WRITING GALLERY - APRIL 2026

In the absence of goodness or virtue, I was extremely fortunate that God was having a benevolent moment.

We stood eyeballing each other and after a somewhat pregnant pause (note to self: unacceptable metaphor in present company, he looked fairly straight where my soul should have been and said, “tell me a story to make me smile and you’re in.” He must’ve been having a helluva day. (Second note to self). Now that was a pretty charged offer, a lot more attractive than the going to hell option which I had been working on all my life.

So we sat together at them pearly gates and I wracked my brain cells. I know that downsizing had already kicked-in in that department so I only had half the tools to work with but, no matter I thought, I’d walk the extra mile.

‘You know Mary Lou?” I asked God. He looked to the heavens as though seeking enlightenment. Geez, I thought, if God has to do that what chance did the rest of us mere mortals have! And me being dead to boot.

“Well she was the sweetest girl that graced this Earth, and I’m telling you God she spoke very highly of you on more than one occasion”. Nothing wrong with a little bit of buttering up.

I must have been hitting a few chords, for God’s demeanor did seem to soften. I’m in with a chance me thinks.

“Well I was married to that sweet thing, and we used your best seller to name the products of our union. It’s a real page turner”, I said, giving him the thumbs up. “And I mean we had to keep scrolling, because our sons kept on coming. Noah and James and Benjamin”…I glanced over at my companion. He was in good spirits, seemed amen-able, but as yet I had not crossed that finishing line, not yet procured a belly laugh that would seal the promise of divine intervention. My time, already expired, was running out. The flurry of angel wings overhead went a little way to cooling the heat that had started to rise, started to burn the souls of my feet. I decided now was the time to act, to go in for the kill.

Well, hallelujah, would you believe, I didn’t need to, because right then, out of the blue, or into it, a bus load of bloody tourists arrive. Unfortunate timing for them, totally caught them unawares. It was commotion, mayhem, an almighty hullabaloo, everyone wanting a peace of the action. God looked despairing. Whatever sort of bad day he was having before, it just escalated. People, confusion, passes being waived, and waved about, camera’s flashing and I’m looking though those swinging gates and God’s doing his best to separate the congregation and shepherd the flock through the right channels. Well my course was thus altered. I didn’t wait to be savioured but mingled, followed them that were heaven scent, breathed it in deep, and became a believer.

SPICKS and SPECKS
by Melinda

While staying next door to the IBIS at Brisbane airport recently, I wandered over for a coffee and came upon a gallery wall full of pictures of a former Brisbane suburb called Cribb Island. Captions below the photos told the story of how the whole suburb was depopulated over a period of time and then, by the late 1970s, it was razed to the ground to make way for extensions to Brisbane airport.

The departure board flickers. Gate 42. Gate 17. Gate 23. Gate 42 again. Helen frowns up at it; boarding pass in hand. Time is short, but she’s not about to panic just because the airport signage is having a nervous breakdown.

“Final call for passengers on Flight 482,” comes the announcement, though it doesn’t say where to. Helen checks her pass. Gate 17. It’s nearby.

Halfway down the corridor, the carpet changes. Not dramatically. Just subtly. The bold geometric pattern dissolves into something plainer, older – just spicks and specks. The lighting dims. A faint smell, salt and something warm, like sun on timber, replaces the sterile chill of the air-conditioning.

Helen stops. A man in short sleeves and Dunlops walks past carrying a fishing rod.

“Excuse me,” she asks, “Gate 17?”

He looks at her curiously. “Don’t know about gates, love. If you want the jetty, though, it’s this way.”

He points, not toward any terminal, but down a sandy track between high-set houses. Helen turns slowly. The terminal has gone. In its place stands a scattering of houses, a few leaning fences and a Hills hoist turning lazily in the breeze. Beyond them, water shimmers. A plane roars overhead; so low she instinctively ducks.

“Damned things,” says a woman hanging washing. “All hours now. Won’t be long before they take the whole place. You mark my words.”

“Take it?” Helen asks.

“Airport,” the woman replies. “Haven’t you heard? They’re expanding. Been talking about it for years. It’ll be the end for us here at Cribbie.”

