Writing woman by Liz Hicklin

The voice of a retired widow, with time to indulge in the glories of our Peninsula. I wake every morning to a view of the bay; fishing boats, still on glass, cruise ships leaving, distant view of the You Yang’s, sail boats bobbing in the evening.

University of third age offer a myriad of courses from computer to Confucius, poetry to philanthropy. I bask in its glory. Meeting friends on the coffee trail, the library, cinema and markets. Woodland drives, koalas’ echidnas and ‘roos even the occasional cow!  Vineyards with tastings around every corner.

When safe and cosy, wrapped in contentment, I sink into downy cushions with my latest book club novel. This is my voice.

Unsigned by Paul Wattie

Andrea Rowe looked at the sheet of paper, scanning the names again, searching for the one name that was missing.“And you’ve got no idea who it was?” Rebecca shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “I was so focused on what our guest speaker was saying that I didn’t...

The Swim by Muriel Cooper

The old beagle looks up from his basket. His muzzle grey and his eyes bleary.“Come on, Barney, my old darling. Time for your walk.” He perks up when he sees the lead, his tail wags, he struggles out of the basket and licks her hand as she clips it on his collar.  They...

The Stingray by Miranda Gillespie

I go down to the bay in the dark.  We meet at the pier; dressed alike in our second skins.  The sun begins to come up somewhere behind Arthurs Seat, air-brushing the sky turquoise.  We shiver and wrap our bare arms around ourselves while we wait for the stragglers;...

Writing woman by Liz Hicklin

The voice of a retired widow, with time to indulge in the glories of our Peninsula. I wake every morning to a view of the bay; fishing boats, still on glass, cruise ships leaving, distant view of the You Yang’s, sail boats bobbing in the evening. University of third...

The Ladder by Muriel Cooper

She remembered the steep ladder leading down from the cliff to the beach, and the cave where countless fires had been lit, blackening the roof.  You could sit in there and watch the sea when it wasn’t occupied by drunken teenagers or drug-affected hippies. She hadn’t...

Legacy Lady by Andrea Rowe

I am the dust on the mantle, the sepia steely-eyed matron. I am the memory of Committee Presidents, the name on Honour Boards, saluting legends, leaving legacies. The plaque in the park. The bequest to a town. The clipboard ticking Mistress who would not let them...