EYRELINES - Eyre Writers Inc. Quarterly Magazine - Autumn 2024

Welcome to the second edition of Eyre Writers quarterly magazine in which we showcase our members' short stories, poems, articles and more.

The works presented here reflect a diversity of writers at various stages of development from beginner to multi-published authors and include 'raw', unpolished pieces derived from exercises.

Our aim is to give the broader community a taste not only of our members' work but of the sorts of things we do at meetings in the hope others may choose to join us.

Highlights of our March/Autumn edition includes a talk with spotlighted member, Xanthe Walker, and an interview with Dennis Lightfoot on the release of his latest poetry collection.

President and magazine collator, Diane Hester

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Member Spotlight:

XANTHE WALKER

Xanthe Walker is one of Eyre Writers younger and newer members but her writing journey began years ago in primary school. A prolific writer of short stories she has recently turned her creative energies to poetry and longer fiction.

Thank you, Xanthe, for being Eyre Writers second spotlighted member. For starters, please tell us a little more about yourself.

I'm 22 years old, and I was born and raised in Kingaroy, Queensland. I am one of four children, having three older brothers (including a twin brother). As a child, I devoured books left, right, and centre, hungry for the stories they held. My favourite series growing up was The Goosebumps, by R.L Stine. Now that I'm older, George Orwell, Stephen King, and V.C. Andrews have largely influenced my writing. In my free time, I enjoy reading, writing, gardening, making jewellery, playing video games, and hanging out with my cats.

How long have you been writing and when did you first know you wanted to write?

l've been writing since I could hold a pencil. It started with me writing stories about what I imagined my pets did while I was away at school, that was when I was about six years old. In Year 3 English, we read and studied Road Dahl books. I remember learning how he had his own Writing Den in his back yard. From then on, I really wanted to be a famous writer and write books in my own writing den too.

Where do you get your story ideas from?

In my early days, besides writing about my pets' adventures, I was fascinated by Greek Mythology, having a large book all about the Greek Gods, and having watched my Dad play 'Age of Empires. This was reflected in my writing as I introduced fantasy elements, mythical creatures, and magic. Now that I'm older, I pull most of my inspiration from song lyrics, dreams, or random banter with friends.

What genres and forms do you primarily write in?

I dabble in fantasy, mystery, and horror. I write short stories mostly but have attempted larger stories multiple times. Recently, I've leaned into poetry too. I struggle to sit and plot complex stories, so I like to write short concept pieces focusing on the feelings of the characters, rather than the events themselves.

What do you get from Eyre Writer meetings?

For me, mostly, it's so refreshing to sit with real, relatable people who understand the unique quirks of being a writer. If anyone else has been on Pinterest... there are articles after articles saying things like, "Make sure you NEVER do this," "NEVER do that when writing a story," etc. It can be crippling for blossoming writers. Eyre Writers throws away the Rule Book when it comes to writing, accepting all forms of writing. There is no right or wrong way to do anything. Everybody is so supportive and they give in depth, helpful feedback!

What are you currently working on?

I'm currently working on a short story about a peasant girl and her best friend, the princess. The story will focus on the impact of social status and how the two navigate life, being on opposite ends of the social spectrum. I am also working on a short story anthology about The Apocalypse. This will focus on the lengths people are willing to go when it comes to survival. Would you kill your neighbour for a bag of bread? You never know what you are capable of when you are starving and desperate.

What scared me as a child?

THE DARK

Xanthe Walker

My eyes snap open. Oh no, I think, Oh no, oh no, oh no, I have to pee. And that means....

Ripping the blankets off, I tip toe to the bedroom door, being sure to dodge the pressure plate that will alert the shadow people of my presence. The house is littered with them. They look like ordinary floorboards, but they squeal like banshees. Over the years, l've memorised their placement. The first one being just to the right of my bedroom door. I step around it. There. Done. I'm out of my bedroom, but the easy part is over. It's all uphill from here, and it is of upmost importance I get this right.

First things first, I need a light source if I'm to survive the night. With delicate fingers and a paused breath, I open the door to my parents' bedroom and beeline to my father's bedside. I'm lucky to have a father who sleeps with a flashlight under his bed. Maybe he's experienced the same things I have... Nevertheless, the cool, rubbery surface of the flashlight fills me with relief. This is my might. This is my sword. Without it, I am nothing.

