Dry River Writings
For anyone who read my memoir, Long Road to Dry River, and is interested in a bit of backstory, The Brevity Blog (US) has kindly published a short (very short) essay I wrote about a light bulb moment in the writing, and my precious aunt who brought it about.
The middle-aged proprietor of our local news stand was sitting cross-legged in a lunghi on the pavement, chewing paan, his newspapers and magazines in neat stacks around him. ‘Do you keep Manushi journal?’ I asked. He scowled and spat a bright-red, betel-stained gob at my feet. Hmm, I thought – I might be onto something…
Write what you know, they say—and I know night. Jet black, dark of the moon night. Crisp shadows on bright, silvered lawn night. Still night of hush and mopoke hoot. Howling night of seethe and crash. Doona-burrowing, extra blanket, bed-beanie night. Night of sweat and swelter, sheet-tangle, turn and tumble. On a steamy summer night,…
I told my GP a joke the other day. It was only a short joke, one of the few I know by heart. She pressed her hands to her cheeks and stared at me. Dr G is a broadminded, competent, compassionate doctor. She’s quite easy-going. I arrived at one appointment to find her wearing shorts…
Zed*, at six years, was a happy, healthy companion dog living an easy life in a Triangle village. She loved her daily walks, chasing balls, chewing bones. But Zed was a dog without a job—until this past winter when her human, Elly*, saw a notice on the Cobargo Forum: ‘Truffle dogs required’.
The drapes are drawn, the tones are hushed, and the air is heavy with grief and anticipation. The patriarch hovers between life and death on the dank, crumpled bed, propped on stained pillows, surrounded by his court. The elder son, the younger son, the adviser, the physician, all with their own secret hopes, fears and…
It’s hard to spot, but there’s a path into the bush in the far corner of the Quaama Cemetery. As you pass the main cluster of graves – the smart new granite of the Colemans, the Conways with their river rocks and shells, the green trellis over Pato Taylor – you may see it. Enter…
There are nine wombats on the road between Bega and Bemboka. Nine dead wombats. And it’s not even a bad season, a dry season, when what little rain we get runs off the roads and pools in the ditches beside them, creating green oases in a land of brown. Those oases bring the wombats to…
There must be more efficient ways of ridding a citrus tree of stink bugs than with a vacuum cleaner, but certainly none more satisfying. Thwok, they go as they hurtle up the tube. Thwok, thwok! A slurry of tinkling thwoks as a column of the little orange-backed bugs is sucked up the metal tunnel.
I’m gazing across my desk and out the window as a hearse glides down my street, a seemingly endless parade of cars in its wake. I wonder briefly who has died in this small town, to attract such a crowd. I mentally list the old and the sick, reach no conclusions and return to my…