33 in 22

By Nambucca Valley Writers Group

An anthology of stories and poems by members of Nambucca Valley Writers Group.

The group celebrates its 33rd year in 2022, hence the title, 33 in 22. You will find 33 of our works inside; short fiction, non-fiction, longer stories, and a sprinkling of poetry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nambucca Valley Writers Group
• Release date: Nov 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9780975111789

Book preview

1.png

33 in 22

First published 2022

Copyright © by the respective authors

All rights reserved

Also by Nambucca Valley Writers Group

Writers’ Roadhouse 2018

Stepping Off a Cliff Naked 2014

Food For THought: Writing, Recipes and Art 2011

Tribe 2010

The Fourth Saturday 2008

Print ISBN: 978-0-9751117-7-2

e-book ISBN: 978-0-9751117-8-9

33 in 22

An anthology of stories and poems by members of Nambucca Valley Writers’ Group

Contents

INTRODUCTION1

Lockdown

SHOW OF EVIL by Bill Ridley5

MASKED POETS’ SOCIETY by Diane Curran7

THE WAY IT WAS by Roby Aiken11

True Tales

A GOOD DAY by Karen Gribbin17

TRAVELLING NORTH by Rachel Burns25

THE ARMENIAN GENOCIDE by Yvonne Kachel.31

JOURNEY TO PEACE by Rachel Burns39

Shorts

A PUFF OF WIND by Yvonne Kachel43

THE SOURCE by Diane Curran49

THE LAST LIGHT MOTEL by Robyn Dyer53

WITHIN THE SHADOWS by Elizabeth Newman57

GHOST STORY by Sohma59

ANCHORS by Gill Chapman61

THE DAY I MET GOD by Jordan Syratt65

COLLETTE’S DISAPPOINTMENT by Roby Aiken69

FAIRY TALE by Sohma 71

Linger Longer

THE KING OF GHOSTS by Diane Curran79

MR DELANEY by Roby Aiken87

THE BURDEN by Gill Chapman92

BUT YOU ALWAYS HAVE THE CARBONARA

by Suzanne McKinley98

LOVE STORY by Sohma103

ONCE UPON A TIME by Yvonne Kachel108

RUBY (A Life Well Lived) by Karen Gribbin114

WHEN SHE COMES by Roby Aiken126

A Sprinkling of Poetry

MOTHER DIED TODAY by Gill Chapman10

SMOKE AMONGST THE FIRE by Wayne Harvey24

HISTORY REPEATING by Gill Chapman30

THE BEAT by Elizabeth Newman52

MY TOXIC EX by Diane Curran55

STOP THE PILLS by Wayne Harvey64

FEAR OF NORMAL by Elizabeth Newman75

SILENCE by Gill Chapman86

THE SEA LIONS by Robyn Dyer124

BIOs135

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to Nambucca Valley Writers Group’s latest anthology. The group celebrates its 33rd year in 2022, hence the title, 33 in 22. You will find 33 of our works inside; short fiction, non-fiction, longer stories, and a sprinkling of poetry. Many of the pieces are winners or runners-up from our annual competition over the last few years, and we hope you enjoy them as much as we loved writing them. As always, it is a pleasure to be part of this vibrant group, and my thanks go to everyone, particularly to Elizabeth, who compiled this book. Happy reading!

Roby Aiken

President 2022

Lockdown

SHOW OF EVIL by Bill Ridley

I am tiny and I need you. I am just a set of instructions without meaning. I need a tiny room to begin my journey. Just a little place in your house to reside while I make my story. Is that too much to ask? I beg of you take me inside. No, you won’t have me? But I am lying here on this slithering creature and I cannot be famous without you.

Ahhhh. Here comes the bat. My host bites. Now, I jump. Now I have a new host. We flee and fly. I mingle on his skin. What’s this? Another one of my kind waiting too. We make love, ooooohhhh. Now I am altered, better than before. Still you have no time for me. You do not know that I exist. Just a little room. I promise I will not bother you.

What’s this? One of your kind. Oh, a struggle. Into the net. A ride. Now we wait in a little room with others. We can see your kind through the holes. You make little rooms to keep our hosts. Could you not just open one of your rooms for me? No? Oh well, that is for you to decide.

What’s this? We are on the move. You kill my host. He was so nice to me. Unlike you that ignores who I am. Oh, it is hot. The skin becomes crisp. No matter to me, heat cannot kill me. I don’t exist - yet. I cannot without your room. Now I am hanging with others, waiting.

