Writing Exercise (first draft)

This is an exercise set by Matthew Naqvi, our Wordsmiths of Melton tutor for 2015. I haven’t give it the amount of respect I should and this is very much a first draft.

·         The exercise:

o   Show Not Tell - A Disability

Pick a disability; it can be a physical or mental illness, a wheelchair condition, or simply a common cold.

In five hundred words or less, through the art of writing, without telling us what it is, show your reader the disability. Use dialogue and inner thoughts to help.

The Dog’s Tail                                                 

God, he’s just pursed his lips and whistled; I hate it when he does that. Means I’ve got to look pleased; he wants to get his paper and read about his glorious football team. If I stay low he mightn’t find me, yeah that’s the go, I’ll pretend I’m deaf. It seems to work for him.

Damn, here he is. I could pretend I’m dead but that would just make him tickle me and I can’t stand being tickled, not the way he does it anyway. Yep, he has that damn harness; I’d better make it look like I’m excited.

Agh, the neighbour’s cat is sitting on the roof of our car, one back leg in the air and licking its butt. You’re a smug little pussy with a little pink tongue dragging cat spit over your coat, how gross. Jump down here, Furball, you can meet your ancestors, my treat.

Bloody cat thinks it is so superior and just because it can leave the yard whenever it wants. You’re no different to me pal. The vet has your nuts in a jar on the shelf too, right alongside mine, but mine are bigger. At least they were.

Steady on fella, you’re making that harness tight, what do you want to do cut off my circulation?

Okay I’d better pretend I’m keen to do this. A bit of tail wag after a stretch, a few pants and a couple of circles to show I’m excited and listen to him wheeze up to get the paper.

I stop to sniff the geraniums; Saliba’s mongrel has stopped to pee over my scent. I feel the lead tug and tug again. I don’t care about the bloody paper. I have to piss on this until I’m happy I’ve washed that mongrel’s scent away.

Jeeze, ease up. He is dragging me and I feel the arthritis in my old bones begin to ache. The cat is tripping along the top of O’Riley’s fence now, it leans out and Rob strokes its back. Bloody cat will just sit on the gate post and wait until we get back.

I see a dog coming and feel the lead strain, I just want to sniff butt and let her sniff mine. Humans have no idea how much you can find out about each other with a little bit of butt sniff. They think they are so clever and yet they haven’t worked this one out yet.

The harness snaps and it lifts me off the ground. Steady on, I’m coming. Bugger, now we are tangled, but it feels good to be close to another canine.

‘Sniff, sniff.’

We unwind and are away. The oxygen bottle makes his trolley rattle and the plastic tube connecting the gas to his nose sways, while his newspaper heroes wait.

Rob’s steps are shorter now, a shuffle and his breathing is faster too. His foot catches a raised chunk of pavement and he stumbles. The noise of the crash and all of the dust startle me. I pull, pull away but his grip doesn’t fail. Cripes who cares if Collingwood won or lost? I don’t want him to cark it, my mind wanders, if he did, I wonder if the players wear armbands for him?

A crowd mills around us, then lights flash. People with a stretcher and that open door slams behind him.

I feel my lead loose and Rob is gone. Who will feed me?

Write your way out of the problem

Over the past few months my manuscript has stalled. Other story ideas have come and gone, some became short stories others poems and others are plans for a new book. In reality if I don't approach writing as work I become distracted and swayed by the things, people around me, see as important. It is not them saying don't write, or you spend to much time in the office, it is my desire for distraction.

We are all tempted by social media and I hide this distraction under the guise of 'Maintaining My Platform', all of which is wrong. I need to be honest with myself and own up to being lazy, procrastinating or bored with the project.

This week I attended my local writers group and after listening to the others describe the many ways they manage to steal opportunities to write, I felt disgusted with my recent lack of purpose. The only way I can finish this book is to sit here and do it.

I have the character profiles in place, I have the story outlined on paper and I know the way the plot lines need to work, so it should be easy to bash out the next thirty thousand odd words. Well it should, but then I often find my research is incomplete and have to chase those rabbits down their holes. More time taken and another plot twist or story emerges and I write it down and build another story outline with basic character profiles. Is this distraction or planning? I will use it one day if I live long enough.

