What are Ozlandish Writings?

From July 2010 to December 2014 we ran OZLAND PICTURE STORIES as described below. Sadly though the number of writers reduced over the years and we decided to call it a day. We leave these as a record of the good times we had.

Are "You" ready to challenge your writing skills? Then participate in our OZLAND Picture Stories writing series at The Ozland Art Gallery.

Each month a new picture will be picked, from our OZLAND Artist of the Month collection, with different themes. Your goal is to write a 500-1000 word... poem... essay... or story about the picture picked. This is a chance for you to challenge your writing skills each month. Story can be written in ANY genre... sci fi... romance... ghost... fantasy... fiction... non-fiction... biography... mystery... historical... whatever your writing genre... feel free to experiment. Send your writing inworld to Sven Pertelson as a notecard to have it included on the web site. We meet at the The Ozland Art Gallery each Wednesday at Noon and 6pm SLT to read the latest submissions on voice. More Information

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Wednesday, September 22, 2010


As I stood in line waiting my turn I looked at the people waiting with me. An elderly gentleman held the hand of who I am sure was his wife in front of me. I wonder if they will survive the trip. Elderly people were told to stay in their homes because they may not survive the long journey. These two must really be willing to gamble their lives literally away. My attention turned to a mother with a small toddler. Surely the child was too small. He didn't even come to my waist. What was the height restriction I wondered? Behind me a dog barked. Animals WERE allowed. So far all animals had survived the trip.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Who am I…? - By: LorettaYoung Khaos

I laugh to myself as I think of mankind. Silly little beings with such diminutive lives, how easily they are confused. I am so much more than their underdeveloped minds can conceive, so much greater than anything they have yet, or will ever realize. I have been mistaken as many elements thrown together by early thinkers. I was described as a rudimentary, lifeless lump, massive disorder. Who am I you ask?

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Memories - by lillian Morpork

Sitting quietly in the darkened living room, with only one candle burning, I look out the window. The storm has been raging now for what seems to be hours, but is really only about half an hour. It is one of the wildest thunder storms I have ever seen. Lightning streaks the sky, dancing on legs of fire over the rooftops of the buildings. There is no more than a heartbeat between flashes, and the thunder growls and crashes continuously. I have seen the CN Tower struck half a dozen times. Sometimes the bolts start at a distance, and then seem to make a right angle turn before they strike. It is a spectacular sight.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Thor’s Apocalypse by lillian Morpork

He’d been sleeping, mighty Thor,
A sleep that lasted aeons long,


And the gods said... LET THERE BE LIFE... and 10 gods united and mighty lift up their arms into space and bolts of lightning grow from their arm to the space close to the sun. KA BOOOM!!! A seed planted. The seed swirls and grows getting bigger and bigger to form a planet. It shoots mountains into the sky and sinks deep crevices into the earth. And the crevices fill with water and tiny fish appear. And the gods smile.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

The Apocalypse from Space - by lillian Morpork

The attack came, unseen, unexpected. Thousands of drones hidden behind the moon struck, and all communications satellites failed, the space station disintegrated and the settlements on the moon and Mars died in flames. We saw the flares from earth. We had no communications left but line of sight, here on earth. Then the drones flooded down and within twenty four hours, billions were dead and the last of the power grid was gone.

The Thunder Rolls - by Llola Lane

The thunder rolls across the desert...
making loud noises as it passes
and blinding light as it flashes.

Shelter from the Storm - by Sven Pertelson

Warm air, like an oven door opening, swept across his face as the storm drew closer. He had seen the thunderheads growing for the last hour and could still see no signs of shelter. This was going to be a monster of a storm. Looking at the barren land ahead, treeless, dusty brown he could see nowhere to hide from the approaching maelstrom.