Helen stares at the sky. The plane has vanished. She looks down and realizes she’s standing in front of the Cribb Island General Store. Her heart gives a small, unhelpful leap. She knows the name; half-remembers it from somewhere. Something about a suburb that has been … obliterated. From the nearby Cribb Island Dance Hall, comes music. Thin, wispy, but unmistakably live.

“What’s that?” Helen asks.

“Oh, those Gibb boys,” the woman says. “Always singing. Always practicing next door at the Hall.”

Helen edges closer to the open window. Inside, three young men are clustered around a microphone, earnest and slightly awkward, they sing harmonies. She hears a lyric … The Spicks and the Specks … Bee Gees, she thinks, absurdly. One of them, a young Maurice, glances up - as though he hears her thought; and smiles, “Whatdya reckon?” he asks.

“You’ve got promise,” Helen replies.

A sudden crackle interrupts them.

“Final call for passengers on Flight 482. Gate 17.”

The voice is distant, distorted; like a radio slipping between stations.

Helen turns. The sandy track shimmers. The houses and public buildings waver, as though seen through heat. “I think,” she says to no-one, “I might be about to miss my flight.”

The woman at the clothesline shrugs. “Plenty of time.”

Helen isn’t so sure.

She looks once more at the buildings, the children playing barefoot in the sand, the washing lifting in the breeze. All of it feels precariously temporary as though it knows something she doesn’t.

“Gate 17,” the voice insists.

Helen looks down. The sand becomes carpet. The salt air snaps back to air-conditioned cool. Cribb Island vanishes. She is standing in a lounge at Brisbane Airport, looking directly at a sign that reads: Gate 17.

Passengers shuffle forward. Helen joins them, holding her boarding pass in her right hand. As she reaches the counter, she glances down. In her left hand, where there had been nothing before, is a small wooden clothes peg. The attendant smiles. “Have a nice flight.”

Helen nods. Behind her, faintly, she hears singing, “The spicks and specks of my life’ve gone away.”

OVERNIGHT SLEEPER  TO  XIAN
by Julie

We were to catch the overnight sleeper train from Beijing to Xian and in spite of there being upwards of 200,000 people going through the station we were easily able to find our group of 20 travellers in the Waiting Hall.  A couple in the group offered to stand guard over our luggage while most of us trotted off to buy the (unnecessary) snacks and drinks for the journey which could take up to 13 hours;  leaving at 20.43 and arriving at Xian sometime after 8 the following morning.

Four passengers to a cabin, two bunks on top, two on the bottom.  A shower with hand basin, and a separate toilet were at either end of the carriage.  All very old but certainly clean enough at this stage.

We were to share a cabin with Scott and Heather from Cronulla who before too long did their best to share with us the word of their god. They were immaculately presented; fresh haircuts, new matching white adidas sneakers, and matching royal blue track suits with bold white stripes on the outer leg. We opted to stand in the corridor to watch the countryside speed by in the failing light, and as the lights were turned out at 10.30 we settled in to our respective beds by 9.45.  Me on the bottom opposite Scott, with Woz and Heather on top.

We were on our way to Kaskgar in Xinjiang in Far North West China following a section of the Old Silk Road, and travelling through Lanhzhou, Jiayuguan to the Western end of The Great Wall , and Duanhong to name just a few towns along the way. The journey was to start in Xian and would take four weeks all up.

But first things first and a good nights sleep was necessary if we were to be up bright and early to watch the day break and life begin again in China.

The further south the train took us the colder the night air became and at some stage I found it necessary to creep along in the dim light of the corridor to the facilities at the carriage end.  On my return I noticed that Woz was now down in my bunk, no doubt much too cold upstairs.  So I snuggled in to his back and thought “he doesn’t smell right”.  So I sat up, saw Scott’s nice new tracksuit stipe opposite me and so snuggled down again.  No, “he doesn’t feel right”.  So this time I stood up to have a really good look.  Staring at me with terrified eyes was not Scott on the bottom bunk, but a young Chinese fellow.  Further looking around I saw three more men I think barely breathing, and may be terrified or maybe thinking they were in for a lucky surprise.

The worst part of this was that as I scuttled away to the right cabin that everyone else was soundly sleeping and so had to hold in my aching laugh until daybreak. Oh no. As I stepped out in to the corridor, there they were, thankfully averting their eyes and mercifully ignoring me as I wished them 'zaoshang hao.'

