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Glenda Mazur

Writing For Pleasure

This is just a small sample of what is being produced by our talented  writers

Click on a name to go to the written work



When the wind is blowing a gale

And you think the van’s gonna fly away!

What do you do?

Just add alcohol.

When the precipitation is fierce

And you can’t go anywhere,

What do you do?

Just add alcohol

When the fire is burning cold

And snags just won’t cook,

What do you do?

Just add alcohol

Now the fire is flaring up

And the snags look very burnt,

What do you do?

Just add alcohol.

When your partner is snoring

And you just can’t get to sleep,

What do you do?

Just add alcohol.

I’ve woken up this morning, my eyes they cannot see,

And I’ve got a blinding headache,

That’s what happens when you

Just add alcohol.


Meredith Arnold




It’s been another mundane day at work .  I’ve tried to avoid clock watching all day, but at times, it has been difficult to concentrate on the screen in front of me,  or - to resist looking up at the clock on the wall above the office door. Time seems to have dragged slowly today. While I’ve been working, a nagging doubt has popped up, and it’s weighing on my mind.  


I’ve tried my best to maintain a calm demeanour, to conceal from my co-workers that I’ve felt  increasingly ill at ease during the afternoon.  The puzzle I can’t stop thinking about is the unexpected photo I snapped on my phone this morning.  The more I think about it the stranger it seems,  and it needs an explanation. I feel compelled  to drive back to the beach as soon as I leave the office, to see if anything  has changed since I was there this morning.  Anything that might offer up an answer to the riddle. Unless I can make sense of it and relax, I won’t sleep soundly tonight.


The sun was rising when I parked my car in the usual spot this morning.  The beach was completely deserted stretching for miles in both directions around the bay.  Not a soul was in sight.  It had been an easy decision to walk, sinking slightly into the cool sand, in the direction of the golden streaked horizon.  I rely on a strict exercise regime each day, and a regular time table to give me a stable and very enjoyable start to the morning.


Briskly walking on sand for a quarter of an hour had my thighs burning, but the calm solitude was soothing and very peaceful.  When it was time to turn and retrace my steps, a dark shape further ahead on the sand caught my attention.  A quick glance at my watch showed I still had a few minutes to spare in my timing to get to work;  so, always curious,  I pushed on to see what it was.


To my complete surprise, a black labrador was sitting beside an upturned chair.  He appeared to be guarding the chair, and didn’t react to my presence at all.  I stood still, not venturing any closer, with questions racing through my mind.  As far as the eye could see,  there was no sign of anybody.  There was rarely anyone on this beach, which suited my solitary walks perfectly, certainly no other sign of life, except the seagulls wheeling, their calls echoing mournfully over the deeper blue water of the bay.  A satisfactory explanation had conveniently slipped into my mind.  His “boss” had left him there guarding the chair,  confident no-one would come along,  while he made a quick trip to pick up something he had forgotten to bring with him.


I took a quick snap with my phone, including the windswept tree growing  almost horizontally away from the gusts that blow inland above the sand dunes, then, I turned back, and returned to my car approximately fifteen minutes away.


During the working day, a nagging question had pushed it’s way into my thoughts.   I hadn’t noticed a house or farm anywhere in the area before, even though I  went there  frequently.  Perhaps the dog had been abandoned.



I’ve driven further along the beach road than I did this morning, stopping near the distorted  tree  close to the spot:  Hallelujah!!    The dog isn’t  there anymore.  It’s gone, and so has the chair.  A wave of relief sweeps over me, as I make my way down to look for footprints,  or marks in the sand that might shed some light on what happened here during the day.  My deepest heartfelt  fear had been allayed. Relief - because in my life, a black dog has walked beside me too often over the years, and I had worried all day; that I was slipping back into the void.


But there are NO footprints to see:    No paw prints. No tell tale marks in the smooth sand:  and when I check the location of the photo on my phone, all I see is the tree.     Only the bent tree.  



 Meredith Arnold.  March 2023

Allan Wilson


Once upon a time in a far-away land called Worlo there was a large boys school.  This school had a magical playground that extended for many hectares out the back.  It was so large that it included a forest and a trickling stream where boys could roam at will and invent their own games. They built forts, shot arrows and fashioned sticks into toy guns.  Groups of like-minded boys gradually dominated their home patches, forming gangs that took sole control and excluding boys that did not belong to their group.  One of the toughest gangs was controlled by a bully boy named Potter.  He had gained control by threatening to rat on any boy that challenged him and backed this up by going to the head master with false accusations of drug trading.  When staff investigated his claims he rewarded his mates with free sweets if they supported his side of events and he thus brought about the expulsion of any one who challenged him. This group called themselves ‘The Rascals’.


The school staff were vaguely aware that these games had gotten out of hand, but thought that it would work itself out.  The headmaster, Uriah Norton, sought to dampen disputes by encouraging the collection and swapping of football cards.  The best collections were made by the traders that were game enough to cross into the Rascals territory for swaps.   Norton saw that trade helped to reduce the inter-gang suspicion and lunch time disputes and was pleased.  But Potter had a chip on his shoulder from a past biff on the nose from an older boy and dreamed of controlling the whole playground for himself. Without warning he arranged for his gang to start throwing pebbles at any boy who came near and thus expanded his territory.  The other boys were annoyed, but, thought that peace was more important than fighting, so let it happen.  Potter smiled to himself and puffed out his chest at his success.  ‘Too easy’ he thought. ‘I can make myself King of the whole playground’.  


