Back in the 1970s, Alison Ferguson completed one of the first Bachelor of Arts degrees in Professional Writing and then went on to qualify as a speech pathologist, working as a clinician and academic for over thirty years. As well as writing research-based book chapters and papers for international refereed journals, Alison authored two scholarly books (published by Plural Publishing, and Palgrave Macmillan). Now retired, Alison is pursuing her long-standing fascination with story writing in both non-fiction and fiction.
‘And another death at Sea Vista Nursing Home,’ Inspector Bill Taylor said, reaching for the hand sanitiser as he finished up the morning briefing.
Sarah Ryan and her fellow officers began to rise from their scattered seats, giving a perfunctory groan. In these days of COVID-19, one more death in a nursing home — even one that had been so hard hit as Sea Vista — wasn’t news. And besides, thought Sarah, it was just another old person.
‘Sergeant Ryan,’ the Inspector beckoned her over. ‘This one needs a quick look-see.’
Sarah approached only as far as the mandated 1.5 metre mark. She knew how germ-phobic the Inspector was at the best of times. The betting pool was growing that he’d be wearing a full hazmat suit to work by the month’s end.
‘The one at Sea Vista? Why me?’ Sarah tried to make her question sound less of a whine. It wasn’t the risk of catching the virus. It was the smell. ‘I mean, Jack’s free.’ She gestured futilely in the direction of her colleague as he made a speedy exit.
‘As are you,’ said Inspector Bill Taylor, ‘And besides, you need the experience. You haven’t done a possible homicide yet, have you? They’ve got themselves a body in the library. The bloke’s heart probably just gave out. I wouldn’t be bothered usually, let alone now with them all going down like nine-pins,’ the Inspector said, continuing to work the sanitiser into his chafed hands.
At the mention of homicide, Sarah’s rising rebellion stuck somewhere in the region of her throat. She took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably as if her ribs were closing in. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just the smell. Come on, it’s not as if you haven’t smelled worse.
It didn’t help.
It wasn’t just the smell. The cold chicken flesh of the hand gripping hers.
‘But the Superintendent’s fielding complaints from some nutter whose mother’s in there,’ he continued. ‘Keeps threatening to go to the press about a serial mercy killer on the loose. But look, don’t go getting ideas, just focus on the body in the library. Take some statements, do the report and keep the media off our backs. You’re good with the oldies. Wasn’t that grandmother of yours in a home?’
The words hung uncomfortably in the air between them.
The fug of soiled sheets. Windows grimed with years of stale air. The rasping laboured rattle of death.
Sarah turned on her heel to go. There was no point in arguing. She’d go in, talk to the manager, have a quick look and be out of there before the day’s end. No need to talk to anyone of the old people. They’d likely all be demented anyway.
‘Oh, one more thing,’ said the Inspector. ‘There’s a no visitor rule. COVID safety and all that. If you need more than a day, then you’ll be there overnight. Pack a bag.’
(I wrote this short bit of fun as a murder mystery exercise in our writing group recently.)
The Inspector and I attended the funeral. Old world policing he called it. Inspector Pollock was the last of his kind. Show a bit of respect for the dead, he said, whether she was an old bat or not. And besides, we hadn’t managed to crack the case yet — accidental death or murder? Maybe we’d get lucky and spot the perpetrator lurking in the back pew. But this wasn’t TV. The best I could hope for was a bite to eat and a pint at the Bowlo afterwards to drown our sorrows.
Her body had been found caught amongst the reeds behind the Valentine Bowling Club at the mouth of Sheppard’s Creek. The trees behind the electricity sub-station meant that she’d been in the water for days, and any physical evidence at the scene had been obliterated by the East Coast Low that had uprooted half the trees in the park. I pitied the council workers who’d spotted her on the opposite bank when they were in the middle of their clean up. By all accounts she’d not been much to look at when she was alive, and death hadn’t helped matters. The casket was closed.
I’d expected that it’d be the two of us and the funeral celebrant, but the chapel was packed. From the details in the coroner’s preliminary report, the body matched the description of the bag lady who haunted Croudace Bay Dog Park, shuffling along, head bent in the search for litter, her face shielded by an old straw hat, the brim falling down either side. She’d scoop up discarded bags of dog shit as readily as empty cans and used condoms around the skate park. Witness statements described her as ‘outspoken’ or ‘direct’. If she’d still been alive, I’d bet my drinking money that they’d call her ‘rude’ or worse.