ROUGH ROAD
by Paul

“How about this?” Stef read, “Her body was like five miles of rough road; its once smooth surface pocked and pitted from too many years of heavy traffic.”

“Oh, no, no, no. Way too obvious.” Peter stood, his arm hovering messiah-like before him. “I see her as forty something, fighting gravity, too many late nights and men with no faces.”

“No faces?”

Peter spun to face her, “Of course. Faceless men in her unfulfilled quest for intimacy.”

“A victim, you mean. Why do your women protagonists always have to be victims?”

“Mine? What about your, ‘Heavy traffic, pitted and pocked?’ ”

“Wrong answer. I see her as a strong, independent woman. Someone who won’t trade her values for a live-in, hairy, snoring body.”

“Oh, right. Here we go, I see where this is heading.” Peter nodded, agreeing with himself. “This is about us, isn’t it?”

“Us?” Stef spluttered. “What us?”

“You know. Us…this,” his hand flapped an airy connection between them.

Stef leaned forward in her chair. “Pete, ‘this’ is just a project. There is no “us-this” and certainly no “us-us.” She repeated his flapping motion. “We’re friends, that’s all. And that’s the other thing. I still don’t get out of all the students in Professor Bradley’s class, how did we end up working together?”

“Fate?” his voice cracked on the word.

Stef raised her head, eyes narrowing as his cheeks reddened.

“It was you! My God, I should have realised. How did you fudge it?”

Peter mumbled something.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“I gave Sean Stuart fifty bucks to swap.”

“Sean Stuart? I drew delectable Sean Stuart in the ballot? And he swapped – me? Who for?”

“Sandy Romax. That’s who I drew.”

“He swapped me for that ... that walking pair of tits?”

“Oh, that’s a bit unfair…”

“Unfair? Oh, it’s all right to trade me like some piece of livestock, but when I accurately describe one of my fellow, same sex students you say I’m being unfair.”

“Stef! I just wanted us to spend some time together, get our creative juices flowing. Who knows we might ..?”

She hurled her mug.

He ducked and it smashed against the wall.

“Everything is always all about you, isn’t it? What will make you happy. Don’t you think I might have been happy to be paired with the most talented hunk in this whole university?”

“Well go on then. I don’t care.”

“Are you insane? After he swapped me for that slut?”

“Slut?”

“Why are you repeating every last word I say?” Stef screamed, her fists pounding the arms of her chair. “Next you’ll be asking if I’ve got my period.”

His eyebrow arched. One corner of her mouth quivered, laughter filling it before tumbling out.

She walked over, and lightly traced a line down his cheek with her forefinger. “It’s a damned rough road being your friend.”

He took her hand and together they turned, bowing to the scattered applause from their professor and the other students.

A NEW BEGINNING
by Malcolm

So, I have the book and am looking for a travelling (and biking) companion. Any takers?

Let me tell you the story first; this book is a gift from my brother, a man whose sense of adventure extends to finding a bus stop in Yeppoon and travelling all the way to the airport in Rockhampton for fifty cents to pick up a hire car. He presented the bus driver with a five-dollar note and has been trying to offload four dollars and fifty cents of coin ever since. “What possessed you to buy it for

me?” I asked. “I thought you’d enjoy it!” was the short but faintly indignant answer.

The book boasts fifty exciting rides worldwide, but my first search was in Botswana/Zimbabwe/South Africa as Africa was my stamping ground for many years as a young woman. Never would I have considered cycling there. I had not discovered the joys of cycling then. This ride is called “The Tour De Tuli” is a charity ride and takes place in the last week of August each year. Level of

difficulty: extreme! Hyenas trapped the writer in a portaloo the first night. On rough tracks, literally elephant paths, the accompanying photo is idyllic. Two cyclists, their tyres half obscured by dried grasses are passing a calm giraffe, which is regarding them without curiosity from above the low trees. Four

hundred bikers do the ride, in groups of twenty. In case you need to know: when an elephant is charging you and bellowing with his ears flapping, he is not serious unless he is also protecting his most important body part, his trunk, from damage. In that situation he also leads with his tusks. It is, after all, his path and four hundred riders must get tedious. The warthogs can also be a real problem, they also regard the path as theirs, refuse to give way

and they have tusks too and charge accordingly- those words are not to be mistaken for the same words spoken about the price of a cup of coffee in Yeppoon.