It is not all bad news as I have written several short stories and completed many writing assignments our tutor Matthew Naqvi has set the writing group. A few of these can be developed further as short stories and entered into competition or submitted to journals and magazines in hope of publication.

Les Gillespie's Gold is the second in a trilogy of novels beginning with Kundela. Sometimes making sure I am writing only one book and planning the third gets in the way too, but I keep writing and if the passages don't fit, I save and file them in the new novel's folder. So in a way I am writing my out out of my problem. This week has been productive and good chapters are beginning to appear before me without any real effort. For  Kundela readers, I think you will enjoy the mystery and intrigue as the Gillespies are drawn into another web of intrigue and deceit. No-one has been murdered yet and I'm not sure if, or when there will be a killing, the story is yet to reveal it self completely.

That's my report on writing for this week, I wish you all a nice weekend and  a very Happy Mothers Day tomorrow.

The start to finding the twist I need in Les Gillespie's Gold

Mad Charlie did not like his last hand and called for a new pack. 

The mood in the Imperial Hotel was sombre. 

Over two hundred and fifty thousand pounds of tokens sat between them on the table. Only four hours ago John Billings’ lost the deed to his dairy farm. John sat in the corner drained, he could not go home. He had no home. 

Bald Bill Simpson too, had folded a broken man and the title to his engineering shop added to the pot. Together these two upstanding citizens owned only the clothes they stood in. Only Charlie, three other players and the dealer remained. 

There was still a lot to play for.

How does a writer get lost when he is the author of the story?

I am struggling, not from a lack of inspiration, but from too much of it and it is downright annoying.

For the past few weeks I have been trying to wrestle Les Gillespie's Gold into the mystery / crime / Aussie-adventure, that I want it to be be. Unfortunately I find myself introducing new plot-lines that are not pushing the story forward, nor building tension between the characters. At the moment my writing is too tame and I know I have to be ruthless in my approach. Every time I find a nice picture in my head of Tilly or Jeff in a romantic setting, I will  imagine them up to their knees in blood. I think it is the only way to stop all of this romantic writing bleeding from my fingers.

So today I am increasing my character backgrounds by writing stories about the people who have influenced my character's lives. The evil ones will have a troubled history and that will make them bloody nasty. the Heroes will lose their nice side and be flawed, some may lose their life, or at least an arm, or similar. Certainly their temper will go. I sure it is time for Jeff and Joe to punch someone or each other.

Even writing this post has helped me get on track. Who should I murder in the next chapter, friend or foe.

When the books finished, I guess you'll be able to let me know if it worked.

Remember Richie

If I had a bat I’d put it out
For the voice of cricket
And there’s no doubt
I listened as he made a ton
Or spin a ball or saved a run
As kids in summer
We would take his name
Tip and run
Our backyard game

When World Series took the field
Talking skills and knowledge
Were revealed
For generations
He called our game
Tonight the world of cricket
Is not the same
So I’m asking all
No I’ll just shout
Get your bats and put them out.

Les Gillespie's Demons

This is a first draft of a chapter that never made it into Kundela, after talking to a mate I thought I would put it on the blog for all to see. Most of the story is fiction but the action on the airfield came from a true story told to me by an old digger.

I hope you like it.

Terry

Not yet twenty-one and conscripted into the Army in 1942, Les Gillespie was a complex individual. He too had seen the nightmare of battle but unlike his father or his son, the Second World War had caused a devastating effect on Les’s life. The scars from his war were ever close to the surface of his agitated mind.

****

Les first saw action in New Guinea. As with many others dragged from the peace of a country farm, Les and his mates were much unprepared. Thrust into battle in the jungles of a country they didn’t know, to fight an enemy they couldn’t see, by a government for whom they had not voted.

Long after the war had finished, the horror of it all still visited him daily. Vivid images, mates around him cut down instantly, dying on the spot. Others screaming in pain as bullets from a Jap machine gun strafed and ripped the steamy airfield.

****

The groaning Dakota had left Port Moresby in darkness. Hoping he could land these raw conscripts on an abandoned enemy airstrip, the young pilot wanted to land and leave before the withdrawing Japanese would know. Delayed by poor weather their advantage had been lost.

