WRITING GALLERY - AUGUST 2026

The gentle breeze intensified, pushing swirling, brightly coloured leaves of gold and red, with every shade between, ahead, picking up more in the wild dance. It toyed with the few remaining leaves still attached to the almost bare trees whose branches reached to the grey skies, as if searching for the non-existent sun, it playfully tugged at them, daring them to join the already fallen in the mad dance across the park.

To start with it looked like a bundle of rags lying on the park bench in the early morning. Torn and flapping in the breeze.

Then that bundle sat up revealing an elderly man who stretched, stood up and having nothing better to do sat back down again. Gazing ahead, eyes clouded with cataracts, seeing nothing, as he focused on his inner thoughts. Memories of happier times flitted across his mind and he smiled a little.

Shivering slightly in the cool late autumn air, he pushed one hand, which protruded from a fraying sleeve, deep into a pocket of the threadbare old khaki army greatcoat, and pulled out a bottle covered by a brown paper bag. Sighing, he took a deep swig, smacking his lips and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Dirty brown trousers with worn shiny patches on the knees covered his legs and gnarled feet were pushed into cracked black leather shoes.

A surprisingly clean and warm plaid scarf was wrapped around his neck. That had been a good find. Grey stubble which hadn’t seen a razor for a while adorned his chin and his jowls were drooping, a bit like those of a bulldog. The broken capillaries on his nose and cheeks told their own tale.

Straggly grey locks, once a thick dark brown thatch, strayed in whisps from under the greasy flat cap on his head.

What had happened? How had it come to this?

A RACE, A FACE & THE BACK OF A BUS
by lesley

Ronnie had a nasty experience after he won the footrace at the Easter Sports.

The sports were a well-supported tradition and the Gallop was the main drawcard, paying good prizemoney. When Ronnie came home a metre ahead of his nearest rival, celebration was called for.

Ronnie opted to convert his winnings at the bar. At closing time ten hours later, he was still celebrating, and though his eyelids drooped and his speech was slurred, his face was more or less intact. Within the hour, his face would be a mess, and he would be five miles away, scaring the wits out of Annabel Jones.

Annabel Jones’s husband Lennie had forgone Sports festivities so he could finish planting before the moisture ran out. At sundown, his little wife had stood by the horse paddock gate at the front of their house, a baby on each hip, to see him off as his big red Massey burbled across the road to start the night shift, planting rig trailing behind.

Around ten o’clock after the pub closed, Lennie was still up the paddock planting and Ronnie the runner was weaving his old Landcruiser home, indifferent to the risk of driving soused.

Halfway there, the champ drove into the back of a stationary charter bus making an unscheduled comfort stop by the Jones’s gate. Despite nursing a nasty facial injury, Ronnie bolted, knowing he would be in deep trouble if the local copper caught him at the wheel. He crawled through the darkness commando style, under the barbed wire fence, and into the Jones’s horse paddock, arriving at their homestead just after Annabel had sung the last lullaby and gone to her bed.

Hearing a strange whimpering by the back steps, she flicked on the outside light. She gasped. There was Ronnie, head covered in blood, shirt covered in blood, hands covered in blood. “Oh, my God!" The smell of stale beer and blood turned her stomach.

“I think I mighta’ had a prang,” he said, reeling.

Shocked, Annabel made him lie on the living room rug. She phoned an ambulance, suppressing her houseproud tendencies as he continued to bleed all over her prized shagpile. Minutes later, the bus driver appeared at her door, wanting to know if she’d seen any sign of the missing ute driver they’d been combing the roadside grass for. “He’s here,” she said. “The ambulance is on its way.”

Meanwhile, from a distance Lennie had seen two lots of lights driving into his homestead. Sensing trouble he turned his rig for home. He returned just in time to see a bus and ambulance leaving.

He hurried to the house and took in the scene - distressed wife, living room rug soaked in blood. “Jeez, Annabel. What the hell’s happened here? Are the kids all right?”

Annabel explained.

Six months later, she ran into Ronnie’s sister at the supermarket. “We call him Quilty now,” the sister told her. “It took 70 stitches to patch him up.”

FINDING HISTORY
by Meryl

Bob the family history buff was on a mission to find his Great Great Grandfather's grave supposedly on the side of a road in Central Queensland. He is writing his third book, this time about his mother’s side of the family and this would be an interesting inclusion.

