Spiders drop onto my face. Has to be a lot of them. Long hairy arms drape, crackle. They stink, slither, probe. It prickles my skin. It’s night. Can’s see, can’t scream. I’m jammed between two walls. Don’t ask! No one knows I’m here except you. Illumination? Light? No! Eyes! It’s one spider and she spinning me in her web. Entombed.
its been such a long time since i was here!! so see if i can get this to work. how do i add? wow look at that – that is Callum Staford who acted in my monologue “It’s not Funny’ at the Gas Works one of the plays of the Daring Dogs season. Now to press the publish button and see what happens!!
Robyn Lester and Yvonne Matthews play two delightful old female rogues in Imposture, written by Maree Collie. It would seem they are living on a dangerous knife-edge due to some heist committed years ago. We are intrigued by the mystery surrounding their dining in Flinders Lane. Pending danger and comeuppance threaten these stylish old dames as they let slip something of their less appealing characteristics.
Just another City
Just another city, filled with despair.
Another busload got off down town.
Town down, never getting up.
Broken people, with rubbish,
Wire fences, everywhere.
Old men upon yet older benches,
Sitting unseen in the dappled dark,
Remembering better times,
Without loneliness, without pain.
Just another city, reaching for the sky,
Fly overs, fly unders, all angles and dangles.
Just another market, vendors insistent.
Different city, different day, just the same.
Little blue bells, tied, bound and gagged.
Part of a system, regulations, and rules.
Just another hotel, just another room,
Check ins, check outs and luggage lost.
Is it just me, wanting to go home?
<a href=https://yeahwrite.me/fiction-poetry-writing-challenge-327/><img src=https://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/fiction327.png></a>
The wild-fire has swung around. Trapped. It’s ironic: the ashes, souls of death, fall like new born snow, so quietly, settling like eiderdown on parched land. The ashes fall lightly on me. Soon mine will join them. The hot north wind will laugh as it scatters my embers and sucks my dying voice high into the billowing scarlet clouds where thunderheads will form. The rain will come and life will begin again. My existence eradicated, erased from the memory of time.
Meet the author: why writing is not longer just about words.
So reads the headline in the Melbourne Age, Sunday May 16 2015, Spectrum, page 21.
When we the public buy tickets to meet authors what are we buying? On Saturday the 20th June I am going to Rippon Lea Ballroom, fictional home of Aunt Prudence, of Miss Fishers Murder Mysteries. I will join Executive Producer of the series, Fiona Eagger, and Executive Producer and Head Writer Deb Cox and Author Kerry Greenwood where they will provide insight on the taking of the book to screen. This event includes a light afternoon tea.[i] I have paid a lot of money to do this. Are these people celebrities? Or are these people marketing a product? And what will I get out of it? What do I want to get out of it?
Sure I am going to have (hopefully) some good questions to ask of these people. However, there will be a room of other people equally intent on asking their most pressing questions. What is it that I want to get out of this experience?
….the chance of listening to a man that ‘has made it in the real world’ was very alluring…