Drunken with ecstasy, I march down the hallway and through the lounge room with no fear. I cast my flashlight side to side, knowing all foul creatures will be reduced to dust once the light graces their scaly skin. I reign myself in though, as the next phase - the breezeway - is a land mine of pressure plates. I take a deep breath. I've done this a million times. It never gets easier. Unlike the hallway and the lounge room, the breezeway is a wide-open space. I'll be more vulnerable there. More visible. I must move swiftly, precisely, and…..NOW!!

My heart stops. My feet bounce and dance. My body glides silently across its path. It's not until l've scrambled across the kitchen floor that I stop to focus. My heart pounds in my ears. I made it. Once again, I've succeeded!

It's for naught though, as the beast still waits for me behind the kitchen door. Every moment, every decision, every cup of water l've ever drank has lead me to this point. I tighten my grip around my flashlight, and open the door...

It's quiet. Too quiet. Even with my flashlight, the darkness is so dense in the laundry room. It's not the same darkness as inside the house...it's raw, darker, more hostile.

From up here on the top step, the room looks almost peaceful. It's as I ascend the three-step staircase that the true horrors rear their heads. The ominous dripping of the tap, the cobwebs on the old cupboards, a roach scuttling across the floor. Before I know it, I'm eye-to-eye with the beast.

Darkness. Unforgiving, unrelenting darkness. Pouring in through the laundry door Dad insists on keeping slightly ajar.

'It's for the cats,' he says, 'So they can go in and outside.'

Does he not realise the cats aren't the only ones using this door? A thousand eyes appear from the doorway. Ranging from red, yellow, orange. A low rumbling starts, and that's when I see the teeth....

I run and slam the toilet door behind me, flicking on the light as I plonk my bum on the seat.

000000000ohhhhHhhhh

Yeah, that's the good stuff.

It was all worth it. All worth it for this, sweet, blissful moment.

Life it seems is cruel. Offering beauty in fleeting moments. Because now I must flush the toilet, and I may as well bang a drum and shout into the night, because this is going to be SO loud! Bah! The beast already knows my location. Let's get this over with.

With my flashlight at the ready, and my feet positioned to run, I steady myself.

Breathe in. Out.

The next minute or so is all a blur. My fingers pushing the flush, my body lurching around the corner. The thousands of eyes watching me move. The hands grabbing at my ankles as I climb the stairs. I'm sure I stepped on a pressure plate halfway to my bedroom too.

It's okay though. I made it! I snuggle deep into my still-warm blankets. I'm untouchable now, shielded by the protective layer of bedding. Most importantly. I peed. I survived.

And now, I get to sleep.

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MAGICAL SENTENCES

article by Diane Hester

As a writer I'm fascinated with words. I love examining how authors wield them to create moments of literary magic. I keep a notebook for recording such sentences from the novels I read. Phrases that inspire me and from which I hope to learn.

Sometimes what impresses me about a sentence is the author's skill in creating a mood appropriate to the story's genre. Like these lines from Dean Koontz's horror novel, The Darkest Evening of The Year:

• Her daughter glided at her side, as firmly attached as a remora to a large fish.

• Amy had the feeling that something more than the man himself lived in Brockman's body, as though he had opened a door to a night visitor that made of his heart a lair.

• The hooded eyes looked sleepy, but the reptilian mind behind them might be acrawl with calculation.

Every time I read those words, 'acrawl with calculation' I literally get goose bumps.

As you may have guessed, Koontz is one of my favorite authors. Check out the imagery in these lines from his novel The Taking:

• The room had the deep-fathom ambience of an oceanic trench forever beyond the reach of the sun but dimly revealed by radiant anemones and luminous jellyfish.

• The nape of her neck prickled as though a ghost lover had pressed his ectoplasmic lips to her skin.

• As effectively as a leech taking blood, fear suckled on Molly's hope.

Nothing impresses me more than a brilliant metaphor or simile. Like these from The Half Life of Valerie K, by Natasha Pulley:

• The engineer ghosted into a chair looking like a walking toothache.

• The name sat on his tongue like a pebble.

• The two thoughts…..chased each other around his head like two horribly mutated cartoon characters.

Or these from The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler:

• Her eyes narrowed until they were a faint greenish glitter, like a forest pool far back in the shadow of trees.

• Her face fell apart like a bride's pie crust.

• A few locks of dry white hair clung to his scalp like wildflowers fighting for life on a bare rock.

