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

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Dem Bones, Dem Bones part one - by lillian Morpork

The hand of the Lord was upon me ……… Prophesy to these bones, and say to them ‘O dry bones: Behold I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. And I will lay sinew upon you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall love; and you shall know that I am Lord. Ezekiel 37. 1, 4 to 6

“Oh, Mother, will you not speak to me? Will you not look around you and see your children, and grandchildren? We love you, we miss you. And our children would so love to have a grandma to talk to them, tell them tales of the past. Now they are grown, and starting their own families, will you not try to hear and see us? What of your great-grandchildren? They would love to know their Granny. Oh, please, Mother, come back to us!” Mary sighed, kissed her mother’s cheek, and rose from her knees wiping the tears from her face.

It was over thirty years since their father had died, killed fighting a fire in a school. He had saved three children, somehow getting them out to safety, injured but alive. They had recovered, but he had not. Mother had wept for days, hardly eating and leaving all arrangements to her sons and daughters. She seemed unaware of what was going on during the funeral, and for months had not seemed to be aware of anyone or anything around her. They had had to hire a nurse to care for her while they worked, and made every effort to lead normal lives. At last she had recovered enough to be able to bathe and dress herself, but would forget to eat. So Mary and her family had moved into Mother’s home, and cared for her.

But recently, she had gone back to the way she’d been right after Father’s death. They had done everything, called in doctors, psychiatrists, even the priest, all to no avail. She moved when someone helped her, accepted the bathing, dressing and feeding, all without response. And she was eating less and less. The only thing they ever heard was a low murmur, and they could only catch a word or two. ‘dead’ and ‘love’. Mary thought she was mourning her husband’s death.

Mary walked back to where the rest of the family were sitting, discussing what could be done for Mother. “Mary, you should put her in a residence where she can be cared for. It is too much for you alone, all day every day, even with the part time nurse, and your daughter,” Jack said. He was worried about Mary, who was looking worn and older than her years.

“Jack, I can’t send her away!” Mary exclaimed. “It would feel like I had abandoned her. She stuck by me when Dennis left me. How can I not stick with her? I don’t think she has much longer to live, let it be here, in her own home.” Mary sighed, looking across at Mother, who still sat, staring out the window.

“What is she looking at?” Jack’s daughter Sarah asked. “She always seems to be looking in the same direction, what is it she sees?”

“Hmm…that’s a good question,” David said. “Let me see” He got up and walked over to stand behind Mother, and followed her gaze. “Oh, no!” he gasped. He walked quickly back to the others. “She is looking at the cemetery – it is just barely visible on the side of the hill by the church!”

They were all stunned, and Mary said “Oh, no. That is why she will never sit anywhere else! I have tried and tried to get her to sit by the living room window, and she refuses to sit. She goes stiff and will not move, until I turn her, then she walks willingly to that window.” She put her hand up to cover her eyes. “I should have known, because she always murmurs ‘dead’ and ‘alive’!” She looked at the others. “What else can I do?” her voice was filled with despair.

“Nothing – you can do nothing other than what you are doing, Aunt Mary.” Hannah’s voice was soft, gentle. “If sitting there, looking perhaps at where Grandpa lays gives her peace, then let her sit there. Maybe she is thinking that soon she will join him. Just do as you are doing, Aunt Mary. I think she is as happy as she can be, and she is aware that your love and care surround her.” She got up and hugged Mary. “Be at peace, Aunt Mary. You are giving her all that she needs. And we all know that she will not be with us much longer. Let her last days be calm and peaceful.” The others nodded, and agreed. Mary sighed and accepted their approval.

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