She was a dreamer, he said, and in the way he said those words, you understood he loved her, in a yellowed way like pages of an old book from primary school. He couldn’t look you in the eye as he spoke, so you wonder if there was some sadness there, something that was difficult to feel. When he looks back at you his eyes are shiny pools of blue. With eyes like that he’d always look young, even though his skin now drifted below his jawline and his hair was whiter than his teeth. The sea was in his eyes, and she was the sea.These days he remembered her by the smell of the washing powder she’d always used for sheets and clothes and towels. When she had done it, they had a washing machine that didn’t spin. She would fish the clothes out of the water and feed them through the wringer, humming to herself as she worked. They would only do the washing on a fine day, and on washing day everyone in the house was on “rain watch”, and if an unexpected shower came, shrieks could be heard through the house and multiple family members would race to take the washing off the line before it got too wet.These days, it was just him in the house, and the wringer had been replaced by a dryer and a washing machine that spun the clothes nearly dry but made a thunderous noise. He never used the dryer, preferring the smell of sun and fresh air on his washing, and he always used the same washing powder she had. Once, he had been too sick to do the shopping and Nancy the neighbour had gone for him instead. He appreciated the kind gesture, but she’d bought a different type of washing powder with an unusual fragrance. He hadn’t said anything to her, but of course it was one of the first things he noticed as she unpacked items and boiled the kettle for tea. That same wrong washing powder still sat next to his regular one in the cupboard under the tub in the laundry. He could not bring himself to use it once, instead taking a trip down High St on the bus to the supermarket for the one that smelled just right. He hadn’t been completely recovered from his illness then, and the trip completely exhausted him, but he felt strangely relieved, as if having the right washing powder was a sign that all was right with the world.He felt as though old age had quietened him, in more ways than one. Once this house was filled with children and laughter and the smell of her baking. Of course, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows – there were arguments too, times when somebody used a heavy foot on the stairs and slammed the door behind him, times when she and his eldest daughter and had argued, back and forth, until their voices were hoarse and eyes were rimmed with red. They argued because they were so similar, he realised, passionate and dramatic and creative and loud.He was different, and so was his son. When the two women, one older and one just struggling out of girlhood, argued, they would escape to the garden, where the yells of frustration would be muted somewhat and there was green for the eyes and dark soil for the hands. They weren’t men of words, the two gardeners, but they planted and weeded and composted together, both enjoying the type of companionship that does not demand or expect conversation. Eventually one
As you entered the dark and mysterious room of Cue 8 pool and Billiards, you
wonder how you could have ended up in a place like this. The atmosphere was
clustered and dark leaving no opportunities for light to travel inside the building.
Outside, the walls came alive with colourful creative graffiti that overlapped each
other but blended smoothly within the big picture. The entrance was small but like a
cave and as you walked in you could feel the black paint on the walls swarming…
Connections Between Life Experiences/Beliefs and Fiction Writing
Enhance this section with visual and/or media resources that connect (e.g. pictures, art, interview video clip, etc. just try and be creative). For example, show a clip from an interview with the author, or a video clip from a film about the author. Keep it short and explain/introduce the clip.
Talk about the six elements of creative writing.
For plot state the key terms and discuss your novel…
Creative writing- Childhood memory
The usual routine. I bowl in to see the scornful look of the Old Witch. She glares at me from behind her spectacles. Never greeted with a warm welcome, reproached for being a female and I certainly don’t fit her stereotype of what a woman should be. Aggressive with a passion for anything that does not conform to the typical 1950’s housewife, which is against most women’s views. But no one would suspect an old lady to be so malicious inside with such a sweet loving…
20th Century Literature
25 November 2013
I awoke on a brisk Saturday morning in November. I got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen, where hot cider and a chocolate chip scone were waiting. I read the paper while indulging on my early morning treats and then proceeded to do my homework once I was finished. This is my usual schedule on the weekends, but there was something rather unusual about today: My parents were nowhere to be found. I roamed around…
30 March 2015
It sent shivers down my spine. Then, I looked outside. The moon stared back at me. It
seemed to be pulling me toward the brightness of its light in the night sky. I got out of my bed
and trudged toward the window. Now, I seemed to be staring at a face in the sky. Then, I felt
my skin start to burn. I held my head and fell toward the mirror. I took my hands away from
my head and clutched the dresser tightly. My…
I am outside the door panting like a dog trying to comprehend where my family has brought me. They said that my house needs to be painted and I need to stay here for a while so I don’t get in the way of the tradesmen.
As I walk inside, the scent of anti-bacteria and cleaning chemicals brings back memories of visiting my wife Betty at hospital every single day, while she was living her last moments.
Unfamiliar faces in a place where the location is unknown, makes me to feel uncomfortable with…
The rhythmic sound of the wheels of the train seemed to be synchronised with the tapping of my foot. The consistency in the sound lulled me into the recesses of my mind allowing me to think of the occurrences of the past couple of weeks, but before I could even think, I was lurched out of my subconscious state of mind by the sudden sound of a horn, and the cool air that hit my face when the doors proceeded to open. I watched the many people that clambered in to the train and the many others…
Jim took off into the distance with a trail of dust whooshing into the air, the 5-mile sunset reflecting off his back. The old windy road narrowed down towards the creek as the sulfur-crested cockatoo was chirping away to him.
Jim lived on a property 55km west of 5-mile creek. His family had lived there for generations and generations dating way back to the 1850’s. Jim was now on his own, a widower who was about to lose more than he already had.
Jim woke up this morning, got out of bed…
It was a bitter night, sleep being kept to a bare minimum. At times I came close to shutting my eyes only to be awoken by the thunderous roar and shakes of barrages from the enemies’ guns. As darkness began to fall my platoon rest period was underway, as we entered our trenches through small dwarf sized doors. Several times throughout the sleepless night I could hear the distant thunder of shells pounding into the trenches. At times I would doubt the safety of my fellow soldiers with death seeming…
Out beyond the line of hills, clothed in forests of gold at this time of year, lies the market town of Stileham. It sits by the crossroads of the old drove road that runs from the hill country to the sea and the great north road, a trade route used for generations of traders heading from London to the provinces.
This countryside is bountiful. Rolling pastures with soaring Elms in their hedges, the vase shape upswept and holding up the sky. Nearer the hills the hedges run out of steam and the countryside…