It strikes me that much of the magic in effective writing is created through the use of colorful verbs, or by using common verbs in an unusual way. Like Yeats's rough beast 'slouching towards Bethlehem to be born. Or these examples, again from The Half Life of Valery K:

a headache coiled around his temples...

• tiredness steamrolled over him.

• The electric echo of the cattle prod prowled down his ribs.

Other times it's a well-chosen ad ective that makes the difference:

• rancid terror

• a desiccated man in his sixties

I love it when an author can get me to see an everyday object in a new way:

• The underside of the kettle looked like it had recently re-entered the atmosphere. (Half Life of Valery K, Natasha Pulley)

• A few drops of water spilled on the stove top boiled into dancing globules that spat as they dried. (Rid Of A Pest, by our own member, Alison Manthorpe)

• Sidewinding snakes of dust skitter across the road in front of me. (The Wall, William Sutcliffe)

But probably the greatest magic in writing is wielded through the author's unique voice and in this regard few hold a candle to the grand master, Raymond Chandler:

There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight and meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. (The Big Sleep)

Diane's debut thriller, Run To Me, short listed in the 2014 US Daphne du Maurier Awards. To date she has published six suspense novels, three set in Australia and three in her country of birth, the US.

Visit her website at www.dianehester.com

'Only a mediocre writer is always at his best.'

Somerset Maughum

Interview with member

Dennis Lightfoot on the release of his new book, KALEIDOSCOPE OF VERSE

Congratulations, Dennis, on the release of your latest book! Thank you for answering some questions for us on how you put this collection together.

How did you get started writing poetry?

Back in the late 1980's I had the basis of a poem rattling around in my head. Having never before written poetry, I sought advice from an Eyre Writers member - the late Pat Virgin. On her prompting I started attending EW meetings. From that day forward I found that poetry was a way of healing the soul. I have since then written well over two hundred poems. Some however, have gone to the great unknown when my computer decided to have a hissy fit and many poems disappeared into poet's heaven.

What generally inspires you to write a poem?

Much of what I write is hinged to emotions related to a lost love. Others are of experiences gleaned from trips to the outback and rural properties. There are some that reflect upon persons I have known, some are of visual imagery and a few with a sprinkling of humour also a there are those pertaining to a marine setting.

You've self-published some other books. How many does this make for you now?

Tell us a bit about the others you've written.

My first short story was about the fairies and magical creatures that live in a

'Magic Garden'. Then came a totally opposite theme - the story of a man who fell on hard times and his journey through the pursuing years whilst the proverbial 'black dog' shadowed his life. My third book, 'Fynn' is that of a Port Lincoln-born lad. The demise of his father was cushioned by the love of his mother and her unrelenting faith to have a child. Much of the beautiful art-work illustrations were created by local talented artist, Lunette Puckridge.

What helps you through the ups and downs of writing?

Eyre Writers and the members have been an indispensable part of my (ad)venture into writing. Regularly attending daytime meetings with the group and with Sally Perry's 'Night Writers' has expanded my thinking process and often

given the impetus to continue to put down on paper those words that were once left to float around in my mind. I am also indebted to long-time EW member, Mary Gudzenovs, who skillfully guided me through the publishing process.

What are you currently working on? Are there any more books on your publishing horizon?

Almost ready for publication is another novella. 'Eskylation' is an adventure/mystery set in parts of Eyre Peninsula.

Dennis's books are available for purchase from the Port Lincoln Nautilus Gallery on Tasman Tce. and from all Eyre Writers market book stalls. Dennis is a long-standing member of Eyre Writers who has taken on many roles for the club and currently shares the office of vice president.

THE NOW by Dennis Lightfoot

Wedged between

Yesterday and Tomorrow

Is Today - the now

A time when one

Can lament a decision Or enjoy an outcome

A time where plans are made

Dreams are concocted

And life is happening

Today is that interval

To absorb reality or make changes

Or simply go with the flow

Yesterday we were

Today we are

Tomorrow we maybe

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TORN PANTS

by Helen van Roijen

Threading the needle this morning, I had to find my strongest reading glasses just to find that dratted eye. The damn thing was miniscule in relation to the length of the barb, I'm sure. My late mother would have called the needle 'a crowbar' but my fingers can handle no less. I swear that the damn thing blinked before I got the thread through it and secured.