Leaving just after breakfast with a cup of coffee and bottles of water the family set out. Turning left at St Lawrence he was on a bitumen very pot holed road. Every time anyone tried to take a sip of coffee he hit another pot hole. Driving up an undulating road into the mountains as far as the eye could see on the ridge tops were slowly turning wind turbines. This went on for several kilometres. Then suddenly to the side of the road in a valley between the ridges was what looked like a large lake but on closer inspection was a solar farm of grey mirrors shining in the sunlight. The question was who was using this much electricity. Maybe a Queensland Government Renewable Energy Project.

Was the bad road surface was caused by transporting the long turbine blades.

On the travellers went just in time for lunch reaching a large white Roadhouse selling petrol and food. Quite a few mining and farm trucks were parked outside so the food must be good.

After a substantial lunch it was time to hit the road again but this time on a dirt road between cattle stations. Did I say dirt? More like bull dust and when a double bogy passed the road visibility was down to almost zero. On the intrepid travellers went just missing a pot hole almost 30cm deep.

At last the coordinates for the grave. On the right side of the road was a small area of down trodden grass leading to a clearing between the shrubby trees. Out everyone piled to find the grave.

Stomping down the tall grass a headstone about a metre high appeared with a cement covered burial plot facing East surrounded by an iron fence. The headstone was weathered cement topped by a Celtic Cross. The wording as quite readable.

In Loving memory of

xxxx

Fifth son of

xxxxxx and xxxxxxxxx xxxx

Late of Wallabadah

New South Wales

Who was killed by a tree

falling on him near

Magusty Waterholes

Queensland

24 th December 1877

Aged 27 years 7 months

Leaving a Wife and Affectionate

Mother and a large Circle of

Friends

to mourn their loss him

Deeply regretted by all who knew

The strange thing was every flat surface on the headstone was covered with coin of all dominations. Who left this here? He was not in the US military but a carrier of goods between Mackay and Clermont. Could the owners of the cattle station show visitors this as part of their tour of the property.

Various photographs were taken to be sent on to other family members.

Back in the car and on with the adventure. 

RAINBOW FALLS:  BLACKLAND TABLELAND, CQ
by Trevor

Silver water cascades o’er the orange flatness

of suspended, ancient cliff-face,

forming glistening droplets that fall

past crevices and meandering quartz seams-

irrigating Blackland’s “Garden of Eden.”

Arrays of tropical flora vigorously respond

to the daily mix of mist and sunshine.

Tree-ferns spread their shade-giving arms,

protecting the lesser ferns and mosses:

a naturally amalgamated “Green Belt”.

Protruding rocks interrupt the downward velocity

of the watery veil,

causing it to ricochet towards ultimate embracement

in the coolness of a rock- and bush-lined pool below:

tourists’ reviver in “Paradise Rediscovered.”

Shady bowers, majestic palms, massive boulders

provide welcome refuge,

from humidity … ultra-violet … other folk.

Rain sound of water on water, orchestrates

background music for card-players … bookworms … sun-soakers.

Stone-bergs jutting from the shoreline, form islands …

bridge a confusion of rivulets;

make a haven for lethargic eels … synchronized swimmers

scavenging on crusts; takeaways; picnic lunches.

Entertaining. Fascinating. Sentries over their watery units.

Be warned! Pedestrian access is a fitness test!

Every adventurer challenged!

Ascending. Descending . Twisting stairways.

Muscle-straining. Knee-tiring. Strength- and breath-sapping.

Every step elevates … lowers a protesting body. Worth it!

A LIFE SOON FORGOTTEN
by Melinda

It had the correctness of a doll’s house, a place where you can believe that once upon a times might begin, and happy ever afters would come true. Picture book perfect.

It had a welcoming symmetry. Almost like a friendly face, an invitation. Windows, eyes between open shutters, shining as if sugar coated, were placed each side of the small, strawberry coloured front door that stood expectantly at the end of the short path that neatly dissected the small front garden into two. The garden was mostly bare, mostly in shadow from the tall trees that either protected it, or barricaded it in. But the eye did not wander from the cottage, for its façade was undeniably extraordinary. An explosion of pastels, it had a warm deliciousness that was only magnified by the cottage’s setting, as it stood separate, alone in its small clearing, in the thickness of those woods. It sat quietly, resolute, inviting, beckoning.