Looking around, I saw the mourners were a mixed bag. It looked like everyone who frequented the park had come along. A lot of grey heads, but families too, with the mothers trying to shush their unruly children, while manoeuvring their strollers out of the way. A few wore lycra, making a clatter parking their bikes at the back of the chapel where they could keep an eye on them. Some were skinny, muscles and tendons rippling even as they picked up the flimsy order of service. Others had to squeeze their bulk between the pews, and struggled to their feet when it came time to sing.
As the last off-key notes died away, the conveyor belt cranked into gear and the coffin retreated behind faded curtains. Amongst the chatter and bustle of people headed back out into the sunlight, and my attention was caught by throaty smoker’s chuckle.
‘You think you copped a serve from her? You ought to have heard what she said to the yummy mummies, not to mention the MAMILs. And it’s not as if I asked her to pick up my butts, now is it? She won’t be telling me off no more for having a quick ciggie behind the Club. Fire hazard, my arse. Got what was coming to her, I reckon. Ashes to ashes.’
Coughing broke the woman’s rant. She scrabbled for her cigarettes from her chef’s jacket.
I caught Inspector Pollock’s eye and, nodding, he joined me by the woman’s side, and offered her a light.
It was looking like it might be a while before I got that pint.
Studying English Literature at school has left me with rising anxiety whenever I encounter the terms irony, sarcasm, satire and paradox. Can I tell the difference? Does it matter? Resources permeate the internet (see Masterclass, Literary Devices just for starters). However, all I come away with is that a good tale involves slippage between what characters or readers expect and what transpires.
I was faced with these issues lately when I did the online course ‘Writing Conflict’ led by Cate Kennedy (through Writers NSW). Over a very intense week, we engaged with lively talks by Cate, well-targeted written explanations, and a series of writing exercises designed to push us out of our comfort zones. My motivation for doing the course was a dawning realisation that the therapist in me kept resolving conflict for my characters rather than using it to drive the story forward. Before the course, I had concentrated on building conflict in a narrow way, mainly involving characters opposing each other verbally or physically. However, Cate’s course widened the scope to integrate dramatic irony (and the rest of the team!) so that it provides the web within which the tale sits. As soon as a specific moment of conflict occurs within one strand, the vibrations resonate through those mismatched expectations.
(from Netflix, ‘Criminal United Kingdom’, Season 2)
A great example of this kind of writing is the Netflix series ‘Criminal’, where all the action is confined to the police interrogation room and its observation room (with occasional forays into the corridor for moments of dramatic relief) — see The Guardian for a recent review. As a story, each episode provides an excellent example of William Goldman’s maxim for storytelling: arrive late and leave early, i.e. we head straight into the interrogation/interview of a witness/suspect and leave the moment the detectives have uncovered the truth. Of course, the police interrogators’ goals are fundamentally at odds with those of the suspect or witness. However, more interesting is watching the characters on both sides of the one-way mirror say one thing and mean another. Our privileged position of watching from both sides ramps up the tension. We know things that the interrogators and/or the suspects/witnesses do not. Watching the suspect/witness make assumptions about where the line of questioning is leading is riveting.
In our writing course, we were invited to write a short scene where conflict arises through the mismatch between characters’ perceptions. Here’s my response to the task.
The Good Lecturer
Brent Thwaites, BA, PhD, MAMS, brushed his hands against each other, freeing his fingers of chalk dust. That’d show the inspector, or quality assurance officer or whatever they called him. No-one could question his lecture preparation now. His eyes raked across the densely packed equations and diagrams that covered every inch of the board. No smart alec student would catch him off guard this lecture.
The students drifted in, filling the seats from the back. He peered at their faces, trying to spot which might be that of the inspector. Possibly he’d sit with the usual mature-aged students perched at the front, already scribbling notes. Three flashes from the back. A student with a James Dean swagger was moving his iphone in a steady panorama, taking in the notes from the board. No wonder students were so abysmal these days. Had no-one ever taught them the point of notetaking? He shrugged as if to say, students these days, to the mature-age students.
At precisely five minutes past the hour, he commenced the lecture, not waiting for the packed lecture hall to fall quiet.