Hearing the droning engines, a few retreating enemy soldiers returned to the badly damaged airstrip. Diving into a gun post as the war-weary aircraft touched down into the wind, the Japanese were ready. Turning to unload, the pilot noticed a movement in a machine gun nest about 200 yards away. ‘We’ve been spotted! Get everyone out now! I have got to get this thing back into the air.’ He ordered.

Two out of the three men landed that day were slain or injured. The ten who made it alive were gritty and determined to survive. Stuck in a compromised position they used their dead comrades for shelter to regroup.

Their commanding officer was dead. Nobody knew what to do next and panic raced through the ranks. Quickly summing up the situation, Les knew to survive, someone needed to bring this decimated group together. A couple of minutes passed before Les took charge. An attack on the Japanese machine gunners pinning them down was their only chance.

Les yelled, ‘We have to shove as much fire as you can muster on those yellow bastards so I can get close enough to put a grenade or two up their arse’

The Japanese had limited ammunition and sensing their advantage stopped firing. The airfield grew quiet and the next few minutes dragged like hours, for the surviving Australians. Looking around his mates, Les counted ten men fit to fight and another five who, although wounded could return fire. ‘On the count of three throw as much shit as you can at them,’ Les commanded.

He knew each man carried an army issued Lee Enfield 303 rifle. Although these bolt action rifles were no match for the machine gun firing at them. Les reasoned if they directed volley on volley toward the enemy position, the Japs would be unwilling to creep above the safety of their sandbagged dug out to return fire.

The young diggers may have a slender chance.

Now ready, each soldier, with his rifle butt pulled back hard into a young shoulder. Les quickly toted up their odds, ‘ten in the magazine and one in the breech’ it wasn’t an assuring count ‘only one hundred and sixty five bullets, boys we are really up shit creek’ he thought.

‘Okay, keep the fire constant, on the count of three, start firing and keep doing it until we get a result.’

This morning belonged to the brave. Their sights adjusted to two hundred yards and trained just above the position of the battle hardened Japanese fighters, the tension built. Each young Aussie filled with frightened enthusiasm, sharpening each of their senses. Their adrenalin surged, excitement replacing their fear. Now, the signal they were waiting for, Les yelled, ‘One, two, three!’

As he heard the second volley of shots, Les leapt out from behind the human barrier and into full view of the Japanese. His comrades concentrated their fire at the target. His 200-yard sprint seemed to take forever as Les scouted around to the blind side of the open machine gun nest.

Now and within in range he could see his enemy. An over-arm action and the first of his grenades sailed toward its target, in an instant a second was on its way. Les managed to get a third and fourth away and he dropped to the ground covering his ears with cupped hands.

Shrapnel began falling around the battleground as dirt and dust filled the air. Looking up, Les could see that the enemy were dead and for now, his troop was safe. Still in danger, Les knew they should get away and find a secure area to regroup.

             ‘We had better move out He barked, ‘get as many of the wounded who can walk onto their feet. We will come back for the others when we can.’

Leaving their dead and wounded in the open was the only option open to them.

Secure in their jungle hideout, Les shivered as he heard each single shot from a Japanese pistol echo toward him. Its owner laughing as he repeatedly emptied life from each of the wounded Australians. This scene lived in Les’s memory forever. Images of that day played repeatedly in his mind and for the duration of the war, created a wanton recklessness within him.

Les started taking extraordinary risks, living a most dangerous and hateful war.

****

When victory came, others were able to put the terror behind them. His mates were excited about coming home and building a new life. Les however, carried home a few physical reminders and a tormented mind. Pains from the few pieces of a Japanese grenade lodged in his body were a constant reminder of his hatred for his enemy.

Les didn’t settle easily into his life after the war. Sleeping in his mind and always close to the surface were dangerous thoughts of an agonising past. He was no longer the gentle soul who had left Wanooka’s Well for war, War had changed him, losing all sense of compassion and any happiness he felt soon dissipated. Always angry he became increasingly hard on his wife and their only son Joe.

CRYSTAL

Last year I was reading a paper while waiting for my wife when a headline prompted me to scratch down the following few lines. Today with the action happening in Indonesia and the penalties imposed on drug dealers there, I thought it might be topical if I posted this poem / song lyrics.