“Cool, Grandma” said my great grandson, “if you go, will you take me? I can ride a bike.” Sorry, Zac, that ride doesn’t happen in school holidays. After mature consideration I thought the Connemara ride might suit me better. The course there is through the Burren (which has been likened to the surface of the moon, so no exciting animals) and passes the sites of standing stone burials and peat bogs. Irish pubs have Guinness and Irish whisky and the season is May to September, so there will be school holidays. Perhaps Zac? no; much less enthusiasm. 

Tuscany, Sardinia, Texas, Thailand, Utah. I mustn’t make my mind up too soon. On the other hand, I am having so much fun reading the book maybe I needn’t

actually go.

THE COCKTAIL PARTY
by Valda

‘We’ve been invited to one of Vera’s cocktail parties tomorrow night.’

‘What’s it’s in aid of this time?’

‘The United Nations people travelling the country to see if it’s ready for Self-Government’.

‘Poor old Jim he’s just waiting to retire and not interested in entertaining, leaving Vera to run the show’.

‘Who’s invited?’
‘Oh you know, the ADC and wife, the DO and wife, Patrol Officer, few school teachers, the medics at the Health Centre, the usual rabble of expats. I heard the old English planter Dunbar-Reid from Tokua planation was in town, saw his workboat tied up at the wharf. He’ll add a bit of class long as he stays off the grog.’

The next night residents were dressing in their finest. ‘Just help me with this damn bow tie. This monkey jacket is so tight I’ll have trouble breathing.’

Arriving at the District Commissioners house on top of the hill with panoramic views over the outer Islands and the small settlement below, the guests walked through the beautifully manicured tropical gardens assaulted by the strong perfume of the Frangipanis and Ylang- Ylang’s, with the path lit by bamboo flares. The large elevated deck with panoramic views,

positioned between the main house and the guests’ quarters was alight with tiny colored bulbs.

‘Oh My God, I feel like I’m in a movie set, far from this remote outpost.’

Ascending the stairs, two house bois dressed in new red lap laps greeted the guests with trays of cocktails which were devoured at such speed that constant refilling was necessary. The guests of honour were introduced with most invitees evading the tricky questions re self- governing, more interested in the free cocktails and the expensive canapes flown in at government expense.

The leading delegate then asked if she could speak to the Patrol Officer. Heads turned and he was nowhere to be seen. Go and find him Vera hissed. The house boi took off to the garden and within minutes the young man with a sheepish look on his face, shirt out, tie askew, and crumpled trousers, climbed the steps, followed by the new young schoolteacher picking the leaves from her hair and straightening her dress, which had slipped off her shoulder. ‘Get out of here’ Vera seethed as they retreated.

After minutes of silence the delegate then asked, ‘is there an indigenous person here I could speak with?’ At this point old Dunbar-Read who had been catatonic in the corner, rose ‘M’Lady we don’t have any natives here, as they can’t hold their alcohol’ and he slumped back down.

Silence was followed and Vera’s fury was unleashed. She rang the large brass bell to indicate the party was over, announcing ‘dinner is ready for our guests’.

‘It’s only 6.45 pm’ they uttered. With last minute snatched cocktails in hand, the invitees slowly wound their way to the car park, where a row of Government Landrovers complete

with their indigenous drivers, awaited.

Papua New Guinea was granted Self-government five years later on December 1, 1973 and Independence two years later.

In the 1930s, a young Jim O’Malley along with Jack Hides were the first explorers into the Southern Highlands.

A SIMPLE LIFE
by Lesley

DEAR FRIENDS,
So you want to buy a caravan. You hanker for the simple life ...

O yes! It ls seductive - that T.V. ad. where it's happy hour in caravan wonderland, and the carefree grey nomads are entertaining their new-best-friends against a backdrop of castles on wheels.

We fell for it, and headed to the Camping Expo to buy a van. But I must tell you what happened next.

On delivery day we hitched our wagon to an 18-footer and edged away, leaving the cocoon of the Camper World showroom behind. Then the fear set in. As we approached the highway we felt like brand new parents heading home from the Maternity Ward with a newborn - nervous and ill-equipped to handle the precious addition. But all too soon, there we were - Ma and Pa from Whoop Whoop in the middle of four lanes of speeding traffic - tradies' utes and heavy vehicles whizzing past on both sides. Terrifing. And this was just the beginning ...