‘Dr Thwaites?’
The students’ heads twisted to view who had dared break into his train of thought. From their sly grins, he realised a hand had been waving for some time.
‘Yes?’
‘This is all in the text book, right?’
‘Of course,’ he said, picking up a stick of chalk and underlining where he’d written the relevant page numbers on the board. ‘All this,’ he stabbed at the board, ‘is absolutely up-to-date.’ The chalk snapped, with a shriek of protest.
‘So why do we need to be here?’
A mutter rippled through the hall.
‘Because young man,’ he said with deliberation, ‘without full attendance marks, you will fail.’
With silence effectively restored, Brent Thwaites continued the lecture to the end.
As the students rushed for the exit, a girl approached, her arms cradling a clipboard.
‘If I might have a moment of your time, Dr Thwaites.’
‘Certainly, young lady, what is it you didn’t understand?’
She placed her clipboard on the lectern. ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ she thrust out her hand. ‘Associate Professor Judy Kingbury, from the PVC Teaching & Learning, quality assurance division.’
Her hand was smooth and cool. He wished he’d wiped away the last of the chalk.
‘So that’s my inspection over and done with,’ he said. His voice echoed in the now empty room.
‘Not quite over, I’m afraid.’ She looked through the notes she’d made on her clipboard. ‘Tell me, how well do you think that lecture met the learning objectives?’
‘Very well. Full attendance, as you saw. That’s very rare these days, as I’m sure you’re aware. And I got across all the information clearly,’ he gulped for air, ‘using um, written support material, and as you saw, there weren’t any questions.’
Her eyes softened in sympathy before she let the axe fall.
You know that moment when you think you’ve polished a piece of writing to perfection? Savour it, because the next time you read over it, you’ll wonder how you missed all those clumsy word choices, awkward sentence constructions, and frank errors.
I’ve been immersed in editing two of my ‘works in progress’ over the last few months and have discovered the joys of automated editing tools. These computerised tools use complex algorithms to highlight aspects of your writing which may need attention.
The tool I have been using is Autocrit and it’s teaching me a lot about my writing habits. For example, long paragraphs, repeating words, and too many fillers (most notably, ‘that’). Yes, it does get tedious, but I think the end result is successfully moving from ‘polished’ to ‘burnished’.
As we’ve hunkered down in our separate corona-crypts, social media has been filled with tales of new skills (sour dough, anyone?). My challenge has been to embrace the video-making capabilities of Adobe Premier Rush. Here’s a short (5 minutes) recording of one of my traveler’s tales:
Have knitting, will travel … in space … with aliens!
I’m very excited to report that my unpublished sci-fi novel ‘Grey Nomad’ was shortlisted in the 2020 Adaptable competition that was run by Queensland Writers’ Centre in conjunction with the Gold Coast Film Festival. I talked briefly about the development of my idea back on 25 February 2019 as the first of many drafts emerged NaNoWriMo.
THE STORY: Surviving an alien abduction will call upon all Joyce’s experience as a long-standing member of the Country Women’s Association.
The 2020 Adaptable competition had 240 submissions and they shortlisted 26 of us for the opportunity to pitch our work to film/tv producers face-to-face during the Festival’s Industry Market Day. However, due to the COVID-19 pandemic they have had to cancel the Film Festival, so they are going to proceed with us doing our pitches online. To prepare us, the Queensland Writers’ Centre have provided us with a free 2-hr workshop on writing a synopsis, and three 1:1 online consultations about developing our pitch before the big day: 16 April. Keep your fingers crossed for me!
An updated version of the biography of Lady Dowling which I published in 2017 is now available. See my correction to my previous ‘just released’ post. The updated version no longer includes the image, but is otherwise unchanged (and hence wasn’t required to get a new ISBN or publication date).
Interested in a copy? The paperback version is currently $25 from Barnes & Noble Australia, and the ebook is currently free if you are using ‘Kindle Unlimited’ with Amazon Australia.