It all started when I discovered that I had walked a hole in my jeans and I had almost tripped - not a good thing when I'm looking at 80 years this April - shudder. Something had to be done. I mean the pants needed repairing. Sewing. I haven't sewn in years - not since the boys were, well boys, and then only when absolutely necessary. Buying new wasn't an option with Martin at college and pennies few and far between. I had a half-sister who loved sewing but it wasn't a pastime I favoured, like now.

I found the Rolykit lurking in the bottom of the linen-press, next to the almost new Singer sewing machine I'd bought in a fit of trying to act as a housewife that had never really taken in the face of my own uni, work and writing alternatives, and dragged it out. It crashed open and rolled and spewing cottons, mostly blue, and black, needles and pins, luckily all over the table. OK I cleaned that lot up.

The one thing I grabbed and held was my St John Ambulance Officer's badge. Maybe it shouldn't have been there and was an illicit item - it should have been handed back when I had to retire when my knees gave out. Damn it, I thought, as always. I worked fifteen-plus years as a volley on the cars and planes for St John, and trained the cadets, I earned that, it's mine!

After that little mental outburst I tackled the needle and thread. The reason I mentioned my dear half- sister, Christine; she wasn't from the Scottish side of the family. She wasn't born into the war-like Macalpine clan and, as my blood red tipped fingers pushed the needle finally through the ragged fabric, maybe at this moment, I could have used her sewing ability right now.

I looked up. The sea was almost blue, a hawk had landed on the deck railing scaring the hell out of the spoggies on the seed swing, and Martin had made me a coffee... A little bit of sewing wouldn't kill me!

'Only those prepared to go too far discover just how far they can go.'

T.S. Eliot

THE MOORS OF MY MIND

by Mary Gudzenovs

The moors of my mind are desolate. A frigid wind blows thoughts across the sky like clouds scudding away from my attempts to harness them. The ground, rough under my feet, seeks to trip me, fooling me into a false sense of security when one minute it is solid and the next it is liquid, sucking my creativity into depths deeper and darker than my imagination can fathom.

But the moors don't go on forever, they have edges and I fight the desolation, the fear of being lost in this creativeless wilderness, fight my way toward the edges, seeking the greenery of fields, lush with thoughts ready to be harvested. I can see them at a distance, still a stretch of moorland away.

I must focus, fight the pull of the moors that threaten to turn me around and march me back into the dangers, the mire of procrastination, the depths of despair caused by plots that make no sense and stories that go nowhere.

If I give in to the moors of my mind will I ever find my creativity again? Will the wind blow all my ideas to others who have successfully fought their way free?

Will the rain leave me sodden, cold and curled in a ball to accept my fate?

'A gentle knock on the right door is better than pounding on all of them.'

Lucy Luna

The WRITER'S ROLLERCOASTER

by Diane Hester

Faith and Doubt sit on my shoulders whispering conflicting tales.

One assures me I have what it takes, the other that l'm doomed to fail.

One insists my writing's great, my prose and plot ideas just brilliant.

The other hangs their head and sighs in unrelenting disappointment.

Can these two not find some middle ground? Must it ever be only one or the other?

This daily ride of ups and downs makes this writer's life a bother.

If only Doubt would hold its tongue and let Faith shower me in favour

Think of all the work I'd get done with endless confidence to savour

Yet... If everything I do is great what mountains are there left to climb?

What's to push me up that summit knowing victory's always mine?

A little Doubt keeps things in balance

Assures my efforts never stop

That tiny fear I might not make it

Just could drive me to the top.

A SLICE OF PEACH

by Diane Hester

Slippery smooth underbelly

soft fuzzy sheath

slithering past my tongue and cheeks

shrinking from my teeth

nectar weeping down my throat,

dripping from my chin,

cut another slice my love

and join me in my sin

PENCILS POISED

Christine Houwelling

The topic has been given;

To write we are driven.

It is quite a skill,

to write at will.

Pencils poised, around the table we sit;

Waiting for the timer knob to be hit;

Words across the pages fly;

Oh what's that word we sigh.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock;

Oh no writer's block.

The end is near,

We up the pace a gear;

Pencils roaring. Spirits soaring.

We cross the line, feeling fine;

Pens are down,

We end the rhyme. Just for this time!

HEAVEN

by Mary Gudzenovs

What did Angels do before man was created?

God knows.

DOMESTIC.

by Jenny Podorozhnaya

She longs for the sunny days

At the beginning

All sunshine

Even now as the hurricane rips

Furnishings and

Rain blows

She knows the tempest will calm tomorrow

Torrent confined to remorseful face

Her body marks time for it to pass

As she yearns to repair the damage

Before the next storm arrives

'Growth and comfort can't ride the same horse.'