Back at the Expo, we had bought the required set of extra-wide detachable rear-view mirrors - cheap - from a bloke with watches up his arm. Bad decision. Every time a loaded semi sped past us with a great rush of air, the mirrors would flop down like sunflowers at sunset, face the bitumen and be completely useless. The only option was to stick an arm out the window and prop them up again. Right and left. Over and over.  All the way from Murrarie to Fernvale, where we could at last pull over and lash them with gorilla tape.

Not realising booking was advisable, we arrived at the van park where we'd spend our first night and were allocated the only site left - the narrow, the difficult and unbeknown to us, notorious site 37.

When word passed around that site 37 had been let, veteran campers grabbed a beer and a fold-up chair and settled in to watch the circus they knew would unfold as we tried to park the van. Reverse parking a van is always a complex process, involving fancy hand signals and shouted instructions - "Left-hand down! Right-hand down! Noooo! Stoppp!" Invariably, it also involves a frank exchange of views between driver and navigator - irresistible entertainment for onlookers. We did not disappoint.

I wondered if it was our matching blue Camper World caps that marked us as newbies, and made the old boys single us out for attention.

Then up the coast in Sarina, the front window fell off its hinges onto the road. Offa brand-new van! Nobody died, but we had to make an unplanned detour into Townsville for repairs. The thing is, when they replaced the window, they didn't seal it properly and in the downpour at Flying Fish Point, our bed was waterlogged.

Far be it from me to shatter dreams, my dears, so if you still think caravan travel will simplify your life, go ahead and buy one. Just don't try to go anywhere. It's far too stressful. 

K.LS.S. K.I,S.S. / YOURS TRULY

CUP EVE BALL
by Sallie

My husband Richard in the 1960’s worked with an absolutely lovely guy called Bryce. Camp as a row of tents but a really nice person.

He used to put on a birthday shindig for his friends, hiring the Malvern Town Hall for a dinner dance. He called it Bryce Follies and put on a dinner dance and show with some of his friends in the cast performing to over 400 people.

The finale of the show was always the song 'Well Hello Dolly' with Bryce being Dolly. He would descend a staircase to the strains of Carol Channing’s singing .

Richard was in a couple of these shows and to say a special thank you, Bryce gave us tickets to a Cup Eve Ball he was going to with his partner. He described to us the dress he was designing and sewing, the colour being, in his words, “sheer white with a touch of pink.”

Well what an eye opener. Beautiful dresses, matching shoes and wonderful wigs and from the mouths of those wearing same came deep masculine voices.

Dancing under way and I was doing the progressive barn dance. My partner at the time commented, “Ooh a real sheila with tits.” I think there were probably three or four of us there enjoying the evening.

The evening progressed and I had to make use of the “ladies” room. I put that in inverted commas because although it was full, I was the only “real sheila with tits” in there.

One chap commented that “it” was hard to find under all the petticoats and when he did it wasn’t worth finding anyway.

Richard reported that it was an eye opener for him seeing gentlemen wearing hoiked up crinolines relieving themselves at the urinal.

It was certainly a night to remember.

KNEE JERK
by Libby

‘Madame’, she shouted in disbelief. ‘Get off that man!’

She had grown red in the face and for a moment had forgotten her trolley with jugs of tea and coffee, bottles of wine, and cartons of juice.

I had been trying to get to the toilet when I needed to divert from the tiny aisle and the trolley being pushed with determination towards me.

“Here is a nice knee to sit on,’ I said smiling at the man in front of me. He smiled back so I perched on his knee.

We were returning from New Zealand about fifteen years ago, so I was in decidedly better shape than now and the man’s knee that I was on didn’t seem to mind at all. I thought Air New Zealand staff loved a good joke. They certainly had the funniest safety messages of any airline.

But, this hostie wasn’t having a bar of my indiscretion.

‘Get off that man now,” she said sternly. “You can’t do that to other passengers.”

“You better get off Mum,’ said my son quietly, before she calls the pilot.’

Much to her horror I gave him a kiss and stood up.

FUN at the RACES
by Trevor