WRITING GALLERY - FEBRUARY 2026

GIFTS FROM THE GODS
by Lesley

Losing Nonna was heart-breaking. Inheriting her run-down house has been a mixed blessing - but because of it, I am back, and because of it, I have met Marco.

My grandparents raised me in this house, so returning here fills me with nostalgia. After Poppa died five years ago, Nonna became my one anchor, and I treasured our weekly phone calls.

My Greek grandfather Nico earned his living as a fisherman and settled in Italy to court Nonna. On their wedding day here in Positano, they followed the tradition of many Greek newlyweds, and ate an apple, to ensure fruitfulness. After their marriage, they moved into Norma's family home. My home, now. Or it will be, once I remove the builders' rubble.

Nonna's house is rustic but, in its own way, beautiful. The house is perched on a cliffside, surrounded by a mosaic of colourful dwellings stepping down to the beach. The ochre plaster on the stone facade has faded, but the cascade of pink bougainvillea she tended brings life to it. The front door is flanked by oblong shuttered windows and opens into the sitting room where Poppa mended his nets, and the kitchen where Nonna kneaded bread in a stone bowl. Upstairs, two bedrooms share a small courtyard with spectacular views of the sea. Here, Norma's plants have survived her—the little lemon tree and terracotta pots of basil and rosemary and pomodori.

The property is accessible only by foot, up a series of narrow paths and steep stone staircases, so modest repairs have taken months. Restoring unstable sections of plaster produced an ugly pile of rock and debris that could not be tossed into a skip or any other wheeled vehicle for easy removal, so the masons simply left it, in one big heap, by the fireplace — for me to deal with. The only way to get it out, is to use pack animals.

Marco is the local man who provides this service with the help of his grey donkey, Burro, and by a stroke of good fortune, Marco is available.

I've always had a soft spot for donkeys. Having both Greek and Italian heritage, I was lucky to grow up with a wealth of story — mediterranean mythology that was my grandparents' way of teaching me about the world. One of my favourites was the legend of The Lucky Donkey — a gift from the gods and a sign of good fortune.

They also told me of Icarus who flew too close to the sun with his strapped-on feathers and came to grief. They did not want me to grow up overconfident and reckless, as my father had done. The accident on Amalfi Drive left me an orphan.

So, I have come to look forward to donkey days with Marco. Like many Italian men, he is gifted in the playful art of flirtation, and his compliments make me blush. When he is not busy transporting construction waste, he works as an artist and craftsman. He makes useful items and works of art from feathers — fishing lures, and flights on arrows and framed patterns of starlings in flight,

He has invited me for an aperitivo, to view his lures and arrows. Should I say yes, or will I be flying too close to the sun? It's in the lap of the gods.

A NEW START
by Melinda

“I do.”

And with those two little words, unbeknownst to her, Maria had launched her life of crime.

Four months earlier, upon receiving her Decree Absolute, signalling her official divorce, she had boarded a boat to a distant Greek island and to new beginnings. Tilting her head, she flung her red, Celtic curls causing them to float briefly in the gentle breeze as she inhaled the salt air and looked down at the harbour sitting in the peaceful caldera below. Maria could not imagine the time, millennia ago, when the bubbling magma chamber and its massive eruption had created this landscape. Nor could she imagine the direction her life would soon take.

She smiled brightly at the aging Onelates as he glanced back, checking now and then, while leading his three donkeys carrying Maria and all her worldly goods, up through the narrow, but well-worn paths, to the gleaming white and blue township above.

On her third day on the island Maria joined her landlords, Elena and Georgios, on a trip to one of the many local wineries. They enjoyed a long, slow lunch of Fava and Ntomatokeftedes with pita and capers – served with a range of wines from local grapes grown on the volcanic soil.  Assyrtiko, a local dry white, quickly became a favourite. The dessert was a peculiarity of the winery, which otherwise used mainly local produce. The chef, born on the mainland in Zagora, Greece’s most famous apple-growing region, imported the apples and offered a speciality; Milopita, a moist, rich Greek apple tart served with cream.

It was on this outing that Ioannis walked into the winery and into Maria’s life. As an old friend of Georgios and Elena, he was warmly welcomed and was invited to join them for a glass of wine and dessert. The friends chatted about the island while enjoying the green-blue landscape that unfolded into the valley below them. Maria’s ear pricked up as she noticed the men talking about art works, but before she could join in, the subject had changed.

