We are grateful to many of our members for sharing their work with our community through our events.

 

We share their talented writing their permission.

Enjoy these stories from our past Writers in Residence.

‘Storm In A Bottle’ by Ann Roberts

Daniel knew what people would say: ‘He’s your father – of course he loves you!’ But why ‘of course’ was what Daniel thought? Perhaps once, when he was a dumb baby and an innocent child, but now! He loved his car because it was a Mercedes; he loved his house because it...

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‘Dog’ by Ann Roberts

John had been like a specimen tree that grows in the middle of a lawn: strong, straight, and tall, and in no doubt that he would always be strong, straight, and tall. When he was growing up, he had always been picked first for teams. His powerful legs had carried him...

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‘Weekend Away’ by Ann Roberts

Kate should have died twice, but fate delivered her up safe both times. The first incident occurred when she was ten – she fell out of a tree onto a metal star picket. The picket caught the edge of her waist, tore her clothing, and left a bleeding gash on her side....

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‘The Weeping Tree’ by Ann Roberts

‘Jacinta, I have something to tell you. Sarah had a heart attack … she died.’ 'What! But she’s only 39.’   Sarah is, was, my cousin – older by six months. Our mums are sisters. We grew up together, as cousins do. I never considered her a close friend, but it had...

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‘Land Slide’ by Ann Roberts

LAND SLIDE  It was a luxury home, with vaulted ceilings, marble benchtops, European appliances, floor to ceiling glass. There were many indoor plants for Ava to look after. She seemed to either water them too much or too little. She’d already needed to replace two of...

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‘Community Participation Tokens’ by Sarah Bacaller

To participate in society, please insert three tokens.  Money. The commodity that shapes our lives. The key to full engagement in society (it seems) and the source of so much stress. We’re constantly told it’s getting harder and harder to make money, keep money and...

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‘Identity Confessions…’ by Sarah Bacaller

But you are a living vessel, a breathing archive… I wanted to be white. I was seven years old and mad keen on cricket. All of Australia’s players looked white and I didn’t resemble them. I feared—with imminent fury—being perceived as less Aussie, less real, than...

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‘A Dastardly Design’ by Sarah Bacaller

We’d zig-zagged our way across the Peninsula today – from Main Ridge to Balnarring, Mount Martha to Mornington. Time for our last job of the day. Only Wendy and I remained. Ordinarily there were four of us, but Gina was sick and Charlotte had left early. The sun was...

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