It is a first draft and I'd love to hear your comments.

Crystal’s staring at the pavement

Of the Grand Paradise Hotel

Where police tape flickers

before the morning breeze

And she’s lost in the bloodstain

Left where the victim fell

 

Second night of a two week honeymoon

They’d spent the day in bed

And food came to their room

Making love all through the morning

She thrilled with inner movements

And glowed there in his spoon

 

Dinner at the restaurant

at the Grand Paradise Hotel

Then dancing in the ballroom

With the man she knew so well

The music pumped the pulsing light

And the world could go to hell.

 

Now she’s staring at the pavement

Of the Grand Paradise Hotel

And thinking about that pill

Wondered why he thought he’d need it

Was it just another thrill?

 

The dealer was the devil

And he pushed a little hard

Toby palmed two hundred

You can’t put that stuff on a card

They danced until the small hours

And made it quite a night

Then in the elevator

He held her really tight

She kissed him in the lift

He caressed her in the hall

 

And when he laid her on their bed

She offered him her all

Then somewhere in between

The darkness and the light

He swallowed what the dealer sold him

And believed he could take flight.

 

Now Crystal’s staring at the pavement

Outside the Grand Paradise Hotel

She’s staring at the bloodstain

Where her Toby fell

The dealer was the devil

And he pushed a little hard

Toby palmed two hundred

You can’t put that on card

Now Crystal’s staring at the pavement

Outside the Grand Paradise Hotel

The Value of Children Stories

Since my children have blessed me with grandchildren I have gained a better perspective for the importance of good stories in a child’s life. I remember being with my own children, sitting on their beds and reading Dr Seuss, Enid Blyton, Rudyard Kipling and Australia’s own Colin Thiele.

It didn’t matter that Mr Percival was lost, we knew Stormboy would save the situation. Noddy and Big Ears shared many scrapes and came out the other side, better for their adventure. The Famous Five taught us courage, while Anne of Green Gables helped my girls discover the enjoyment of reading. While they read they also watched movies and listened to music. Every piece, a story told in its own way. Sure some of the stuff served up was trash but over time they learned to differentiate between the two.

Who didn’t sing along to Achy Breaky Heart when it came out, Billy Ray Cyrus had a story to tell too, and the song did very well for him. Everything we do has a story to it and hopefully we can teach our children to be confident when they speak and write. Helping them to understand the stories they see or hear helps them to craft their own presentations. We are assured this century will be remembered as the, Information Revolution, in the same way as we speak about the Industrial Revolution of the nineteenth century. If that is to be the case then reading and importantly , understanding what has been read is important. Reading is the best way anyone can learn how to craft their own story. Therefore we need to help our children see the subtleties of good writing.

I spent some time last year with a three year old, her grandmother and I were on duty to entertain for three hours. We put Chitty Chitty Bang Bang into the DVD player, and who doesn’t like one hundred and forty minutes of Dick Van dyke. The story written about the same time as Ian Fleming was creating James Bond has his style all over it.

Granny who hadn’t seen it before was entertained too.

Les Gillespie's Gold Update

This book is taking longer to write than I first expected. As I understand the process better now, the more I have tried to craft a better tale. I hope that everyone who enjoyed Kundela will be blown away by Les Gillespie's Gold. I believe I have broken the back of the story now and am ready to draw all of the plot lines together.

I hope to have the manuscript ready for editing soon.

Cheers,

Terry

Les Gillespie's Gold Excerpt.

I am having a bit of trouble with the young women in this novel. They are forcing their way into bigger roles, here Tilly's nemesis, Sam, is being intimidated by a colleague.

Sam couldn’t wait to change and kicked her boots off outside the door; by the time she reached the bathroom she was naked. Carrying her clothes over an arm, she didn’t seen Gino sitting on a stool in the kitchen. He bided his time and waited until he heard the shower running. He poured himself another scotch and a dropped ice into a glass. He took another tumbler, poured in two fingers of Vodka and dropped in a wedge of lime for Sam. Sam was humming and he smiled. He had her right where he wanted her. Gino sauntered into the bathroom and put the drinks on the basin. Pleased she hadn’t heard him, he closed the toilet lid covered it with a towel and sat down. He reached across, picked up the Vodka and held it toward the shower. Sam had her back to him and he supposed the water had helped prevent her from hearing him come in.

