Held 2nd August, 2019 Saturday 2:00-3:00pm.
This thought provoking Write Links Writing Activation was run by Jenny Stubbs, Book Links President. Jenny shared a writing idea from Archie Fusillo from the 2015 StoryArts Festival Ipswich. The short bursts of writing helped leave behind the ‘negative voice’ allowing for some spontaneous writing.
The outcome was a diverse collection of wonderful ‘50-word stories’. One writer even suggested an anthology.
Thank you to Write Links co-ordinator Yvonne Mes for providing writers and illustrators opportunities to write, then speak in front of an audience - preparing them for their own speaking engagements.
‘Archie Fusillo was a judge for the Alan Marshall award. He said they looked for a fresh voice, not in the story but how you tell the story.’
The theme ‘beach’ followed this format:
Beach 50-Word Stories
By Danielle Freeland
The world awakens as the sun’s first rays reach an abandoned towel, left behind after a busy Sunday with more than unusual hot weather for October. Two joggers pass by in uneven time to a plastic sprite bottle moving in and out and nod their acknowledgement of my presence.
By KY Garvey
The pristine, golden sand stretched on for miles punctuated with little coves, remote and hidden from the world. In one tucked away cove, A little boat bobbed in the water, the waves gently lapping against the hull. In the boat sat a little boy with a fishing pole.
By Ayesha Uddin
A sand fly minced along minute grains of silicon, whose glittering expanse met the rushing waves close by. Human! Nice pink skin, waiting for a bite. Forward inched the sand fly, until it noticed the quality of silence behind it. Sideways it flew, only just escaping the snap of the seagull's beak.
By Jacqui Halpin
Dancing waves crash onto the wreckage of the small wooden boat. Splintered timber floats in the blue ripples. Hot rays blanket the golden dunes where the survivors hide from rescuers who seek to harm them.
By Jocelyn Hawes
Deserted beach. Scattered rubbish everywhere. Bottles. Coke cans, Discarded thongs, A dirty towel or two. A shiny ring, A mobile phone. The beachcomber finds new treasure.
By Hayley Jackson
Waves crashed upon the shore, deafening within the otherwise silent night. Deep indigo glinted in the eerie light of the full moon. Oily shadows roiled amongst white crests, fuelling the wrath which pounded through my soul. I had a choice to make. Breathe. Or become one with the darkness.
By Tyrion Perkins
Grass gives way down the path to the soft, loose grains and I rejoice at the wide expanse with air across skin and the tumbling boom. “Pump, pump, pump,’ go my feet and I taste spray. Water whooshes so hard against my legs that I fall forward into the flow.
By Joanna Wisbey,
I want to go home.
We came here ‘to unwind…’ and ‘to watch the surfers make the most of the moon’.
So far, I’ve met a blue-bottle first hand, and that bird took my chip.
Mum and Dad hold hands and skip into the surf.
I’m waiting in the car.
By Clayton McIntosh
Christmas day was when we lost him. We all went in our thongs and cossies. The only thing we thought we had to worry about was what to do if caught in a rip, or how to curl up into a ball when dumped. We weren’t worried about the submarine.
By Marie Fletcher
The turquoise water shimmers whilst little heads bob along, their wet bodies hidden and gently grazed below. A red frisbee streaks across the sky like a fiery shooting star. I sit on the moist earth and nestle in. I close my eyes to shut out the glaring reflection. I hear the crashing of water, I don't hear the footsteps behind me.
By Sharyn Swanepoel
Taut bodies with designer sunglasses, surfboards silhouetted against blue sky.
Bill watched, sweat trickling down his back, binoculars cord pulling on his neck.
It was hard to focus on the water with Maria down there.
His dream girl, soaking up the rays and soaking up attention from Ray.
By Sheri-Ann O’Shea
Rock-strewn, gull-deserted shore, you ache in my heart. Your lowering skies press on my tear-filled eyes; your blast stings my skin with darts. You whip me round with your wordless cry and make all your deep tragedies mine. Your stark cliffs shut me in – you make me one with you.
Society of Classical Poets – Sheri-Ann O’Shea
By Pym Marion Schaare
The white water swell foamed around Amber’s toes. Cool, she thought as she watched her feet appear and disappear. Looking up she saw nothing but blue sky, sunlit to gleaming. The water too. But she knew she needed other colours to hide the bag. The shadows underneath the squally rock bed would do the trick. And her mother would never find out.
By Yvonne Mes – Write Links Co-ordinator & Book Links Vice President.
The blue wetness hugged tiny clumps of glass and silica. It came and went, arrived and left, leaving behind silvery trails topped with translucent bubbles. The boy dug in his toes, reluctant to pass into the expanse, fearful of the overwhelming feeling of mystery lurking underneath the threshold between air and wetness; the unknown immensity of it.
By Jenny Stubbs - Book Links Vice President.
They dived through the dumpers watching the man in white arrive at his usual spot under the pines. They always felt uncomfortable when he looked at them swimming in the shallows. They moved further up the beach to avoid his gaze. He moved his position a little closer, watching intently.
By Maria Parenti-Baldey
‘Mum, I got sand on my hands.’
‘Mum. The seagull ate my chips.’
‘Mum! I got sand in my bum.’
‘For goodness sake, jump in the water and wash it out.’
‘But everyone will see. See. Look. The seagull’s watching.’
‘Listen my darling. They’re not going to see much.’
Post by Maria Parenti-Baldey