On stepping inside, the façade immediately slipped away, engulfed with a promise that would not be met. The heart of the cottage too was magical, but not whimsical. Rather, it was imbued with the patina of time. It had a quiet agelessness, almost a heaviness, with a huge fireplace taking precedence, commanding all that was happening before it. It housed a large, burning wood oven, and indeed what better way to keep the chills of winter at bay. It cast a flickering glow over the walls, licking the shelves that displayed the tools of her trade: bowls, loaf tins, wooden spoons and books, rows of them. They appeared well-used, earmarked, stained with spillages and fingerprints that had left a trail as they were handed down through the generations. Unchanged recipes that stood the test of time.

I do not know her name. But her fondness of bread and sugar was hinted at by her girth, for she was fairly wide and stout. She was a baker and sweet treat specialist, seldom going to such fanciful levels with her more humble savory dishes. They instead were borne of necessity and sustenance, as opposed to the spectacle, the craftmanship, that was demanded by baking and sweet making. The isolation suited the woman, away from the scrutiny of village life, for she was not fair of face. It seemed that her grim countenance was in some way compensated for by the beauty of the cottage, for it was a kaleidoscope of colour. Despite the fact that she was aged and slightly bent, and lived alone, the upkeep on her cottage could not be faulted, for her eye to detail was faultless. It was immaculately and regularly maintained, for the small but constant trickle of visitors required it. Its notoriety was not achieved through word of mouth, but was one of those treasures simply stumbled upon. And then who could resist the temptation, the deliciousness?

She was warming herself when she heard them. Pulling herself from the chair, she called, “nibble, nibble like a mouse….”

PLAYING CHARADES IN CHINA
by Julie

It was October 2003 when we were booked to travel to China on A Grand Tour of 26 days starting in Beijing; travelling west then south, south east and ending in Shanghai. Trains, planes and buses. However, disaster hit the tourism sector in China when SARS and Bird Flu arrived at the same time. Our trip was not looking good, but the tour company, Helen Wong, honoured their commitment and so off we went. Just Woz and I. In the weeks leading up to departure my left knee decided it would cause trouble and so it did. After 13 hours of flying Melbourne to Beijing, the knee had swollen to twice its size. Bugger. However, I decided that if I could limit its bend and eat plenty of pain killers it should be ok. Not far from our hotel The Beijing Internation on Jianguo Mennei Drive ,we quickly located a pharmacy with its distinctive green cross above the door. With painful expression on my face and making a wrap around motion on my arm the helpful assistant was able to work out that I wanted a bandage. Ah, but I needed a stretchy one, and so making stretching motions she returned with a stretch bandage big enough to bind an elephant. Success. She bound my knee for me and so we were off. Exploring the Forbidden City that afternoon was a source of great joy and fascination. Early to bed, for the next morning we were setting off very early to visit the Great Wall and also the Ming Tombs. There were very few non-Chinese visitors about and so we were a source of great curiosity being surrounded by The Staring, and we were occasionally poked and prodded. The Sacred Way leading to the Tombs was all but deserted. The willows lining the path swayed gently back and forth giving a magical air of mystery to the huge animals - camels, lions, dragons, and soldiers guarding the path. A moment for me of extraordinary peace. The peace was shattered when we came across a group of young women visiting from the countryside. Where are you from? Skippy was the answer. Arms folded into a cradle shape asked how many kids. Gesturing to breasts and genital areas asked boys or girls. An arm acting as a stair case gave the children's ages. And then. Pointing to Woz's height and my lack of same, she made a circle using her thumb and pointer finger, then sticking her other pointer through the hole wanted to know how we had sex. They thought my illustrations hilarious and screamed with laughter. A good second encounter with the locals. Back in the city we realized we were very hungry. A cafe filled with only Chinese slurping and sloshing their way through bowls of who-knows-what looked enticing. No English of course, our non-exisitent Chinese, and a pretty useless translator led me to the chicken dance as an indicator of what we were wanting. Again much much laughter and merriment. And the chicken arrived!

Smothered in Chillies and a little bowl of cooling rice, So so delicious and so memorable.

We were now feeling very confident in our ability to communicate using charades and so were looking forward with great expectations to our journey.

CHILD TRANSFIXED
by Cindi

This, she thought grimly, was not turning out according to plan. Her plan had been for a companionable afternoon stroll with a small chatty child, and look what she had now!