Gino liked to think of himself as a cat, stealthy and composed, he stifled a smirk. ‘Drink?’ he said.

Sam knew the voice and wanted to scream, but knew it would do her no good. She had never felt so vulnerable and yet her nakedness gave her power. Men were week, if she managed this right he would leave her in peace. If she judged it wrong, she could be in danger.

Sam took shampoo from the shelf and lathered it in her hands. She turned to face him and stood there; her feet apart. Sam could feel his eyes taking all of her in; her hands worked the shampoo into her hair. To her surprise she found she didn’t mind him ogling her, in fact it made her feel stronger and knew he was weakening. Suds washed from her hair onto her shoulders and she watched his eyes track it all the way to her feet.

‘A drink'll be nice, just let me freshen up here and I’ll catch up with you in the kitchen.’

The Chinaman’s Curse

A couple of years ago, I wrote an indepth profile for Joe's father Les. Among the many details, hair and eye colour etc, I wrote several poems and letters that Les would leave as clues to the location of his gold reef.
While going back over stuff today I found the folde and remembered this poem, it is in draft but it has helped me get inside the head of one of Joe's father.

 

This gift of gold I’ll give to you

And from deep within the ground
You’ll find more hidden there
For in a white quartz reef
It glows like a river’s sheen
From a winch you must descend
And listen for the water’s sound
And in the dampened darkness
In your lamplight watch it gleam
 
Now my son you have my seam
And behold its golden glow
And as the decades pass so slow
Remember me in loving terms
And not when at my worse
For what the fever’s done to me
There’s a thing that you should know
The vapours they will linger long
So beware the Chinese Curse

And beware the High Street Spruiker

On a box that once held soap
And heed not the pull of greed
When all your pockets empty
And every cupboard’s bare
Stay clear of the sleazy spivs in spats
Who peddle mindless dope
And of the old and in rags a begging
Allow not let your eyes to stare

Beware of slick investors

Who want more than just your gold
This world has many treasures
Camped deep within its core
My secret is a keeper
And down the years
It’s only you I’ve told
For gold is only currency
And is really nothing more

Merry Christmas

As we wind our way toward the Christmas and New Year holidays, I wanted to take a few moments and thank you for your friendship and support over the last twelve months.

2014 has been a great year for me and a one I’ll remember fondly. First highlight was having my short story, Banib the Bunyip win second prize in the 2013 Melton Short Story Competition. In January I learnt that my debut novel Kundela was commended in the FAW National Literary Awards.

An author may write in isolation, but when the manuscript is as good as they can get it, there is still more to do. If the writer is smart or lucky, they will find an editor with the skills to take their story and make it into a prize winning novel. Merlene Fawdry waved her magic over the manuscript for Kundela and I can’t thank her enough for the work she put in. She made it into a winner.

Unless a book sells, as a writer you feel as if you have under achieved, so I’d like to thank all of the book sellers who put Kundela on their shelves, your support of an independent writer is empowering.

Writers need readers too and to all of you who bought enough copies of Kundela to make a reprint necessary, I’m thankful. Feed back is like food to someone like me and to those who said how much they enjoyed the book thank you. Your encouragement empowers my resolve to write.

This year I finished another novel, an adventure set in Melbourne. Toby Farrier is a fifteen year old boy living with his grandfather. Toby gets into all manner of trouble, when he sets course to solve the riddle of a desk that has lain, locked and forgotten since 1930.

Currently I am working on the second book in the Kundela series. I have planned another children’s novel which I hope to start soon. Both manuscripts should be finished by this time next year.

 

Ruth and I wish you and your loved ones a Merry Christmas and we hope you enjoy a happy and prosperous New Year.

Once again thanks for the continued support

Les Gillespie's Gold Roadblock

As I started my NaNoWriMo challenge I flew into the word count, but writing Gods are fickle and tossed a problem to me. I had written myself into a conundrum, Jeff was in the outback writing a poem to Tilly and for once I couldn't make it work.  Rough little rhymes are usually something that come to me fast and unforced, but when I required one in Chapter 20, I failed. Pressure off and I penned this poem in a few minutes.

