WRITING GALLERY - AUGUST 2025

LIVING THE DREAM
by Trevor S

“Idyllic.”

This was the only word to use, to sum up the beauty of the bay, with its blue waters, picturesque mountains and islands, accentuated by the sea lapping the inner reef, to form a white circumference.

“I wonder what the rich people are doing?”

Three young backpackers, Sarah, Louise and Louise’s older brother, Greg, had been hitch-hiking for several weeks, to reach this beachside destination. As they shared a tub of Kentucky fried and a bottle of coke, their conversation gravitated towards accommodation, camping spots … whatever, for their stay, for a few days.

“Maybe we should suss out that abandoned warehouse that the lady at the laundromat suggested. A bit of scrub bashing to get there, won’t do us any harm, and a roof over our heads would be different from a tent fly.” Sarah was always in for a bit of comfort.

“Hope we can light a fire to boil a billy, cook some spuds, and fry a few snags.”

“Probably as good a time as any, to open our bottle of Pinot Gris, to wash it down with.”

Louise’s eyes sparkled with the thought.

The dilapidated old building certainly looked the worse for wear. There was no concern about gaining access. Doors were either ajar, or missing.

There were a few bits of furniture and furnishings deteriorating, inside. Wooden thunderbox toilet, with a plastic lid; two door wardrobe with bottom drawers; a few old kerosene lanterns; plastic chairs; an unstable table – all nicely decorated with dust, mould

and cobwebs. A pendulum wall clock remained attached to a central column.

They set up camp, gaining as much comfort as possible. Time passed and, after polishing off the wine and sharing a joint, the sandman sent them off to sleep.

“Hope this place isn’t haunted,” muttered Louise.

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, shut up.”

Midnight. Simultaneously, the trio woke to see the clock face brightly glowing, and to hear the clock chiming down the mandatory twelve strokes. Strange noises: scraping, bumping, jingling. Melancholy music seemed to be echoing, from all directions. The wicks of the lanterns ignited, eerily lighting up the area.

Unexpectedly, the camp area became encompassed, by a very cold draught.

“Should’ve brought another coat out of my wardrobe,” shivered Sarah.

“Over here,” the wardrobe called out. Amazingly, it was bulging and vibrating, until the doors burst open. Hundreds of bats swarmed over and around the campers. The drawers opened, releasing green frogs, lizards and other creepy crawlies.

Shrieks, screams, colourful language, blasphemies emanated from the bewildered and terrified trio, as they bumped into one another looking for refuge.

“I need to go to the toilet,” shrieked Louise.

The toilet lid began flapping, yelling, ”Come sit over here and I will tell you the story of Rindercella and her two struggly isters.”

A red-eyed spider descended, announcing, ”Do it. Do it. He’s worth listening to. Funny.”

When a web collapsed and covered them, like a cast net, their cries and curses went up another octave.

“Oh, meow. What is the commotion all about? Such language on my tender ears”. A black cat, with traffic light eyes that really changed from green to amber to red, waltzed in and purveyed the scene.

“Where’s your witch?” Greg couldn’t believe that these words came out of his mouth.

“Hubble, bubble … toil and trouble,” echoed from the rafters, as an old crone performed a loop-the-loop, on an ancient broom and then perfectly timed a three-point landing, in the middle of the throng.

“Cut! Cut! Cut!”

In full view, was a wizened old man, wearing what could have been a Merlin costume. With a click of his fingers, all the furniture, furnishings and participants returned to where they were, before the clock chimed.

Holding up a dream catcher, and what looked like a remote controller, he addressed the bemused campers.

“Welcome to my studio of horrors. You have certainly been put through the mill. But, you only have yourselves to blame.”

Holding up the dream catcher, he said, “See this little device … it’s called a dream catcher.

After one of you mentioned “haunted”, it caught all of the dreams you had, after that, before midnight. The combination of wine and pot, probably enhanced the quality of your dreams.

See this other device. This is my own invention, based on relevant features of AI, Artificial Intelligence. When I connected it to the dream maker, all your dreams were melded to create an animation.

“This is what you have seen and experienced, tonight: a projection of the animation, of what you three were dreaming.

“In layman’s terms, what you just encountered was LIVING THE DREAM.”