The small chatty child had been utterly silent for the full fifteen minutes that he had been crouched down, staring at an obviously enthralling squashed toad. It was a quiet dirt road, but she was becoming increasingly jittery that a car would arrive soon. An inattentive driver could easily hit them. Recent rain had softened the clayey surface and the toad had obviously been struck from behind, its guts expelled through its mouth, leaving an almost perfect shape amongst the tyre patterns and muddy ruts.

Giving in to fate and arthritis she knelt carefully down beside the oblivious child, leaning forward and setting her hands on the tyre-patterned surface to ease her position. Searching for understanding she studied him. Compactly made, he was a truly beautiful child with a mop of dark curly hair and creamy skin, and of course, very attentive dark eyes. A late talker, usually he never stopped talking. Four years old and his mute refusal to move now had been adamant. ‘Determined ‘had always been the perfect word to describe him. She had wanted to pick him up and carry him home when first he had refused to leave the toad, but had known better than to try.

He had not at any point touched the toad- all his concentration had been visual, so now she eyed it more closely herself. It was not monotoned as she had assumed from a distance, but studying the almost crocodilian corpse she realised how exquisite it really was. Leathery, the multiple and harmonious folds of skin were mostly slate and ash coloured but tiny pimples were arranged in wavy patterns of primrose and tan matching the angles of the ash and slate skin folds. Brutally utilitarian; but creation had been unable to resist adding beauty to the workaday skin. Other than the ruined mouth and the fact that it was flattened, it was in perfect shape. Folded back legs ready to push forward, one leathery forearm forward and one back, all its surprisingly long claws were ready for action. Its eyelids and its poison ducts, which were made obvious by a faint purple shading were closed shut forever. It could almost have been asleep.

Suddenly satisfied now, her grandchild rose easily from his prolonged squat and headed off in the direction of home keeping carefully to the road edge. Relieved, she lurched upwards, gained balance, ruefully brushing at her muddied knees with less than pristine hands, and watched him march o[ purposefully, without a backward glance. Still no traffic, thank goodness.

Shaking her head in irritation- or was it in wonder- she bent down again and gently extricated the little body from its very open grave with finger and thumb and followed her grandchild. She wanted a magnifying glass...

GROWING PAINS
by Malcolm

James was a normal schoolboy in many ways; he enjoyed playing rugby, going scrumping with his mates and doing other things his parents told him not to do. At the age of fifteen, studying for his final exams, he was asked to take three months off to look after his mum She was pregnant with her fifth child at the age of forty, and when she fell over her doctor ordered her to take to her bed until the child was born. Dad was working three jobs, so James was asked to look after his mum and siblings until the new one arrived.

By the time he was due to return to school he felt it would be a waste of time, as he had fallen far behind in his studies. A teacher told his Dad “James is smart enough to get into university, don’t let him leave school.”

“We couldn’t afford to send him there; it’s his call if he wants to leave.”

James got an apprenticeship and handed over his wage packets to dad to help the family coffers.

At the age of sixteen James joined the social club where his dad and uncles drank. They lied about his age to get him in because he was a good darts player and they needed him in the team. One night he met an old man at the bar; he wore a shabby old suit and a cloth cap; and had an unlit rolled cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Charlie was a recently retired dustman, or Garbo if you’re an Aussie. The pair soon became friends, and Charlie was a fascinating character with many stories, and a broad knowledge of things James felt your average dustman wouldn’t know about. During their regular chats Charlie would often say things that impressed James, even when he didn’t understand some of what he was hearing. The old man would regularly quote from Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and other famous writers; and a lot of it went straight over the head of the youngster.

One night, after Charlie had talked about his wife and children, James blurted out “I can’t see myself ever getting married or having children. I haven’t even got a girlfriend. I reckon I’ll probably die early.”

That tickled old Charlie, who just shook his head and replied: “Just give it time, you’ll find the right girl one day: and you’ve got a long way to go yet.”

A couple of years later, James was in the club, having a beer with some mates, when Charlie’s wife walked in. She looked sad, as she took James aside.

“I’m afraid my husband died this morning, he hadn’t been well for a while, but he hid it well.”

It turned out that Charlie had been a university professor for most of his working life. He had only become a dustman when he had a bit of a breakdown and decided to do a job with no stress.

Many years later James thought back on those days and smiled. Old Charlie certainly got one thing right; he hadn’t been lucky enough to have children; but he had been happily married for fifty-two years.

OUR ISLAND HOME
by Valda