Today I toss it out into the ether for any poets to read, rewrite and make better. It may not appear in the final draft, but the poem Adnymathanha Stars has helped me finish chapter 21 and power into the rest of the novel.

Leave me a comment with your changes or thoughts.

 

 

 

Adnyamathanha Stars

Throw open your curtains and turn out the light

Fear not the shadows, I’m with you tonight

Peer out of your window and look up to the stars

For I’m sending you kisses on light waves from Mars

 

All alone on my swag I stare into the night

Longing to touch you and hold you so tight

With each little moon beam, that falls on your face

I’m sending my love song, from this ancient place

 

I’m sleeping in places where my ancestors slept

Where stories of wisdom and old secrets, are kept

Now I see far above me vast constellations of stars

And know if I lost you, on my heart there’d be scars

 

Two nights ‘til I see you and my days will just drag

Two slow days of more listening, to young fellas brag

Two more days of them bitching, their unending moan

And at the end of these days, my darling, I’m home

 

So sleep well in our bed of springs, latex and foam

For I’m lying tonight on a mound of red clay and loam

Take kisses from moon beams that land on your cheek

Store in a glass, my candle of love ‘til the end of the week

 

Throw open your curtains and turn out the light

Fear not the shadows, I’m with you tonight

Out of your window look these old Adnyamathanha stars

And know I’m sending my kisses on light waves from Mars

Wishes

I Wish

I wish I had a Puppy

I wish his name was Ben

I wish my little puppy

I wish he'd use a pen

I wish he’d tell a story

I wish he’d tell a tale

I wish my little puppy

Could do more than wag his tail

Statement Lies

This is another one minute exercise from our Wordsmiths group. The idea was to write a story or poem using obvious untruths. Here is my answer to the challenge.

Statement Lies, a Poem

 

The sky is red the sea is dry

Time stands still when you cry

 

A mother’s hug is never warm

A child is quiet when it’s born

A belted dog will wag it’s tail

A fire siren does not wail

Ode to Aging

Ode to Aging

 

Now I’m growing older

And soon my time is done

I think about my travels

And victories I’ve won

Glory days of endless sunshine

And days of flooding rain

 

I remember holding close to you

To minimise your pain

Sobs that shook you to the core

I don’t want to see again

I felt your lips with loving kisses

No man could love you more

Once

During one of our writing exercises this year, the group decided to try writing several one minute sessions to make a story or poem. The idea being to use a word drawn from a hat. This is one of my offerings and the word I drew for this one was once.

 

 

ONCE

 

Once there was a hobbit

Once there was a hole

Once there was a table

Once in the hobbits hole

Once he took a pot of tea

Once he made a cake

 

Once I made a visit

Once to the hobbit hole

Once I ate with him his cake

Once in that hobbit hole

Once I drank with him his tea

Once I dreamt that he was me

Allen Gibb the toddler who left home and came home a boy with polio

Allen Gibb is one man trying to help raise awareness to the way Polio ravages not only children but adults too. Australia had an inclusive immunisation programme that had eliminated the disease by the mid eighties and now we are under threat of it's return by people who for unknown reasons are refusing to immunise their children. I will post more of his story later, but as Allen now faces post polio syndrome, with the disease returning and further reducing his capabilities it may be timely to look at what he had to endure as a child. This poster shows the contraptions he was tied into to help him carry on and play as best he could with other children.

As Poster boy for the Crippled Children's Association he was doing his bit back then.

Now older and more world worn, Allen might disagree with the comments of the letter to the Down Every Street Appeal's helpers, but he would agree that the cause is still worth fighting for.

Mate I salute you.

We will soon have more to relay as Allen tells us his perspective of being a child suffering with this disease and how it is revisiting him now. In the meantime, we ask that you investigate the benefits of immunisation yourself, before saying no to immunising your childtren.

Memories of a childhood mate.

Over the past few years, thanks to the wonders of the internet, I have been able to keep in touch with many friends and family. School was one of those places where we all met people. Some we may not have become close to, but who we still remember. Over the years we be-friend some, find we don't get on with others and make enemies of a few. Time tends to erase the worst memories and today I find myself e-mailing them and swapping stories about our own good old days.
 