Next week Potter, who had a violent personality, had the Rascals stockpile rocks and slingshot them up and over onto the other boys. Some were hit on the head and retreated to the sick room.  But others were stung into action and formed an alliance at the West end of the playground. They stood their ground despite their lack of stones.  Potter was surprised by such resistance, but couldn’t back down now.  His pride was at stake.  His next move was to invite several other tough boys, namely Xerxes and Kill-un, to join his side, who being of like mind with Potter, readily did so.  Thus, the Worlo playground formed into two sides: the Wests and, for the want of a better name, the Easts. 


The Wests belatedly got organized and cut off the supply of football cards to the Rascals.  This infuriated Potter and his buddies even more.   But they still had control of their part of the playground. This allowed Potter to fire his nuclear weapon.  One day, to everyone’s surprise, the whole sprinkler system came on at once, soaking every boy to the skin, regardless of whether they were Wests or Easts.  All retreated to their class rooms in shock.  To make matters worse, when the boys came back next week, the whole playground had turned brown.  The sprinklers had been spiked with Roundup, that Potter had stolen from the garden shed.  Then their skin began to itch.   The water had also been spiked with bleach, stolen from the cleaner’ s store. Potter had forgotten that the sprinklers were one integrated system, so his side also suffered severely.


Potter was expelled from Worlo, but the school never recovered its former glory. The boys that were left erected a sign at the entrance to the playground that read: ‘No, it wasn’t us: it actually was you, Potter’.  And the children lived unhappily ever after. 


Allan Wilson (June 2022:  Topic: No, it’s not me, it is actually you)

Lynne Hume

Paper Boats

LYNNE HUME (March…From the point of view of paper)


Originally when I first came into Tom`s office I looked after his appointments. He was such a gentle soul and these were happy days. I suppose it was because I worked closely with him every day that I fell hook, line and sinker for him.  We had a very open relationship and I was just happy to hang on to his every word.

         After a couple of months, working with him, he decided I should go home with him every night. I was ecstatic with this arrangement. This meant I could be with him twenty-four hours a day. When you really love someone, that makes you very happy. But we all know there are consequences if one is too happy don`t we.

         When Tom and I were together in his bed he told me everything. I was his best friend; his confidante. Sometimes his stories were just mundane things. Other times they were intimate ones. I knew every detail about the boy`s nights out, the money he lost on the horse racing and the winnings at the Casino. He told me about the one night stands. . I knew they meant nothing as he always came home to me and told me about them. I don`t think I`m the jealous type so I enjoyed his intimate descriptions of what he got up to.

Then, every morning, he would gather me up with such care and we would drive in to his office as if nothing had happened the previous night.


From the beginning I never liked Alison Low. I realised trouble was brewing when he first sighed, “Oh Di. You should have seen Alison Low last night. She was the life of the party and soooo beautiful. She was wearing an emerald necklace and earrings and even the fingernail colour matched the jewellery. Just the colour of her beautiful green eyes. All the blokes were around her like bees to the honeypot but it was to me she secretly handed her phone number.”

He was as smug as the cat licking up stolen cream.

Damn beautiful, green eyed Alison with the matching jewellery and fingernails! How could plain old me compete with that? My eyes were turning green but it was the ugly green eyed monster within.

         He said he was going to phone Alison Low from the office first thing. Just like every other morning he showered and had his breakfast, but he flew out the door without me; his mind full of other things. A couple of minutes later I heard his key in the lock and he came through the front door.

“Oops. Couldn`t forget to take my best friend with me,” he smiled.

So now I had just become a best friend. To be fair he never promised anything else but I had thought those long conversations in his bed at night time may have counted for something.

         Over the next few months he talked incessantly about Alison Low. He had too much respect for her to want to get her into the cot straight off like he had with the one night stands.  He sent her flowers, took her to expensive restaurants and live shows. He met Mr and Mrs Low and they seemed to like him. Why wouldn`t they? I had every dress she ever wore described to me in detail. He asked if I could imagine how soft her hair was, how delicious she smelt, how wonderful he felt when they were kissing. Every night we`d go to bed there would be another story to lower my confidence.

         Eventually I heard about the night I did not want to know about. They drove down to the beach where he dropped to one knee and proposed marriage. I wanted to cry buckets of tears. Of course she agreed. That`s just what any damn Alison Low would do isn`t it. I know I would have.

The marriage plans were made and they were to return to his home, after the honeymoon, until they could afford a bigger place. I now pondered my situation. Where did this leave me?  I didn`t have to wait long to find out.

Tom picked me up, gave me a little kiss and looked at me apologetically.

   “Goodbye my love. You`ve been my best friend all year. Always there when I needed you but I`m sorry old girl, I don`t want Alison to discover you.”  And with that he put me to bed in the attic and locked the door.



I slept in that attic for a long time. Seemed like a hundred years but I`m sure it wasn`t. One day the attic door was unlocked and two young boys crept into the room.

“Mum said we could have anything we find that`s useful. You look in that box and I`ll search this one Joey”

“Fancy someone selling their house and leaving their boxes in the attic Jack. Grown-ups are silly.”

“Yes I would always take everything I owned if we shifted again.”

“Hey Jack. Someone`s left an old diary here. This is ideal.”

“Just the thing Joey”

Jack put the diary under his arm and the two excited little boys raced out the front door and down to the creek.

Sitting on the bank they excitedly tore out my pages, making me into little paper boats and setting me afloat on the stream to be tossed and turned by the breeze … sailing into oblivion.


 I cursed Alison Low; her green eyes, her emeralds and most of all her diamond ring.

Goulburn Valley U3A

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