I am increasingly reading eBooks and listening to audio books. During 2019 I enjoyed listening to Helen Garner read her collection of short essays in True Stories (originally published in 1997). As I listened, I recalled that I had read one piece in particular — about cruising on a Russian ship — in a newspaper, so it was great to hear it again. Also, her reflections on the controversy she faced when she wrote The First Stone (1995) were fascinating, particularly given the more recent #MeToo movement — for an excellent reconsideration of The First Stone, see Gail Acorn‘s 2018 discussion, published in The Guardian. I notice that Helen Garner has kept quiet so far about the current debates about what constitutes sexual harassment but, since she’s an obsessive diarist, no doubt we will have the opportunity to hear her thoughts at some stage.
This year I also managed to keep up with some of the many recently published novels. Here are three of my favourites. (I read some on eBook, listened to others through my Audible subscription and, for Margaret Atwood’s latest novel, I did both modalities, swapping seamlessly from listening while driving to reading on my iPad!)
You never know what’s going to lead you to a short story. My latest story evolved from a visit to the State Library of New South Wales for a talk on some of the interesting historical artefacts and materials from their collection. During the event, I was intrigued by the story of Frederick William Birmingham, a civil engineer at Parramatta in the 1860s, who designed a flying machine which he unsuccessfully tried to sell to the Americans. He had been inspired by a dramatic vision of a flying vessel which he described as an ‘Ark’, manned by a man-shaped ‘spirit’. Birmingham’s vision of a UFO, long before such manifestations entered popular culture, was compelling. However, his increasing levels of obsession and paranoia meant that he became insolvent and ended his days in the asylum. For a comprehensive account of the primary documents and Birmingham’s life see Chris Aubeck’s ‘Birmingham’s Ark‘.
(Public domain image)
Inspired by this story, I wrote an account of entirely imagined
events of a fictional character, living in the Parramatta asylum in the late
1800s. After some thought (and several rewrites!) I decided to use fictitious
names within my story, since I felt I was departing a long way from how
Birmingham himself would have interpreted his experiences.
It was great news when I learned that my story ‘Asylum’ was awarded First Prize in the 2019 Inaugural Margaret Cech Writing Competition which was run by the Southern Highlands Branch of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, New South Wales. The story appeared in The Writers’ Voice (the bulletin of the FAWNSW) this month and, as the competition allows authors to retain their copyright, I have reproduced the story here.
Hope you like it!
Asylum
by Alison Ferguson
Dr
Williams cleaned his spectacles and, after refolding his handkerchief into his
top pocket, tried again to make out the scribble under the blots of ink that
raced across each page in the dog-eared bundle on the desk before him. He
sighed. It was useless. Perhaps if the light were better? It was too early to
call for an orderly to light the lamp. Rifling
through, he selected a page with relatively fewer crossings-out and smudges and
took it over to the long windows to peruse again in the shaft of afternoon
sunlight. This time he made out a few words: flying machine, rotors, strange alien figures. He sighed again. It
was no use. The lunatic’s account of his visitation was indecipherable and, no
doubt even if he could read the writing, incoherent.
(Parramatta Hospital for the Insane, 1875)
‘Dr
Williams?’ One of the orderlies hovered by the door. ‘Was you wanting to see Mr
Cleary? It’s just that we puts the inmates out in the garden of an
afternoon. ‘elps settle ‘em for the
night, you see.’
Drawing
his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket, Dr Williams considered whether he’d
make the three o’clock coach back into Sydney town if he left now. Caught between going and staying, he shifted
his weight from one foot to the other. If any other colleague but Dr McIntosh
had urged him to delay his return to London solely for the purpose of reading a
patient’s journal, he would have dismissed the notion. Well, he was here now
and, since the journal in question could just as well have been in hieroglyphs,
he’d might as well see the patient in person.
‘Bring
Mr Cleary in to see me. Oh, and,’ he added, ‘when Dr McIntosh arrives, bring
him straight up to join me.’ He felt the tea-pot ‘And some fresh hot water.’
Mr
Cleary must have been waiting just outside the door for he came in directly. He
was a short man, rail-thin and his eyes, wide and staring, looked to be
strangers to sleep.
‘Glad
to meet you. Glad to meet you,’ Mr Cleary said, holding out his hand in
greeting. ‘Dr McIntosh told me about your interest in my discoveries.’
Dr
Williams was taken aback. If it weren’t for his oddly startled gaze, the
patient had every appearance of any sane man meeting another of his professional
class. Mr Cleary was a civil engineer, Dr Williams reminded himself that even a
professional man could lose his grip on reality. He repressed a shiver at the
thought.
