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, October 1, 2014

Galatea - by Sven Pertelson

How could I have not been attracted to her? She stood out from every other girl in the lecture theatre. Most of my fellow students, male and female, looked as if we had just been dragged unwillingly from our sleep, which was true for me, while others looked as if they had not had any sleep at all. She looked as if she was ready to walk down a fashion show cat walk.

I glanced over at her, again. Not a hair out of place, lips lightly glistening and the faintest of smiles playing over them, eyes bright, clothes smart, without being out of place. Rather than scruffy jeans, favoured by every other student in the college, she was wearing a skirt. Nothing outrageous, it fell to mid calf length and made you want to see more of their tanned well shaped form. Black, shiny high heel pumps with a peep toe. Legs crossed, demurely, and the heel on her free foot slipped free of her shoe as she swung the shoe gently back and forth.

I struggled to pay attention to what the lecturer was droning on about. She was making notes with her manicured hand and the bright red nail varnish flashed as she wrote. No rings on her fingers, just a delicate gold chain bracelet on her wrist. What was this lecture supposed to be about? How soon would it end, so that I could try and talk to her?

Coffee break time and I followed her into the student cafeteria. She sat down at a table with her coffee talking to two other girls, neither of whom I knew. Out of her hand bag she pulled a pack of cigarettes and lit one. I dived over to the cigarette machine and felt in my pockets for change. Enough for a packet of ten of the same brand she was smoking. I ripped off the cellophane packing and pulled out one of the white and brown cylinders. I had not smoked for years, since I had tried to look cool as a young teenager. I just hoped I would not cough too much. I casually, or as casually as I could pretend to, walked over to the table she was sitting at and asked if I could have a light.

I wonder if Pygmalion ever wished his Galatea would stop talking and become a lifeless statue once more? If she spoke as cruelly and harshly as this vision of loveliness then I think he would have. She pointed over my shoulder and said, “Go buy your own matches from the counter you cheapskate. Don't think I've not seen you gawking at me during the lecture. You've got no chance sonny boy.”

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