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We are a group of published and unpublished writers living in the Samford area producing all manner of material ranging from biographies to science fiction.

As writing can be a very lonely, we gather as friends to discuss and share our work in a helpful and constructive way.

If you want to join us, contact us now and come along to our next meeting.

SRS

Written by

 

With a bullet whizzing millimetres above his head, conscript Archie Miller of 11 Platoon rolled to his right bringing his SLR[1] into action against the shadowy figures emerging through the monsoonal downpour.

 

Characters:

 

Abigayil

Shimshon

Deliylah

                           Tavern drinkers

                           Police Chief and officers

 Setting:

A small scrawny middle aged man, dressed in smelly sheepskins and with waist length hair platted into seven braids stops, looking up at a faded peeling sign. He squints, his eyesight not being what it used to be. He removes the wall torch from its holder and holds it up closer to the sign. Satisfied, he puts it back and slings an old sack across his left shoulder.

 

 

‘You know what? I’m sick of this. Being held to ransom isn’t much fun and I think we should do something about it,’ said Phenelope (the initial ‘P’ is silent), the dominant one of our community.

 I knew he loved me; never doubted it; never had cause to doubt it. I was, after all, his firstborn, his darling daughter, the apple of his eye and all the other clichés he crafted into weasel words which sounded so true and so real to a little girl.

Lucien stirred. He rolled over in his cosy bed of thistle- and duck-down. He stretched his arms and legs, and flexed his wings; his limbs were cramped after the long, peaceful sleep. He yawned widely, his little pointed teeth showing whitely in the dim light.

 

Suzie stirs briefly as I silence the alarm on my phone. Will I grant her wish today? Detaching my phone from its charger, I slip out of bed and thumb its torch app. I retrieve my socks from the floor and sniff them. They'll do for another day.

 

Get a move on, you silly flippertigibbet. Look at you, flaunting your slim, supple body – and at this time of the morning. I see you, glancing in the shop window and flicking your hair. Pull that skirt down a bit while you’re at it. And remember, one day you’ll see your mother reflected there – that’ll scare you.

 

 

‘Jim, faster!’

‘I’m going as fast as I can, you dickwit!’

‘Oh freakin’ ‘ell; they’re gaining on us. I can almost smell them!’

We raced down the hill helter-skelter. The wind felt wonderful in our faces, our eyes were tearing up. We so loved the buzz, the rush, the zoom; it was the freedom and the power. We’d left our helmets behind so that our mums wouldn’t realise we’d snuck out again to indulge our passion for speed and adrenalin; the skateboards were kept in the garages and we knew neither of them would check there.

“Next,” came the call from the interview room as the previous applicant, with a look that could kill, emerged and made his way towards the exit.

“Bad luck, mate?” Curly McPhee asked without any real feeling in his question as he rose to attend the interview appointment that had been foisted upon him by those stupid mongrels from Centrelink.

Jack Mullins sat in his cell holding a Quick Pick Gold Lotto coupon that his good-for-nothing sister had sent him for his birthday. One of the games on that Quick Pick had just won him a Division 1 prize on the Saturday $20 Million Superdraw. There was a cool $3.25 million waiting for him to collect. But there was a catch.

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