‘So,
what are your thoughts on my journal, Dr Williams? Mr Cleary had seated himself
in one of the large leather chairs by the window, the lines in his face now cut
in sharp shadow in the slanting light.
‘I,
I confess I cannot say,’ Dr Williams began. ‘I found the writing difficult—’
‘Ha!
You doctors are usually the ones with the bad handwriting, what?!’ Mr Cleary’s
joviality edged toward a note of hysteria.
Dr
Williams took the chair opposite him and spoke slowly and, he hoped,
soothingly. ‘I’d like to hear your story directly from you, if I may. As Dr McIntosh
told you, I am most interested.’
At
this, Mr Cleary settled back into his chair and, closing his eyes as if to
better remember, began his story.
‘It
was late and my usual nightcap of milk and cardamom had gone cold by the time I
finished reading and retired for the evening. I woke abruptly, coming into full wakefulness
without a trace of lingering stupor. I was seized by a sensation of great energy
and I threw on my coat and walked out of my cottage into the winter night. I
strode off, heedless of where my footsteps were taking me. The streets of
Parramatta were dark and, without any lantern to guide me, it was by the
radiance of the stars sprayed across the heavens that I found my way into the
park. Two points of light emerged and
grew steadily larger and, as they came closer, I saw they were vaporous and
swirling. They hung before me, unsuspended by any means I could discern, and
their shapes reassembled till I perceived that they were two heads, the first
appearing as our Lord Bishop and the second at the Governor of New South Wales.
I began to shake, fearing that I had lost my mind.’
Mr
Cleary stopped talking abruptly and leaned forward. ‘You know I’m not insane,
don’t you?’
‘I,
I —,’ Dr Williams was caught off guard.
‘I’m
only in here for my protection. They are after my discoveries, you see. Dr McIntosh
suggested this would be the safest place.’
‘Of
course, Dr McIntosh is very wise in these matters.’ Dr Williams looked to the door. The orderly
seemed to be taking a very long time to return with the hot water.
Mr
Cleary resumed his reflective posture, and in the same sure tones of one
telling an oft-told story, continued, ‘Darkness, heavy with dew, fell like a
cloak about me and I turned this way and that, unsure of how to return home.
Then came a vibration, a thudding so intense that the beat of my heart leapt to
join its rhythm. How was it that no-one from the town came running out to find
the source? Louder and louder it came until I was upon it, whereupon the noise
fell to a low hum. A cylindrical shape, tapered at both ends, hovered at waist
height above the ground. At its highest
point it would have been perhaps twelve feet; its diameter perhaps twice that.
However, its gleaming surface was what drew my gaze. I longed to touch it, so
smooth did it look, without any visible rivet or join.
Although
it looked seamless, an aperture appeared and a creature such as I had never
seen, nor could have imagined, emerged and beckoned me to follow. It was oddly
humanoid, though its arms seemed disproportionately long. Strangely, as soon as
I saw it, I felt calm and certain: as certain, in fact, as I had ever felt in
my fretful life. I have no memory of how I entered the vessel; for now, it
seemed to me that it must be a kind of ship, though propelled by some mechanism
unknown to me. Once inside, the being
indicated a kind of table, although closed on all sides, and centrally located
before a curved porthole, through which I could make out the dark shapes of
trees in the park. Inlaid within the surface of the table were banks of
brightly-coloured lights and buttons. The creature began to explain something
to me, with some urgency. I could not make out its language, but I recognised
the mathematical symbols it was using. I
realised it was a series of formulae, though unfamiliar to me.’
Mr
Cleary fell silent and it took a moment for Dr Williams to break from the spell
that his story had cast.
‘Ah,
the tea,’ Dr Williams said, clearing his throat, as the orderly re-entered.
Closely
behind him, Dr McIntosh manoeuvred his bulk through the door. ‘Ah, good. So,
you two have got to know one another,’ he said, vigorously shaking their hands.
‘If I might interrupt, Dr McIntosh,’ the
orderly said. ‘It’s time for Mr Cleary’s walk.’
Mr
Cleary opened his mouth as if to object. There were tea-buns on the plate
beside the freshly-primed teapot and, for a moment, Dr Williams feared that Dr McIntosh
would invite the patient to stay.