Maria was quite taken with this charming, intriguing stranger who was on vacation from his usual role in the pages of a romance novel. A few short months later, Maria was standing at the altar, saying, “I do.” She was in love. Deeply. Ioannis was everything she could have dreamed of. They walked out of the quaint stone church into the bright sunshine. Flowers nodded gently in the breeze. Birds overhead seemed to be singing in celebration of the nuptials. Maria was radiant in her flowing white gown. Ioannas looked at her lovingly as the breeze gently lifted her flaming curls. Maria glanced up to see an ebony feather, from a passing bird, waft gently towards the ground - landing on her dress. Not usually superstitious, Maria chose not to focus on the symbolism; the ill-portent often associated with a black feather. She chose instead to see it as a random occurrence.

As the weeks unfolded, Maria’s life was just about perfect, full of wine and sunshine, laughter, love and friendship. Ioannis sometimes spoke casually about paintings that he bought and sold, but which she rarely saw - apart from a quick photograph before the ‘pieces’ disappeared again. She thought it odd but didn’t focus on it. She was busy with life and love and she had even begun that novel she had always meant to write.

A few months into her fairytale, a letter arrived, from back home. From Colin. He claimed that he had never signed the divorce papers.

Breathing quickly and grabbing at a chair to steady herself, Maria sat down at Ioannis’ desk by their bedroom window. A black feather fluttered in - meeting the curtain and falling onto her lap just as she noticed some documents. Some had her name as the purchaser of artworks. A Stella Kapezanou original had sold twice to different buyers. And then it had been bought back at an inflated price. Looking down at the feather, she understood. Maria, apparently a bigamist, realised that it wasn’t art Ioannas was moving, but money. Cleaned, renamed and sent on its way. Would that be her fate too?

PAIRINGS
by Paul

Michael was a collector, not only of things, but people too. Disparate sets he called them; opposites that were unlikely to attract. Like us. Sammi with her energy, Wade, our group’s resolute glue and me, who, Michael insisted, was the group’s heart. He, naturally, was the brains.

Michael’s innate skill was being able to recognise, not only what differentiated his disparate sets, but also the qualities they lacked, but might find in the others, thereby strengthening the whole.

I didn’t realise how much we relied on that interdependence until Michael invited us all to dinner, that last time. I remember him tapping his wineglass for silence before announcing, ‘Guys, there’s no good way to say this, but… I’m afraid I’m dying.’ I remember grinning, waiting for the punchline. Michael always loved a good joke. But as the moment stretched, my grin slowly deflated as he continued, ‘Sorry. Cancer does tend to kill the mood, doesn’t it? But I have an ulterior motive for inviting you here tonight. I need your help –looking after my collections.’

Silence stole in settling around us like a damp shroud. Michael’s collection was legendary and in proportion to the size of his massive house. I couldn’t imagine how even one small portion might squeeze inside my townhouse, much less Sammi and Wade’s one bedders. Before we could begin to balance sympathetic mutterings with practical excuses Michael laughed.

‘Look at your expressions,’ he aped our open-mouthed shock. ‘Don’t worry I’m not asking you to store the bloody things, just be my executors and oversee the dispersal after I’m gone. Galleries and museums mostly. Here, I’ve made a list.’

***

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. There were other “disparate sets” to deal with. Like Murphy, Michael’s donkey and Perry, his Peregrine Falcon who, over time, had learned to tolerate or, at best, ignore one another. Typically, he’d paired one of the slowest and humblest of beasts with the fastest creature on the planet.

As a child Michael had been fascinated by both. Plodding donkeys, like St Francis’s Brother Ass and Duffy, Private Simpson’s Gallipoli donkey who’d carried wounded soldiers to safety and the ruthless speed of falcons who Michael had once clocked at 386km/hour, in a dive at an unsuspecting pigeon. The impact had left only feathers drifting in its wake.

Following Michael’s death we hitched Murphy to a cart carrying the casket and accompanied it down to the family’s burial plot, beneath the old apple tree.

Eventually we found Murphy a comfortable new country home, but had to hire professional help to unman Perry’s human socialisation. Then, prior to his release, we attached a small leg tracker to ensure he made it all the way to independence. We tracked him to the 45th floor of the Abbicor building where he continues to enjoy quasi cliff top view and a plentiful supply of passing pigeons.

While our group remains tight after Michael’s passing, I sometimes wonder whether Murphy and Perry ever miss the qualities of one another.

DONKEY, FEATHER AND APPLE
by Salllie

WHITE FEATHER
by Valda

The donkey stumbled as the young man strapped to the litter on its back jerked up suddenly as the bullet entered his body.

An icy westerly wind blew across the harbour the day the telegram was delivered to No 43 High Street, Dunedin; a day when darkness encompassed the house.

In 1914 when news of a war on the other side of the world filtered through, there seemed little worry for people living in this small distant country. However, soon after a call went out across the British Empire for its young men to sign up. 

