She stands in the evening air as winds pick up. They whip away the warmth and stagnance of day. The sky crackles darkly, it jabs with light and grumbles with thunder.
The crickets schreee. Fat palms and ferns begin to whip about. There is a smell of ants and frangipani and wet soil.
Soon the night air fills with the rumble of rain, large pellets hitting leaf and ground. It drowns the chorus of crickets and drums the roof and window panes.
In an instant, the night lights up like day – the verandah, the trees, the driveway – all alight as though by a giant flash bulb.
Then thunder tears apart the air, a whip crack overhead so loud the building shakes. She jumps.
The children shriek but not with fear. They strip off and run in the rain. More lightning, more thunder.
The adults gather on the verandah to watch as – pick! pock! – ice balls begin to fall.
She pulls a cardigan around her. The children gather in and they all watch the lawn turn white.
For the last few weeks, I have been fortunate enough to facilitate a creative writing workshop for SORT Recycling work-for-the-dole program. At each class 6-8 men and women write creatively and share their work, giving feedback and encouragement to each other.
I have been enchanted by the creative expression of these men and women, each with very different backgrounds, interests and abilities. Their creations inspire long conversations, stories, laughter and questions.
This is the writing of Dan, a young man who has already lived more life than me. He also once ranked 28th place in the world Pokemon championships and has his own YouTube channel:
“THE REMINDER”From womb to tomb we dependA family name to representMinds think thoughts aloneTil’ the ocean takes us homeEmotions collideThoughts and feelings intertwineInvincibility youth take to bedWhile vulnerability leads aheadTime we try to escapeTrying to find a better fateBut in the end there is darkThe flame of life without a spark.
This is the writing of Ben, a young man who grew up in remote North Queensland and Ireland who at first described himself as “uncreative”:
when the new sprout stands tall and strong in the ground? and giving is loving and loving is sharing but keeping is dwelling and depriving and past? itis now (our time moves forward) o, itis spring goodbye the pretty birds; the wind whispering to wings goodbye the little fish; the sea current silent to scale (so the mountains are dancing, dancing eternal)
If the eyes are a window to the soul, one’s writing is a painting of the emotions, thoughts and memories within.
What is stopping you from writing ?