Flash Fiction Friday

#flashfictionfriday 06

Charlotte cries in the shower while Greg watches cricket on TV. The day had been fine; bub took all his naps, had a good poo, and even went down for the night after only three rounds of Soft Kitty.

But still, she cries.

It’s not like she misses her job, but weekends were nice. So were lunch breaks. Even that 5 pm clock-off time she whinged about looks appealing now.

The hot water wanes. Charlotte rinses her hair along with her tears. She gets out of the shower, towels herself off and makes dinner.

Flash Fiction Friday

#flashfictionfriday 05

“They will be here before dawn,” Mayor Turncott said. He turned to Jacquelyn and gripped her by the shoulders. “You must take the boy and leave.”

Jacquelyn glanced down at the new born babe in her arms, swaddled warm in a woollen cloak.

“There’s a tunnel through the hills,” Turncott said. ‘Speak to the smithy. Tell him, ‘All the leaves have fallen,’ and he will show you the way. Follow the path until you reach the forest. And then, you don’t look back. Do you understand?”

Jacquelyn nodded. “I’ll protect him with my life.”

“No, my dear,” Turncott said gravely. “You are the Mother of Hope—it is you who must survive.”

Flash Fiction Friday

#flashfictionfriday 04

A black business card tumbles to the floor as she’s slipping out of her bra. The man in the white tuxedo picks it up.

“Miss Murder,” he reads, loose-tied and champagne-drunk. “Named after the song.”

“No,” she says and reaches into her purse. “Named after me.”

One click and he was dead.

Flash Fiction Friday

#flashfictionfriday 03

Judith checks the letter box twenty-five times a day and sometimes it’s still dark.

“Oh, I better check the mail,” she says, sitting down for a cuppa. Out she goes, down the front path, in her dressing gown and slippers.

“Morning Bob,” she waves.

Bob’s holding a stubby and paying the pizza delivery man. He gives an awkward nod and wave of his beer as Judith totters back inside.

Sitting down for a cuppa, Judith says, “Oh, I better check the mail. Might have bills to pay.”

Out she goes, down the path…

Gardens of War & Wasteland

welcome to whyt’hallen 01: the old capital – ciraselo

In this month’s edition of WELCOME TO WHYT’HALLEN, we take a look at Ciraselo, the Old Capital. All the action of Gardens of War & Wasteland Book I: The Ruptured Sky begins here, making it the perfect choice for your first glimpse into the world of Whyt’hallen.

THE OLD CAPITAL—CIRASELO: Creating mood boards has been a fantastic world building exercise that helps me visualise the architecture and atmosphere of the locales visited in The Ruptured Sky. Images via canva.com
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Blog, Gardens of War & Wasteland

what you need to know about gardens of war & wasteland: the ruptured sky

So I’ve finished my novel. Now what?

While I sit and wait for feedback from my beta readers, I’ve put together a comprehensive guide to the world of Whyt’hallen and everything you need to know about the upcoming Gardens of War & Wasteland Book I: The Ruptured Sky.

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Short Stories

the carpet cleaner

Robert liked his job. Well, most of the time. He didn’t like going to uni student share houses to leech booze and dried vomit off every plush surface the day before a rental inspection; and he didn’t like going to Ms McTavish’s place because she had ten cats and let them pee on the carpet until it was sodden and the house smelt like piss long after he’d shampooed and shampooed it again. He also didn’t like nursing homes, because it was too hard seeing people not that much older than he with defeated expressions on their sunken faces, confined to beds, stuck full of tubes and left to stare at the empty visitors’ chairs in their room all day. No, he didn’t like that at all. As with anything, there were good clients and bad, and the one client Robert loved, more than anything, was Mrs Lavingston. 

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Blog

the year that was & the year that will be

And so 2017 draws to a close. I for one can not be more relieved.

This year has been a tumultuous one indeed: I moved countries, got married, began a new day-job, bought my first car, and moved again (domestically this time); I said goodbye to my Grandmother, a second mother who raised me alongside my own; and lost two public figures (Chester Bennington and Kim Jonghyun), who have been a source of love, comfort and inspiration, to this terrible illness called depression, of which I also chronically suffer. It really has been all over the place—I have been all over the place. Personal rollercoaster aside, though, and my writing career(?) has been a pleasantly stable fixture. Let’s take a look.

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Short Stories

the cottage on peppercorn tree hill

The cottage on Peppercorn Tree Hill was not a cottage: it was a Federation Bungalow with a bay window and Evelyn Millar loved it. From the moment Harold drove her up the dusty road and she saw red brick façade with cream latticework under the eaves, Evie knew they would be happy here. The front was shaded with a large peppercorn tree, for which the hill was named, with a swollen trunk and wide-spanning limbs. Evie jumped out of the car, blonde curls bouncing, and breathed in the fresh country air. A smile curled her lips as she beheld her future looking down at the town below.

Evie and Harold met in a hospital, though neither was a patient. Her mother Vilma had been volunteering at the 113th Australian General Hospital to care for the many repatriated soldiers wounded in the Pacific. Together with her younger sister, Margaret, Evie spent much of her time there, helping where she could, while their father fought in Papua New Guinea. While assisting the nurses on their rounds, Evie happened upon a fresh-faced, fair-haired doctor by the name of Harold Millar. In spite of horror piling up around her, Evie fell in love.

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