THE SORCERER
by Valda R

‘One pela lik lik man e di pinis’

‘Whatname e di? ‘Me no savvy’

‘Name b’long em?’ ‘Christmas b’long em’?

The diligent young police constable on a remote island police outpost listened attentively as a villager from Pak Island arrived at the desk, stating that a young man had died. He knew the information required to record and pass on to the Inspector on his return.

The Govt workboat arranged for early the next morning was boarded by three police constables and the European Police Inspector, for the three hour sea trip to this remote western island in the Bismarck Archipelago.

On arrival they made their way to view the body in a small village house. As they entered, a woman blackened with charcoal from head to toe emitting guttural sounds, was waving palm fronds over the body coated in coconut oil. She stood up, turned and glared with contempt as she stepped towards the white intruder. The body appeared to be of a strong young man and appeared to have no external or significant wounds.

The villagers were gathered and seated in a semi circle but remained silent when questions were asked. The only sound was the hawking of betelnut juice as it splattered the earth with a string of red juice. There was the occasional whisper of ‘Glasman’ (witch doctor) and ‘bone’. When asked where the Glasman was, they pointed towards the ocean.

In New Guinea in the 1960s sorcery or witchcraft was an accepted belief. The people of Pak Island were animists believing in the spirit world, with Glasman being a mediator between the spirit world and the human realm. By placing a death spell a person would die.

The police set about interviewing villagers individually, and learned this young man had been having pus pus, a sexual affair with a young married meri, after which the local Glasman had stepped in and pointed the bone at him. As bizarre as this seemed to the European Officer, the local police just nodded in acknowledgement and acceptance.

However, the body needed to be taken to the mainland for a post mortem. This caused much consternation, and finally the body wrapped tightly in tapa cloth and banana leaves, was laid out in a canoe. Hours of yowling and circling of the canoe continued as the women stamped their feet with the dust rising, before the canoe was carried by the village headmen to the workboat. A procession of villagers accompanied the canoe, with the constant wailing echoing down the path into the surrounding rain forest.

That evening back on the main island of Lorengau, the local medic conducted the post mortem, attended by the police inspector, which unsurprisingly showed no cause of death.

The following day the body was returned to Pak Island for traditional burial. The islanders knew exactly why and how he had died, and were aware of the consequences for such mischievous behaviour. The body was kept for mourning for several days, before the canoe was weighted down and taken out to sea, for these people were sea dwellers.

"Inconclusive" was the official recording of the cause of death.

AFTERNOON TEA WITH AUNTY EVA
by Sallie H.

BAIL POINT
by Paul G

Ducks don’t like heavy rain. They hide when it storms which is funny because they spend most of their time floating. Maybe they’re only waterproof on the bottom?

Harry is like a duck, no, maybe a drake. Lots of quack, wing flapping, and feather fluffing. He’s also a strong paddler, always diving after some hot deal and then gobbling down the fat squirming prize before it knows what happened. To Harry’s mind he’s a winner but, when it rains, he runs. Oh, how he runs. Come to think of it, just the approach of some heavy emotional cloud will have him waddling away.

Clouds like commitment.

Every time I mention that we should move in together, or book a holiday any further away than next week, he gets twitchy. Which is another odd thing because Harry sells futures for a living. Such a crazy thing that, selling futures.
“What?” I said, when I first met him. “What are you, some sort of fortune teller?”
He laughed and said “Yes. I see you and me in a huge bed together. Tonight.” He was like that: cheeky, a naughty-bad boy cross, the worst sort of combo for me.

To Harry, I am a type. Someone who’ll hang in on a sniff of hope until we eventually reach what I call his bail point, that conjunction of time, place and frustration spelt s-c-e-n-e. Harry hates “scenes”. My friends told me all the Harry stories. I didn’t care because I have my line in the sand too. Of course, every now and again I have to rub it out and re-draw it.

But today I’ve run out of beach – and the tide is coming in.

Above, bloated black clouds clump together. The air is charged. Waiting and watching as Harry’s car turns into the parking lot. It’s his getaway car – low, sporty and loud with no room in the back for a baby capsule. Maybe in Harry’s case it would be an anti-baby capsule.

