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, April 2, 2014

Vespa ride - Part 1 - Lillian morpork

Alexander (AKA Lexi) James David George Fraser turned off the country road into the old, overgrown logging road. He was unhappy about a lot of things. For one thing, his name; his parents were big on English and Scottish men who explored Canada in the 1700s and gave him the names of the four they liked best. Then there was his fiancĂ©, who had decided that their honeymoon absolutely had to be a trip covering all of Canada, and that in a three week period. Impossible! But he couldn’t get her to see it. And just yesterday afternoon, his boss had given him an extra assignment on top of the one that was already taking up nine hours a day six days a week. He was exhausted, fed up, and ready to get good and lost for a year or two.

Since he couldn’t really do that, he had decided to head out to his favourite biking trail, the old logging road. Here he could find absolute peace and quiet, someplace away from all the noise of civilization and hear only the soft breeze rustling in the trees, the small animals skittering through the undergrowth and the birds singing in the trees. He’d driven about two miles from the side road now, and he stopped the Vesta. He needed to find a handy bush, and then he’d just sit a while, and have a drink while he let the peace soak in.

He pushed the Vesta to the side of the road and after making use of that handy bush, sat down with his back against a tree, helmet on the ground beside him. He sipped at his water, leaned his head back, and listened to the soft sounds around him. He heard a robin calling for rain, a blue jay squawking at his mate, a squirrel scolding at something, a field mouse, perhaps, that was raiding its store of nuts. And there, the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker, far enough away that it was barely heard. He sighed, wondering what he was going to do about his troubles.

He grew so relaxed that he almost fell asleep, until something – a voice? – he wasn’t sure, but something was pushing at his mind; something urging him to …what? It was so faint he couldn’t really tell if it was there at all. But in spite of himself, he found he was on his feet and climbing the fence, going into the woods. Going West, he saw by the sun. He had no idea where he was going, nor why, only that he was being urged to go. No, it was urging him to Come! Come where, to whom? Shaking his head, he made his way among the trees, feeling the pressure grow.

He walked for an hour and was well into the woods, the voice still calling. Only now, it was two voices, and he was afraid. He wanted to stop, to turn and go back, but the pressure was too strong, he couldn’t fight it. One voice was calm pleasant, promising friendship and aid. The other was harsher, demanding his obedience; he was to become its servant – no, slave!

He stopped, fighting against the pull of the voices, holding tightly to a tree and telling himself to turn, turn and flee, run as fast as he could. He managed to turn, and start running, moving fast, faster! Then his foot caught on a root, and he fell face first onto the mossy ground. He lay there, panting, fighting to catch his breath. At last he pulled himself to his feet, and started walking, only to find that somehow he’d turned and was following the voices again.

By this time they were so loud in his head that he knew they were fighting for possession of him, mind and body. And he could no longer fight against them; all he could do was go on, determined to resist whatever they tried to make him do. He wondered who or what they were, where they had come from, and why they wanted him. He plodded on.

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