Past Writers In Residence - Peninsula Writers' Club

‘Mnemosyne Peninsula’ by Danielle Davey

"What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?" they'd ask when I was a young girl. (It is well they didn't know). It struck me then as curious, given my head was neither particularly attractive, or undersized, but I supposed this phrase was intended...

‘Wooster in Sorrento’ by Danielle Davey

‘A Coffee Palace? No Gin?! It's positively rummy! What ho! Jeeves. Did you hear that?’ ‘Yes Sir. Very amusing.’ ‘I'd be dashed if we're related at all. Aunt Alvina runs her own business. That sounds positively unlike the Wooster female. On the contrary, Wooster...

‘Like Mother, Like Daughter’ by Sue Brown

The back door slammed shut. The noise made her start but she carried on weeding, determined to finish the patch she was working on before the light went. She knew her mother would have wanted the garden to look at its best when the new people took occupation....

‘The Coffee Shop’ By Sue Brown

It was in Germany I learnt to drink coffee. In my childhood home we drank milky instant coffee, I took it with two teaspoons of sugar so it was a rather sweet beige drink tasting of well…coffee as I knew it. On holidays in France, I was young so I was expected to...

‘Writer’s Block’ By Sue Brown

Cyril sat, as usual, hunched up in his chair, away from the group. He grunted in response to greetings from the other members as they arrived. It had been ten weeks since the last meeting of the Wycherley Writer’s Block Support Group and everyone was keen to get back...

‘My Life With Agatha’ By Sue Brown

There were many book cases in my childhood home, one of which I brought to Australia when Mother died. It’s a fine piece of furniture—solid oak, presented to my grandfather on his retirement by his grateful parishioners. It had stood in our sitting room exhibiting...

‘Bob Marple P.I.’ By Sue Brown

I live on the Mornington Peninsula down the bottom bit where, after hundreds of years of shifting sea, the dunes have been reclaimed as a golf course. I could wax lyrical about the meandering Moonah trees, whose undisciplined growth legitimises the council’s view that...

‘What the Night Snow Knows’ By Wendi Bradshaw

As far as I could tell she was part of the furniture, the infrastructure of the place. Ancient she seemed then – probably no more than 45 years old, to my reckoning from now. Although, the few wisps of soft hair that were visible beneath her tight, starched cap were...

‘Lady in Yellow’ By Wendi Bradshaw

'Lady in Yellow' by Wendi Bradshaw For Liz Hicklin, Poet and Writer They met within the cool bright dawn of youth, souls aligned, attracted. The rich history of literary words and history, literally, lyrically drew lover to muse. Even then portentous symbols divined...

‘The Facts of the Cat Nap – In a Map. A Prose Poem.’ By Wendi Bradshaw

Imagine here a map: made of two sleeping cats. Napping, resting, cleaning up their act. (A gentle paws here please, for preliminary dramatic effect) Very few of all cat loving folk owned by cats, are aware of the fact that the soul purpose of the cat is to act as...