He gets out, looks up and sniffs. I imagine he can smell the storm coming. I wave and spot the moment of hesitation before he waves back.

A rumble of thunder rolls in from the sea.

He looks up again and shuffles into a trot. Can’t afford to get that two-hundred dollar shirt wet, can we now Harry? How many shirts would he have? I mentally try to count, but lose track when I get to the white ones; they all look the same hanging on their special padded hangers inside his one-bedroom apartment. A splotch of water bursts onto the balcony’s railing, then another. The drops are heavy, pregnant with hope; intent on germinating life. They become heavier, dashing themselves against the cement, like lemmings desperately following the one in front. Chasing Harry down. My hand moves to my stomach and I rub it reassuringly.

Harry is about to cross my line and cause a scene. Except this time his bail point will be expensive.

DIVINE INTERVENTION
by Malcolm W

Dave Matthews was stood at the bar in his local pub, nursing a schooner of beer and looking around the room. It was disco night, and a stream of young women and their boyfriends were grabbing drinks and heading next door to the room where the music was blaring out and the DJ could be heard beckoning the men to join their partners on the dance floor. Dave cursed the shyness that made him so scared to chat up the girls; a curse that his mates thought hilarious, and ribbed him about his inability to snag a date. Perhaps he should ditch them and find new mates, but he couldn’t even bring himself to do that.
“You look like you could do with a friend young man.”

Dave spun round to see a couple of shifty looking older men staring at him. “I got plenty of mates thanks, I just needed to be alone tonight, I’ve been overdoing it a bit lately and I just want a quiet drink.”

The man who had spoken to him looked at his sidekick and smiled. “I don’t think so lad, we’ve been watching you and we’re feeling a bit sorry for you. WE can help you find a female companion for the night if you want. We own a place down the road, and we have some nice young ladies who work for us, I’m sure one of them could make you smile.”

Dave knew the place; and wasn’t impressed. “You mean the brothel? I’m not interested thanks. Even if I was I don’t have the money to waste.”

The man smiled and put a hand on Dave’s shoulder. “That’s a bit harsh lad, we just supply a service to people like you who don’t have partners, or just want a change from the ones they do have. Because you seem like a good lad, we’ll let you have a freebie.”

Dave was torn; the offer was one he was tempted to accept, but this was not the way he had envisaged losing his virginity. He wondered what his dad would say about the proposition if he had been there.

An hour later Dave emerged from an upstairs room of the establishment feeling pleased with himself on one side; but racked with guilt on the other. He was greeted downstairs by the two men who had big grins on their faces.
“Hope you enjoyed it lad” said the man who was obviously in charge. The smile had vanished; and he thrust a box towards Dave. “Take this lad, it’s time to pay for your little adventure.”

“What is it?”

“You don’t need to know that? Here’s a list of phone numbers, call each of these people and tell them their goods have arrived. Give them each one of the little packages in the box, collect the money and bring it here. Don’t disclose to anyone what you are doing.”

Dave was horrified. “It’s drugs isn’t it. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“You’ll do what you’re told lad. You don’t get anything for nothing in this world.”

“I’ll pay for the visit, but I won’t do this.”

“Go away and think about it, but don’t do anything stupid; we know where you live. Come back in an hour after you’ve thought about it.”

Dave hurried out, cursing his stupidity in falling for it. He wandered the streets until it was time to go back. He knew he had to say "no" to their plan, whatever the consequences. He walked into the building to find the young lady he had visited, along with three others, al looking worried.

“What’s wrong? Where are those two men?”

One of the ladies pointed towards an open office door. Inside, the two men lay motionless on the floor.
“They’re dead” said the lady, with no sign of sadness at the fact.

“How, there’s no sign of trauma?” said Dave.

She shrugged. “You tell us, it was your dad who did it.”

“Don’t be stupid” snapped Dave, “He couldn’t have done it.”

“Well he said he was your dad, and he said no-one was going to get away with corrupting his son. We didn’t see what happened, but when he stormed out we came in and saw them like this. What do you have to say to that?”

Dave replied in a hushed voice: “It couldn’t have been my dad, we buried him a year ago.”

A MYSTERY ON FOUR MILE BEACH
by Julie S