Memories on Display

Warm, musty air envelopes me, leaving the blustery wind behind. Frozen hands, face stinging, my eyes adjust to the darker space. Objects start making appearances, like actors on stage, their stories as yet untold. I lose myself, and any sense of time, as I move through their memories.

Ghosts of children whisper from above. Stories of heartache, love, labour. Children taken, transported. For their own good, some say. Missing home, they work, pray.

Soft breathes whirl, “Don’t forget us.” Taken by force. Torn from loving arms, to fill an empty land. Sent over seas. Home never forgot. Hearts never healed.

 

The Friday Fictioneers challenge is to write a story of no more than 100 words from a photo prompt, from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple.

PHOTO PROMPT © Mary Shipman

For other stories from this photo:  An InLinkz Link-up

Advertisements

Refugee

Screeching followed as I raced through the countryside, north. I’d heard about a man who’d help, for a cost. Rounded into the murky hub of an old boat, days huddled in cramped, stinking, silence. Waves crashed, straining its joints to the breaking point. Sirens wailed, men with guns stormed down. Terrified, we obeyed; we’d seen what authority could do. They told us we would not reach the mainland as promised. They shipped us to an island camp for processing. Here we sit in barbed wire, on dirt floors, indefinitely waiting. I didn’t know this was what safety would look like.

The Friday Fictioneers challenge is to write a story of no more than 100 words from a photo prompt, from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple.

PHOTO PROMPT © Madison Woods

For other stories from this photo, click on the frog.

Walking the Waugal

Near where I live is the beginning of a 950km bushwalking track. Recently, I walked parts of The Bibbulmun Track, which is marked by small, yellow, triangular signs depicting a snake, the Waugal. The Waugal is the rainbow serpent of the Aboriginal Dreaming. I was following its well-worn, ever evolving, path. The power of its ancient spirit seeped into me, enticing me, guiding me, and mapping my writing journey.IMAG1123.jpg

I began close to the middle. I ventured out, looking for, following, the path of the Waugal. At times I lost my way, I doubted myself. I walked up and back along the same path. Each expedition had me looking anew and noticing new details, spotting previously missed signs left to guide my way.

Gradually I became more adept at knowing when to pause, to look around, and to retrace my steps, when following the elusive path of the Waugal. I was able to walk more intuitively as we became increasingly familiar with each other. I began to trust my step, losing my way less frequently. At times my thoughts and footsteps thundered through the bush and I would stop, put the work aside, and sit in silence.

Like the grammar of English, the track changes. It can be diverted at times due to circumstance. It is a constant learning journey. My first official expedition along the track coincided midway along my first expedition in an official grammar program. Both have, at times, baffled me and left me lost. Both challenge me to follow a well-worn path, yet find my own way, in my own way.

I am not at the beginning; I am not at the end. I will twist and turn, continuing along this winding path. One day I hope to walk its entire length. Then weave my way back, again.

* For more information about The Bibbulmun Track go to http://www.bibbulmuntrack.org.au