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

Friday, March 30, 2012

Your inspiration for March 2012

Your inspiration for March 2012 - Voices of the Ancients - by Soul Yheng

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

The Muse Has Gone – Lillian Morpork

The Muse Has Gone – Lillian Morpork

Old Walls (3) by Sven Pertelson

George met the returning watch-keepers at they entered the village. There were hand shakes and hugs for them all. "You all did very well," George said "and as a thank you we have set aside seats of honour for you all at tonight's event." Lowell could not resist asking, "Just what is going on tonight?" George smiled and replied, "It is a secret, but I assure you that it will be memorable, you better go and get washed up and fed, and get into your best clothes."

Ituha's Story by Llola Lane

Ituha's Story by Llola Lane

Ituha's muscles ached... He had been helping the men of the village all day put up the new wall on the cliff's edge. His body was covered with dried mud. It was hard work bringing the mud up from the river below, but he would be a man soon, and he wanted to show the men of the village that he was just as hard a worker as they were.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Deja Vous – part 2 - by lillian Morpork

Darkness, nothingness, drifting; what has happened, where am I? I? who am I? Am I dead? Is this Limbo? I can feel nothing, no hint of my body. I’m still drifting, but now I can hear something, faint, a soft sound, like fine hair lifted by a soft breeze. I stir, and realise that I did move, so I must have a body. I am not dead. I try again, moving my fingers, and feel something smooth, padded. I am lying on my back, on …. what? Slowly, oh so slowly, things start to come back.

The Old Walls (2) - by Sven Pertelson

Lowell watched through the telescope as the village riders met the incoming group. Making his comments to Carla who relayed them by semaphore to the village below. "All friendly – so far" he said.

Aiyana's Story by Llola Lane

Aiyana's Story by Llola Lane

Aiyana had butterflies in her stomach as she sat still, as her mother wove her hair into the traditional squash blossom hairdo. It was a signal to the young men that she was an unmarried eligible women. Her head hurt as her mother pulled out the carved piece of wood that shaped the blossom. She was of age... marrying age. She sat and looked at the young men of the village wondering which one would ask her to be his wife.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

The Old Walls (1) - by Sven Pertelson

These walls are old. They were old before the Vikings landed in Vinland. They were deserted before Columbus mistook the continent for India. Settlers log cabins have decayed and blown away as dust while these walls have watched over the valley. Western towns have sprung up and been abandoned while they remain. Now weeds and trees break up the interstates, roofless ruins of suburbs are the home to wild dogs and glassless sky-scrapers stand like broken teeth emerging from the waves in the coastal cities.

Deja Vous - by lillian Morpork

I had been traveling through the southwest on a belated winter holiday, enjoying the warmer temperatures and the burgeoning growth. It was such a wonderful change from the cold winter weather of Southern Ontario, with calf deep snow and bitter winds. Now I stand in the Verde Valley, looking at the new growth of spring, and feel the joy of new life, new beginnings. All around me there is evidence of spring; on the ponderosa pines, the pinyon Jupiter. The grassland is greening, even the desert scrub shows new growth. The banks of the river and the wetlands nearby echo with the sounds of life, with the silvery tones of the water as counterpoint to the twittering of birds and the clicking, buzzing and rustling of unseen creatures.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Montezuma Castle, near Camp Verde, Arizona - lillian Morpork

an American Blues Sonnet

I stand and stare up at the cliff's sheer face,
At the steep, rough, rocky sheer cliff's face,
And wonder what has happened to that race.

Empty Homes - a Triolet Poem in two stanzas - by Lillian Morpork

Sleepless darkness, empty, still,
Lonely, silent, waiting, sad;
Where are those who used to fill
That sleepless darkness, empty, still,
With tales of hunts and exciting kill?
No more the Sinagua, doeskin clad,
Just sleepless darkness, empty, sad.

"Voices of the Ancients" by Llola Lane

"Voices of the Ancients" by Llola Lane

Through these walls you can hear
Voices of the Ancients
A language spoken long ago
Tell of tales we don't know

Monday, March 5, 2012

Chepi's Story - by Chraeloos

The boy trembled against the wall, curled in a tight ball. Everyone heard the sounds just as clearly as he did, but no one else seemed afraid. BANG! There it was again, accompanied by the deafening roar of hard rain. A whimper erupted from deep inside his chest. He looked around, wide-eyed, at all the people doing their normal routines. They were all busying themselves, he thought; trying to distract themselves from the reality. They were all going to die.