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, November 13, 2013

Waves of Life - part 2 - by Lillian Morpork

The story thus far:

The narrator was with an archeology group that ran into trouble with a group of natives who resented strangers digging into their past. Two of them were extremely aggressive, and one night when she was sleeping, they gave her a drug and placed her in a boat and sent her off down the river. One friend managed to place survival gear in the boat while the natives were carrying her to where it was hidden.

On regaining consciousness, she realised where she was and what had happened. She found the supplies, packed a backpack and attached all that she could to the belt of the backpack. She then used the rudder to steer the boat to shore, removed all that she could, and sent the boat down river where it would go over a high cataract.

The story continues:

I turned and surveyed what seemed to be an impenetrable wall of growth. Bushes, shrubs and small trees lined the top of the bank, and every one seemed to have thorns, claw-like growths, saw tooth edged leaves and twigs. With my hair down, I would soon be caught irrevocably, held fast until I died and my body became food for the growth.

Sighing, I went back to the log, dug out a brush and comb, braided my hair and fastened it tightly around my head. I had found a Tilly hat with the spare clothes and, secured it over my hair as well as I could, and faced the challenge of the wild growth again.

It took me hours to cut my way through, but finally came out into a more normal forest; normal for this world, anyway. Trees of all sizes grew thickly, some so tall I couldn’t see the top, and with medium blue leaves and midnight blue trunks. Trees that would be tall on earth had magenta leaves medium orchid trunks. It was a riot of colour, yellows, purples, reds and pinks, though green was conspicuous by its absence. It was twilight now, and I needed to find a place to spend the night. It was clear enough for reasonably easy travel, but I was exhausted, and needed food, drink ad rest. I moved forward along a winding path until I came to a clearing, small but dry, with a stream running along one side. I looked around, and recognised several plants that the book said humans could eat, and a quick test with the kit in the first aid bag showed that the water was potable.

It was dark by the time I had my camp set up, as I’d had some trouble figuring how the poles fitted together to frame the tent. The Largest moon was up and full, so I had plenty of light. I made a stew of dried meat and several of the plants, and a cup of tea, and it was tasty. I think almost anything would have been at that point. Don’t they say hunger is the best sauce?

It was nearing eleven by my watch when I finally settled in the blankets, and drifted off to sleep. It was around two in the morning when I was awakened by yipping and howling outside the tent. I slipped quietly out of the blankets, and peeked out. A dozen natives were dancing in circles around the tent, shaking feathered spears, tossing their heads up and down, and sprinkling water over the tent.

One happened to look down as he passed the front and saw me. Instantly, he gave a great shout, and stood, pointing. All sound stopped, and the others gathered behind him. He motioned for me to come out, and when I was slow to obey, he grabbed my hair and pulled. I crawled out as quickly as I could and stood up facing him, wondering what was going to happen. Were these like the ones at the dig? Had I escaped one enemy, only to be caught by another? I took a deep breath to slow my pounding heart, and waited.

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