Look she comes. She points. She sits. I am delivered with my host. Sticks in his skin. We dive into the liquid. Weeeeeee. Oh, out again. Crunch, sticky wet, round and round and round. And then down. I jump. I land on the sticky inside of the tube inside you. There a lots of rooms inside you. You see I have found you. Now begins my story.

I make myself again and again. But you have plenty of rooms. More than enough for my replicants. But wait, look she is shaking. Oh dear, oh dear, she explodes, I fly, I land with thousands of me. A new host. No, six hosts have thousands of me on their skin. Oh, they touch and feel their holes. Ummmm, I slip with my friends inside.

My story is a success. One became six, then I am millions.

Now you understand who I am. And every day you send me to more of your kind. And you gave me a name.

I am COVID-19 and I’m coming to you.

MASKED POETS’ SOCIETY by Diane Curran

There was no warning they’d be targeted. But suddenly they were on the forbidden list: their joyous pursuits branded dangerous along with singing, dancing and playing woodwind instruments. Storm watched in horror as Gladys announced that from midnight Friday, poetry was illegal.

They had followed the Covid regulations like socially responsible anarchists, social distancing at their tiny spoken word gatherings, resorting to Zoom when gatherings were banned.

Now poetry was on the government hit list? One reporter questioned the ban and Storm imagined that she was a closet poet, scribbling sonnets in her walk-in wardrobe.

Gladys elaborated eloquently:

"Poetry is dangerous and divisive

Poetry incites and inflames

Rhyme invokes and incants

Chants can be incendiary

Rhymes are the basis of black magic

Words can be used as weapons

And spoken word events could be cesspits of transmission."

Storm admired the alliteration and the ironic rhythm of Gladys’ words. She guessed that accidental political poetry was exempt from the new laws.

This was all Karen from Bunnings’ fault. She freedom. We must rise and show them we will not be

defeated."

The defeated ones stirred, spurred to action as she continued to speak, ad-libbing the poem emerging from her soul.

If they want masks, they shall have masks, she said. And we will film it, and we will bombard social media, and we will go viral.

And so that was the beginning of the Masked Poets Society. Anarchist and outspoken. Swooping upon outdoor settings, performing their rage poetry, filming and disappearing before the authorities arrived, and then flooding the internet with their poetic posts.

They made a scene, they made a point, they made a poem.

They made poetry relevant again.

MOTHER DIED TODAY by Gill Chapman

Mother died today

though just when I couldn’t tell

she left no clues for me to mark the hour.

Her china cup

with periwinkles said to match her eyes

now redundant; left to gather dust alone.

My waking hours

no longer filled with duty without end

or that tiny voice forever stuck on replay.

I wonder now

as I begin and silence roars from every room

just how to find the person I once knew.

THE WAY IT WAS by Roby Aiken

I went out today to pick up my quota, and I saw this woman in the park. She was dressed in indoor clothes; no suit, no mask, no goggles or gloves or protective footwear, nothing. She wasn’t a young woman; her hair was streaked with grey and there were lines around her eyes and all she had on was a summer dress, a pretty flowery one, and her legs, her arms, even her feet were bare. I was shocked, I can tell you. I’ve never seen anything like it. Sure, I can see people dressed like that in the pods opposite ours, sometimes even on the verandas or rooftops we look down on, but never have I seen anyone outside without their Personal Protective Equipment. So illegal. She won’t last long. They’ll come for her sooner or later.

When I got home, I told Nan about that woman; the way she was just strolling about in her flowery dress, looking at the sky, touching the trees, smelling the flowers, and Nan gave this sad little smile, all misty and wistful it was, and her eyes took on this faraway look and she teared up.

She was still a teenager when the covid started, you see, and she remembers the years they fought to find a cure, a vaccine, and how that thing just kept changing and changing, adapting to whatever they did, how it kept killing people. Although she’s in her seventies now, she still remembers how people could walk around anywhere they liked in their indoor clothes, how you could go shopping and buy what you liked instead of lining up to get your quota. She tells us stories of enormous shops full of clothes and homewares, books even, and how you could walk into a big shop full of food – supermarkets she calls them – and you could get whatever you needed; bread and meat and butter and fresh fruit, even toilet paper. I believe her about the bread and butter and meat, but fresh fruit? Toilet paper? No way.

She says that people used to go to the