‘Yes,
yes, can’t be disrupting routine, can we?’ said Dr McIntosh, his arm loosely
draped across Mr Cleary’s back, accompanying him out after the orderly. ‘Safest
time for you to be walking abroad, my good fellow, with these chaps on watch.’
Mr
Cleary shrugged off the doctor’s arm. ‘I’ll be having my notes back before I
leave.’
Dr
Williams shuffled the pages back together. Clasping them tightly to his chest,
Mr Cleary followed the orderly without a backward glance.
Dr
McIntosh, after filling his plate with bun, sat down Mr Cleary’s vacated chair.
‘So, then, what do you make of all that? Extraordinary, don’t you think?’
Dr
Williams sipped his tea thoughtfully before replying. ‘I really don’t know what
to make of it.’
‘Go
on. I know you London chaps are making strides with these sorts of cases. It’s
not everyday that colonials such as myself get to hear any of the latest
thinking.’
‘Well,
I think you dissemble good doctor. I’m quite sure you have read as much of the
new writings in philosophy as I have.
Why, I saw you had a copy of Schopenhauer in the original German on your
bookshelf. Well, all right then, if you
insist.’ He took a breath. ‘If we consider that our experience of the world, as
received through our senses, shapes our perception, then visions such as Mr Cleary’s
might be said to arise from a temporary disturbance of sensation, caused, for
example, by some passing illness. To some extent at least, his vision reminded
me of the common occurrence of hallucinations in cases of fever and the like.’
‘And
yet?’
‘Yes,
you’re right. There’s something that doesn’t fit. He is eccentric in his manner
and certainly excitable in temperament, but it is difficult to consider the man
a lunatic. He is essentially rational and his account of his experience is cogent
and lucid. But, at the same time—’ Dr Williams broke off and, rising to his
feet, returned his empty cup to the tray.
He walked back over to the window and looked down to the grounds, now
bathed in gold in the setting sun.
Dr
McIntosh came to stand beside him, munching on the last of his bun. ‘At the
same time, he’s suffering from considerable paranoia. He is convinced that the
American government—’
‘The
American government?’ Dr Williams’ eyes narrowed. ‘Now, he really must have
lost his reason.’
‘No,
no,’ said Dr McIntosh smiling. ‘There’s a lot of interest in the idea of
developing some kind of machine that can fly. He did indeed take his designs to New York to
show the American government officials there shortly after the events he
described. However, he refused to leave the material with them so they dismissed
him out of hand. He ended up on the streets and it was only through the good
offices of his friends and workmates in the Parramatta office that the funds
were raised to bring him back. He was clearly unfit for work by then, I
convinced him to come here. But governments are interested in flying machines,
you know. The military advantages are obvious. Why, even my own scientific
dabbling in that direction elicited a letter of enquiry from the British
colonial office.’
‘What?
Were they telling you that designing a flying machine wasn’t what they were
paying you a stipend for?’ Dr Williams’ lips twitched.
Dr
McIntosh chuckled ruefully. ‘Well, yes. But it’s going to happen one day. My
own design used steam, but the thing that’s so interesting in the schematic
that our Mr Cleary has drawn up is that some kind of alternative propulsion was
involved.’
‘And
that is, what? You’ve seen the drawings?’
Dr
McIntosh fell silent.
‘Ah,
he doesn’t know or he won’t tell you.’
‘I’ve
seen his sketches but he won’t let them out of his sight. It took every ounce
of persuasion to convince him to leave his journal here for you to read. I
honestly don’t know what’s going on. These strange beings seemed to have
imparted something to him but whether he actually understands what they, or his
own mind, has told him, I don’t know.’
The
two doctors looked down to the garden as the orderlies rounded up the
straggling patients to bring them inside for the night. Finally, only Mr Cleary
was left as the indigo-blue of twilight infused the scene.
‘What’s
that?’ Dr Williams gasped.
Seeping
through the shadows, vapours of mist assembled into a long cylindrical rolling
cloud, too low to the earth to be of the natural world, and moving
independently of the light zephyr stirring the tree branches.
Dr
Williams couldn’t wrench his eyes away to gauge his colleague’s reaction but he
felt Dr McIntosh’s hand grab at his shoulder as if clinging to the physical
world.
The
tiny figure of Mr Cleary below stretched out its arms as the cloud, if cloud it
were, moved to engulf him.
