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

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Transition – Lillian Morpork

Transition – Lillian Morpork

He paused at the gate in the dilapidated fence, staring up at the old house. Once, it had been his home, a happy place, full of love and laughter. Now it was dark, empty, haunted, and something in it was calling to him. Taking a deep breath, he opened the gate and stepped through. His feet made soft clicking sounds on the weed grown bricks of the path, and the steps creaked as he climbed to the rickety front porch.

Again he paused, looking at the front door, remembering the sound of her sweet voice calling welcome to him when he returned at the end of a hard day, operating, saving lives and repairing injuries. He stepped forward, put the big old key in the lock, and opened the door. Inside, dust motes drifted through bars of light sneaking in between the gaps in the drapes. Everything was covered in dust, but all the furniture was still there, just as it had been that last day, but now home to generations of mice.

He heard some thing, like a faint voice whispering, but couldn’t make out the words. He moved on, through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen. And on, into her sewing room, the dust covered machine open, with part of a garment still under the needle, colours faded and hidden by the dust. The whisper sounded again, and he turned and went to the stairs. They creaked as he climbed, hand barely touching the bannister. The whisper drew him on, and he could almost make out words now.

On down the hall, stopping to look into the children’s bedrooms. Books still on the shelves, stuffed teddy bears and dolls sitting on beds and chairs, partly drawn pictures on one desk. It was all so sad, so lonely. And it need never have happened. A family destroyed in a moment of anger. And all his fault. He should have left as soon as he realised what he had become, after that wild and eerie night. But he loved them so much, he couldn’t go. Now they were gone, scattered he knew not where; all except her, his one and only true love. And what he was had in effect, ended her life.

Stepping into the big bedroom, he could at last hear what her beloved voice was whispering.

I was dead,
I came alive;
I was tears,
I became laughter
All because of love.
When it arrived
My temporal life,
From then on,
Became eternal.

My love, my true love, my own, we are one, we are the same, forever.

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