem to fit so I am back to the original question.

He is starting a new novel for me now in which he sending me to Antarctica but he has researched to ensure I’m well equipped for the adventure which seems to indicate that at some level he wants me to be real. I know he takes great care not to put me in any situation that it is impossible to escape from so he values my continued existence. I’ve earned him a reasonable amount so I suppose he depends on me to an extent. Is this a symbiotic relationship? If so, doesn’t that indicate I’m real?

I think that since my life began with the printed word I am real to some extent. I guess I’ll have to settle for that. I’d better prepare for Antarctica  now.


An Arthurian Twist

An Arthurian Twist

From November to December  each year, a competition known as the Gary Grew Award  (University of the Sunshine Coast ) is open for submissions. For Creative Writing Students at the University, this is the Holy Grail. I wrote two pieces this year, both very different. Because I could not make up my mind which one to enter, I tried a popular poll. Then I asked a couple of my peers for their advice.  The jury was out 50/50.  So I resorted to the time honoured tradition of flipping a coin.  “Myrddin Wyylt” lost.  This piece was originally written on a watermarked page.  With drop capitals and different script.  I am unable to reproduce this in the blog.The piece that I have submitted is  called, “A One-Sided Conversation.”  The theme of the competition is  “My life began with the written Word.”.  I will publish the other piece when the competition results are released in January in the meantime  I hope you enjoy …………..


Slowly his trembling hand lowers the peacock quill into the ink. He looks at his hands. He is lost in thought. The quill, now forgotten, falls unheeded from his fingers knocking over the pot. Blood red ink bleeds across the parchment.  Holding one hand in front of his face, he traces the thick veins under the thin skin with his finger. They remind him of the lines on the maps they once drew. His mind fills with memories of laughter and sunshine.

Myrddin stands by the river. The water makes a soft gurgling sound, pattering over the stones.  Laughing, the young boy jumps from stone to stone splashing water everywhere. Bending and scooping the water into a ball, he tosses it to the old man. Myrddin catches the shimmering orb, it collapses sending water cascading like diamonds down his gown.

‘Myrddin Wyllt, Myrddin look at me!  Look at me!  Make me a frog!  Myrddin pleeease’.

‘Wort, first you must tell me why you want to be a frog.’

‘I want to jump and swim, and know what it is like to live among the lowest in my kingdom.’

Myrddin laughs, ‘Wort, one day you will be a wise and compassionate king, but no frogs today.  Now come, dry off, it is late, we must go home.’

Back in the darkened room, his eyes focus on the dais in front of him.  Light spills from the tall white tapers, casting deep shadows and the golden armour glows in the wavering candlelight.  He sits silently beside the man he has loved and nurtured.  He sees the man and his worth, the others see only a king.   He begins to scribe the words to send him on his final journey. In his mind, he hears an echo,

‘Myrddin… please, look at me, look at me.’

Memories of the boy in the sunlight who wanted to be an owl or a frog but most of all a good king, wash around him. He raises his head and the memories fade. His heart is empty. He sees the spoiled parchment and the spilt ink, the stains seeping into the velvet cuff of his gown.  Taking a deep breath he sighs, waves his hand, and mutters a magykal formula, then scribes the words;

“My life began with the written word and so must it end. Le Morte Darthur.”