The
two doctors stayed, transfixed, till darkness obscured the scene.
There
was a soft knock at the door.
‘Will
you be wanting to make the night-coach back into Sydney town, gentlemen?’ The
orderly enquired.
‘Yes,
yes,’ said Dr Williams. ‘Nothing else to be done here.’ He turned to his
colleague, ‘Dr McIntosh?’
‘No,
you’re right,’ said Dr McIntosh. ‘We’re all done here. Best to be off.’
Here’s another fascinating rabbit warren to explore in the
writing world. I’ve been to a couple of talks this year that have mentioned ekphrasis and I’m starting to get my
head around it. It’s traditionally a poetry term and the Poetry Foundation
explains it as:
‘… a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the “action” of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning. A notable example is “Ode on a Grecian Urn”, in which the poet John Keats speculates on the identity of the lovers who appear to dance and play music, simultaneously frozen in time and in perpetual motion.” (Poetry Foundation)
For the latest Live Reading run by the Hunter Writers Centre, we were invited to respond to the artworks of James Drinkwater, showcased by the Newcastle Art Gallery. His vibrant paintings, sculpture and mixed media works prompted 25 writers to read out their ekphrastic responses to an enthusiastic audience. Most readings were poems but I was amongst several people who responded in prose.
The artwork that I responded to was titled ‘Surrender – a self portrait 2019’ and it was listed as a ‘mixed media assemblage’. For copyright reasons, I can’t show you a photo and its picture isn’t shown in the catalogue, but perhaps you’ll be sufficiently intrigued to get along to the exhibition (ends 11 August 2019). On the other hand, the following picture (by Mysticartdesign) is free to use so, while it looks NOTHING like Drinkwater’s artwork, it’ll give you a flavour of where my imagination flew. (Be warned – I may have been reading dystopic fiction!)
The Messenger
Novocastrians, I come with news from the Tableland. I know
from your good Leader that I am the first traveller who has made it past the
brigands that beset the road over Barrington to reach your coastal
commune.
My Leader has sent me to ask — nay, implore — you for your
help. He charges me to tell you of our troubles, and seek your aid. He is sure
that, once you learn of the situation, you can but send every able-bodied
fighter to join the massed army he is raising to fight the Threat.
But I go too fast, forgive me. My need is pressing and, in
my agitation, I have failed to undertake those observances as are right and
proper for one who stands before the Sacred Offerings. I do so now, in honour
of our forebears who fought, man and woman, boy and girl, to drive back those
who would try to wrest the last arable land from us. I give thanks to the
landmines that guarded our borders; I give thanks to the missiles that sent the
planes falling from the sky above; I give thanks to the shells that rained like
fire on their ships so that they could not breach our safe harbour. And more
than these, I honour the struggle of those who, faced with the choice of the
white flag of surrender or the black flag of death, picked up their bloody
shields, spears and axes and fought and died so that we, the children of their
children, could build anew. I pledge, with all here present, to continue our
quest to leave our dying Earth and to look to the stars.
We have all made these observances again and again since we
were children and so perhaps we could be forgiven if the words have grown
comfortable in the saying. Our forebears’ struggles seem but tales to tell
around the fire, now that we have food to roast on the spit and skins to keep
the winter chill from our bones. But the threat from the South is real. The ice
has reached the shire of Hornsby and the seas themselves start to heave with
sludge.
I see you shake your heads. What? You think I exaggerate? Port
Macquarie, the last stronghold of the North fell to the Threat barely a Moon
span ago. Only the Tableland stands between us and the destruction of all we
have fought for.
You keep your eyes fixed between your feet, sir. Perhaps you
think that you would do better to defend your own commune rather than risk
leaving it undefended? But think of the Sacred Offerings. Think of the lessons
it teaches us. Only by uniting will we have sufficient force to successfully
hold our ground and complete our quest.
Yes, I swear to you, the Golden Galaxy Voyager is nearing
completion. Only one more section is needed. We are nearly to the top of the
stairs to the stars. Would you have your children’s children say, as they
shiver in their lonely ice caves, ‘if only’?
No. I see it in your eyes. No. A thousand times no. There
will be no ‘if only’. We will not wave the white flag of surrender. We will
fight, together, for the stars.