Posters appeared: 

The empire needs young men

Young lions to fight for the old lion;

Sign up and fight for the Mother Land.

Nikau did everything to dissuade his brother Malakai from signing up, pointing out the seriousness and stupidity of war.  ‘England is not our mother land. Our father’s ancestors came from Spain and settled in Micronesia in the 1800s later sailing to New Zealand. Ngaire our Mother is a proud Maori.’

The family stood at the Railway Station one cold winter morning to farewell the young men. Malakai’s mother was weeping and waving her handkerchief as the train pulled out, while his Father stood with a sad and serious face.

Nikau continued his reporting as a Cadet Journalist and was stoically ignoring the insults he was receiving at work for not signing up. However, the morning he found a white feather on his desk was the last day he spent with the Otago Daily Times. His father stopped going to the local pub, as men he had known all his life were turning their backs on him.

After their fence was daubed with coward in red paint, a decision was made for Nikau to go to the ‘high country’ where his elder sister lived. There was an old shearer’s hut that was liveable.

Nikau settled into an austere lifestyle in his small stone hut. He trekked miles every day eventually appreciating the ruggedness, the snow topped mountains and the glacial lakes. He collected and chopped firewood, trapped rabbits, caught fish in the small lakes, and spent long evenings writing. His sister came to see him once a week bringing food, newspapers and mail.

He had his transistor radio, kept up with the news and was deeply saddened when after the war ended, he learned of the number of casualties. One day his sister climbed the hill to deliver a telegram from his mother advising his father was seriously ill and was asking for him.

He returned to Dunedin where the atmosphere was sober as he made his way up High Street to the family home. He barely recognised his Mother, her face lined with grief.  "My darling boy, your father needs you. Old Pat from next door is with him, just knock and enter."  As Nikau paused at the door he heard Pat say "You’re a good man Carlos. One bad apple in the family doesn’t change that."

Was he never to be accepted for not being one of the 18,000 young New Zealand men to die, or one one of the 40,000 wounded?   

MAKING AN ASS OF MYSELF
by Malcolm

My friends and I get bored easily, so to keep us amused we invented a new weekly game over a few beers at the pub. It was a quirky treasure hunt where you had to find 3 unusual objects to show your mates. Last night we gathered as usual, to show our booty.

It was my mate Geoff’s turn to run the show, as he had chosen the targets: “So, just to recap, this week’s objects were an apple, a feather and a donkey. So, let’s see how you went.  As agreed, we only need to show the first two, the apple and the feather; you just need to produce a photo of the donkey. I don’t think the landlord would have been happy to see a dozen donkeys in his bar. Take turns to lay your objects on the table, and show your photo, explaining how you acquired them.”

I was last to show my trophies, and I pulled the first object from my pocket. “I didn’t want to just go to the shops to buy my apple, so I walked the streets until I saw some fruit trees in a garden. No-one was about, so I nipped through the gate, grabbed this apple from a tree and made my way to the gate. Unfortunately, the owner saw me and came out the door waving his fist. I had to leg it down the road fast, as in his other hand he was waving a knife menacingly. It took me back to my scrumping days as a kid.

I pulled out the photo that I had snapped on my phone and printed out. I had to drive out of town to get this, but I reckon it’s pretty good. There were 3 of them in a field, but I had to jump the wall to get a good close-up. It was only after I took the photo that I noticed there was also an angry looking bull taking an unhealthy interest in me and I had to leg it again.

Ignoring the sniggers I took out the feather. I was driving back to town when I saw a bunch of free-range chooks in another paddock on a property down the road from the donkeys. I stopped the car, scaled the wall and picked out a target. When I finally caught one, I plucked a feather and got out of there.”

I looked around the group; and was a bit unsettled by the smirks on their faces.
“Something wrong?” I asked.

Geoff patted me on the back. “Good effort mate; but that bit of fruit is a Nashi Pear, not an apple, and the creature in your photo is a mule. They have a donkey dad and a horse mum. Still, at least you got the feather right, and you came out of it all unscathed, so points for trying.”

“Well, I didn’t come out of it completely unscathed,” I admitted. “It was easy enough to pluck a feather once I caught the beast. However, the farmer’s dog must have heard the chicken squawking, and he ran over and bit into my leg as I tried to scale the wall. I had to get stitches, a tetanus jab and a new pair of trousers. I think I’ll sit out the next assignment.”

APPLES, FEATHERS & A DONKEY
by Trevor

It was just a small rural village, populated by long term residents who survived on cottage and small pastoral industries.  Eking out a living, in this semi-desert, arid location required full-time commitment, by all hands available.
“If you can’t eat it, don’t rear it, nor grow it,” seemed to be the unwritten creed of the general populous.

