Stories

Grief is a part of life. We all lose someone or something we cherish at some time.
Yet grief is not something people seem comfortable to discuss. The Hunter Writers Centre is committed to encouraging conversations about grief. They sponsor an annual writing competition and publish the best work. Here is my piece that was published in the 2018 Anthology.

I Wish I Knew

Your patient file stated that my birth was routine. I disagree.
When I was born you gave me away to complete strangers. Government calls it adoption. Psychologists call it abandonment. I don’t have a name for it even though it’s the canvas upon which my whole life has been painted.
People said you gave me away so I could have a better life. Better than what? I wish I knew.
When I was thirteen Mum told me she wasn’t my Mum. Well, not my ‘real’ Mum. I said, what does that mean? She said, it means you’re special. But I felt different. Other. Odd.
For eighteen years I wondered about you. What you looked like. Where you lived. Why you didn’t want me. Whether you wondered about me, too. I searched for you in the crowd at the local shops, and on the train platform on the way to school.
When I was thirty-one we met for the first time in a seedy hotel on the city fringe. I brought flowers, and a heart begging for belonging. You brought a pile of loose photos from your past. Some black and white, some colour. Faces of people I’d never met. We parted without touching. Not even a hug. I phoned the next day to thank you. You didn’t return my call. I don’t know why. I wish I knew.
When I was forty we met again in a noisy nursing home in the western suburbs. You shared a tiny room with a skeletal woman who kept crying out for cigarettes. You looked different. Mellow. You wanted to know all about me, you had many questions. But it was hard to talk in that cramped room with the crazy lady in the next bed.
You said sorry. You cried. You sobbed. I held your hand. I held back my tears. Until you said I was beautiful.
When I was forty-four you died. The brother I’ve never met buried you next to the sister I’ve never met. He tried to find me so I could attend your funeral. Even posted an ad in the paper seeking me out. I didn’t see the ad. I don’t know why. I wish I knew.
I wish I knew you.

I Like Jazz

In May 2018 I wrote a short story for the monthly Furious Fiction competition sponsored by the Australian Writers Centre. My story did not win and was not shortlisted. As a writer, that is always disappointing. However, I believe that each story finds a home, if destined to do so. And, sure enough, three months later, my short story, I Like Jazz, was snapped up by the community organisation Teen Organ Donor Awareness Inc who described it as ‘a perfect example of what they are aiming to achieve’ – raise awareness among teens that making poor choices can lead to death or disability.

Keeping Secrets

This story is dedicated to the countless number of housewives who work hard day in day out to create a loving home for their family only to discover that their life is a monstrous lie.

8 Word Story

Short stories can be a challenge to write. An 8 Word Story takes that challenge to a unique level. Mind you, it can be done. As evidenced by the more than 10,000 8 Word Stories submitted to the Queensland Writers Centre (QWC) in late 2017 as part of their joint promotion with GOA Billboards. The attached link is my selection of 8 Word Stories that were published on the QWC website.

My Grandmother’s Manor

The first flicker of this story appeared one brisk winter’s morning as I walked along the river and reminisced about my childhood.  My adoptive father’s stern step-mother represented the lack of connection I felt in my family unit.

Love Hurts

Another piece of micro-fiction inspired during an on-line course with The Writer’s Studio, when I first saw the main character in my mind his whole world unfolded before me, especially his deep sense of alienation.  There is so much more of his story left to tell.