Margie Wardell

AT THE MERCANTILE

by Aileen Pluker

Desmond always drank at the Mercantile. He felt at home there. The moment he entered the foyer it seemed to enclose him, like a well worn coat. The dark, paneled walls and the deep purple seats, soft as his mother's bed seemed to enfold him, offering him familiarity and comfort. Things never changed at the Mercantile.

But his short lunch break gave him little time to enjoy these sensations. He hurried up the steps into the long bar that stretched the length of the room. You could see the street next door through the glass doors at the end, the only natural light in the place.

He headed to his favourite stool, waving to his favourite barmaid. She would understand his limited time and have his usual order ready as he breasted the bar.

She beamed her sunshine smile, then a frown creased her brow.

'Desmond,' she hissed, pointing at his waist.

Her action stopped him in his stride. What was wrong with the woman?

'Desmond,' she called a little louder

He hurried up to her.

'Desmond,' she whispered looking directly at a place just below his waist, 'your little man's trying to escape.'

He looked down and could see part of his shiny green underpants protruding from his fly. He blushed furiously. If the floor had suddenly given way he would have sunk gratefully into it. He looked to left and right. Nobody seemed to have noticed. Covering the offending area, he grabbed the zip tag and pulled.

A piercing scream shattered the gentle buzz of conversation.

In his haste to protect his modesty, Desmond had caught, not only his underpants but skin as well. He staggered back, tears bursting from his eyes as he emitted high pitched gasps.

There were not many customers at the bar but they all crowded around, the men covering their private parts, offering sympathetic suggestions, the women curious and inclined to giggle. One woman pushed herself forward to offer help, but Desmond was having none of that.

Flinn burst from the manager's office ready for any situation. Seeing Desmond's plight he resumed his dignity

'Ladies, gentlemen, please stand back and give the man some air.' Then to Desmond, 'Do you think you could hold yourself together man, long enough to walk to my office? I have scissors there. Perhaps we may be able to rectify the situation.' The patrons stared at the closed door for a time, then went back to their drinking, a new topic enlivening their conversation.

In time a waitress was seen hurrying to the office, carrying a large whisky. Later, Desmond slipped out through the back entrance into a waiting taxi, as Flinn rang Desmond's office to inform them that there had been a little accident.

No, it was not serious but Desmond would be unable to return to work that day.

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Exercise Corner

First-draft, unrevised pieces resulting from various prompts and exercises.

A Penny for a Pee

by Christine Houweling

prompt: Tell a story set in or around a dunny

Everyone needs to pee somewhere, preferably in a private clean toilet, but that's not always the case.

Think of an astronaut floating in space, a diver in a decompression chamber? On a potty in a hospital bed? Even worse a tube stuck in you and the Pee trickling into a bag. In the middle of a desert without a tree in sight. Not too bad.

If you're a man!

Incarcerated in a Police cell knowing you are on camera.

Stuck camping on the ice in the Antarctic.

Now return to the times when you paid a penny to have a pee in a public toilet. There would be a lavatory, a toilet attendant who wiped the toilet seat before and after you used it. You would wash your hands in the basin with soap, water and dry your hands on the towel, not paper ones.

Or now in present time have you been confronted before a basin and not being able to work out how to make the water run. And no towels. Just an air dryer with blades where you move your hands up and down. The force of the air ironing out the wrinkles, the blue lights sterilising your hands.

At present in the bush, there's a new style compost toilet. Here you pee on an iron lid in the toilet instead of water and then pump the metal lips apart to empty the toilet paper and poo.

I ponder the wonder of it all as I sit on a dunny with bush flies and admire the view.

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Create a metaphor beginning with: As slow as...

Mary Gudzenovs: As slow as a cat in a doorway.

Create a simili comparing 2 nouns chosen at random.

Diane Hester: Marriage is like a tattoo - it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Try Your Hand

We invite readers to have a go writing on the prompt below. If your piece comes out under 250 words you may email it to us (dianehester@bigpond.com) for possible inclusion in our magazine.

Prompt: What world event had a major impact on you as a child?

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Published by:

EYRE WRITERS INC

PO Box 1771

Port Lincoln SA 5606

(C) Eyre Writers Inc, March 2024

Copyright of individual contributions is retained by the authors.

All other rights reserved by the publishers.