When Olaf Singh, his wife, Rani, and their son, Eugene, moved onto one of the few vacant farms, announcing that they intended to set up an orchard and feather farm, bewildered locals wished them luck. When they revealed that their intention was to create a micro-climate incorporating a sophisticated style of permaculture, the locals predicted that the newbies wouldn’t be there very long. That the initial orchard crop was going to be apples, and that peacocks were to be the foundation of the feather farm, just added to the skepticism of the village folk. What they thought when they heard a donkey braying, didn’t pass censorship.

The farm boasted a well, with water pumped up to a tank, on the hill above the buildings, and gravity fed to strategic watering points, below. Occasional rainfall was harvested from the rooves and collected in storage vessels. Household waste was mulched back, into the garden beds.

Strict adherence to the twelve principles of permaculture resulted in a magnificent transformation of the farm, with significant yields of apples, other fruit and vegetables, poultry products, goat meat and goat milk, for drinking and cheese making and, of course, feathers, exponentially adding to the retail outlets, of local traders.  Organic, recycle, renew, experimentation, became key words in the Singh’s vernacular.

They supported the local farmers’ markets, with Misty, the donkey, playing the role of “beast of burden.”  He was also their tractor for plowing or for when things needed towing; and, initially, their only form of one-donkey-power transport.

In preparation for the markets, Rani hand-made, goat-skin saddle bags, in which the products were packed.  These were strategically laid across Misty’s back, with equal weights of produce swinging on each side. Eugene, dressed in a favourite costume, with a prized peacock feather jutting out of his cap, was hoisted on top of the load.  Olaf always gave him an apple to eat, along the way.

This became a fortnightly ritual, until …

… there came the day when Misty was loaded, when the boy realised he had forgotten the feather.

“My feather, Daddy.  I haven’t got my feather.  Help me off.  I have to get it. Hold my apple.”

He was soon back, feather in cap, apple in hand, ready for the remount.

 As Eugene was settling into position, Misty let out a mournful bray and began swaying and wobbling.  His knees gave way, his hooves slipped, and his four legs splayed, as the whole caboodle collapsed, into a mangled heap.

Pandemonium erupted. Eugene was whisked off Misty’s back, and everything was unloaded.

Fortunately, Misty recovered sufficiently to perform light duties.  His back wasn’t broken, but his spirit was.

Olaf bought a motorized ute.

“I never thought I’d see the day when a feather broke a donkey’s back … well nearly,” he mused.

CAN THEY SUFFER?
by Robyn

Donkey admired himself in the mirror. It didn’t really take much for him to gain a favourable opinion of himself. But even I had to admit that the addition of the feather boa, not real feathers of course, draped around his neck, did create a point of difference, the icing on the cake. We both continued the unveiled scrutiny of his mirrored image before Donkey nodded, somewhat smugly, abruptly turning tail and leaving me with the arduous task of returning his unwanted garments to their appropriate receptacles.

I had been working for Donkey for nearly two months, and at the risk of sounding somewhat self-congratulatory, had won the job from quite a large number of applicants. Donkey’s notoriety and fabulous career was a drawcard to many, who, like me, wanted to be in his proximity. He was a charismatic individual, and had headlined many big movies. The work was not too demanding, for I had noticed that Donkey, now being at the pinnacle of his career, managed his workload, the demands on his time, at a very measured pace. I had wondered on the turnover of his staff but my expectations of him being a difficult employer had, thus far, not borne fruit. But the past few days I had noticed a subtle change in the barn, in his demeanor and that of the other animals, and was somewhat apprehensive.

It was hard to give a name to this feeling of unrest, this unease that I now seemed to share a space with. My wait did not last long. 

I heard Donkey before I saw him, the gentle rhymical padding of hooves. But it was not just the master that created the sounds on the large paved flagstones. Donkey, quite deliberately, moved to one side, allowing his valet to expertly maneuver some large baskets into the small space that we all now occupied. All of Donkey’s staff excelled at their calling and I had previously witnessed the preciseness of Goat ’s actions in handling deliveries to the estate. The baskets of carrots were a tell-tale sign of an imminent party, for Donkey had a penchant for deliberate shows of decadence and the historical significance of the dish to his cultural heritage was always celebrated, even if in a somewhat tongue-in-cheek manner. His palate had long deviated from the simple tastes of his forebears. I had not been made aware that guests were expected but the care in his earlier dressing became clear. Chef entered the room, fixing his eyes upon me and smiling at the small basket of apples that had been placed deliberately on the table. Donkey beckoned his valet, and gave me a short look before tossing the feathered boa over his flank. The door clicked shut behind them as Pig began to sharpen his knife and move towards me.

DONKEY, APPLE, FEATHER
by Cindi