    My school was Orroroo Higher Primary School and at the time kids bussed in from Carrieton, Tarcowie, Willowie, Yatina and Johnburgh. In the sixties over three hundred and twenty kids filled the courtyard for assembly. Some stood out for academic prowess, others for their sporting ability and then there were the bottom feeders, people like me. We scraped through without recognition and had to carry home report cards telling our parents we must strive more, if we expected to achieve a pass mark.

    During these early years one kid stood out, not because he was different, but because he was away from school for big chunks of the year at times. We didn’t know why.

    Allen lived a few houses up the street from us. I didn’t understand until we were in about year five, that Allen was different, he had polio. Nothing stopped this bloke, we played cricket, rode our bikes (his was a three wheeler, but boy he made it go) swapped comics and dreamed. Never once can I recall him complaining of his condition. I think as most kids do he accepted it.

    As happens often, his family moved away and our lives went on. Allen enjoyed success in the education field and I followed into the family business.

    My memory is that he always had a positive attitude. Maybe it is something he dealt with back then. Today through social media and by collecting stories from other people, he is working to make others aware of what polio did to sufferers like him. His is work of great service. For me we were kids, Allen didn't have poliomyelitis, sure he had irons that made him walk funny, but I had freckles and was not academically gifted. Other kids were different too, that hasn't changed, at the time we just got on with.

Heroes come in different guises; Allen Gibb is this to me.

Check out his posts on Facebook to follow more of his story.

Kundela reviewed by AUSTCRIME

Scrolling through writing sites last night and found a review of my novel KUNDELA, on the AustCrime website.

Not the best review one could hope for, but an honest and helpful critique of my work.

Take a look and see if you agree:

http://www.austcrimefiction.org/review/review-kundela-terry-l-probert#comment-664

Back to writing Les Gillespie's Gold today

Today I have spent the morning research gold exploration company requirements and my head is in a spin. One good thing though it has allayed some of my doubts for the story line.  Word count is increasing and I can see the novel taking form. Roll on those last two words.

Character writing exercise: Goal, Motivation, Conflict

I presented this piece to the group today, who received it with mixed reaction. I wasn't as literal in my descriptions or conflict and aspirations, of Ciny, Faith and Ben, as the group expected,  but I wanted to convey the characters in a more abstract way. I'm interested in everyone's comments. You can find the criteria in the previous post. I hope you enjoy my take on a popular exercise.

Bang

 

I knew my target’s habits and knew what time he would arrive. The Awards Presentation would be crowded but the lines of people lining the red carpet would work to my advantage.

Television crews were set up everywhere and it was easy to blend in, my only concern was the occupants of room 515. From the fifth floor I would have a clean shot, it was only four hundred metres, the carpet would provide excellent background and alignment.

I learned Faith and Cindy McLeod lived in 515 from the names on the apartment mail boxes. I arranged tickets to the Oscars for them on the ruse that they won them in a competition. Their apartment would be vacant by noon and I did not expect them to arrive before midnight. Once inside, all I had to do was wait.

I dressed as a staff janitor, I stowed my rifle in a cleaning trolley and made it to the fifth floor. Just before noon the girls left via the lifts at the end of the hall. I used a stolen house pass to gain access.

I took a towel from the trolley and laid it on the table, where I put the unassembled rifle. I pulled a cleaner through the barrel, looked down the bore and started assembly. I knew I only need one shot, but filled the five shot magazine and put another cartridge in the chamber to be sure.

I moved furniture to make sure I was comfortable and cracked a front window open. There was nothing between my position and the target.

I shut the window and waited, at 2.30 the phone rang, I ignored it. By 3-30, I heard people in the hall, but they walked on. I kept the television muted and watched reporters accosting celebrities making their way along the carpet.

At 5.00 pm I opened the window again and took up my position. Flags hung listless from their poles, no wind, that would help. I lined up a couple of guests who were about the same height as my target, Ben.

A stretch Hummer arrived, at 5.10 the target and his escort stepped out. I cursed under my breath, the limo blocked my view. I cocked the rifle, slid the safety off and waited. The Hummer glided away. He was clear,  I squeezed the trigger and watched the bullet take its mark.

My end of the contract was complete. I closed the window, packed up the rifle, put the furniture back and sauntered out.