EYRELINES - Eyre Writers Inc. Quarterly Magazine - Summer 2024

Welcome to the first edition of Eyre Writers quarterly magazine. Here we showcase our members' poems, short stories, vignettes, articles, news and more. In our section, Writings From Prompts and Exercises, we offer a glimpse of what we do at meetings, presenting members' writings based on exercises provided. The works presented here reflect a diversity of writers at various stages of development from beginner to multi-published authors.

Writing for Mental Health

by Jenny Podorozhnaya

When people say that they write for their mental health it is often journalling that people imagine, or writing a letter to a past or future version of themselves. These exercises have immense therapeutic value but are not what I refer to here.

In my role as psychotherapist, I estimate that I write approximately 5000 words per week. This takes the form of clinical notes, reports, emails and letters that are needed as a requirement of the job. It is surprising then, that given the chance or opportunity, I choose to write in my spare time. I suppose to the uninitiated it might seem like the same thing, however for me, writing for pleasure is to writing reports, what a meal at L’Anse French Cafe is to jam on toast. One is an experience to be luxuriated upon, the other fills a hole and serves a purpose.

Comparisons aside it is more than the intrinsic pleasure of weaving together an intricate sentence, or semi-successfully sidestepping the potholes of cliche and overused idiom that draws me onwards. There is also the camaraderie of the writers’ group, and post covid, the benefits it effortlessly offers have become more important than ever.

In my day job, I have the luxury of being able to observe patterns of behaviour that ebb and flow through the community.  Otherwise unseen, these patterns become visible via the opportunity of perspective.

I am able to observe the collective response to events that would be invisible as a group of one, but obvious when repeated collectively throughout the weeks. The pandemic provided one such opportunity. People were forced to withdraw, to distance and to isolate. Afterwards, when the sanctions ended people struggled.  Returning to whatever the new normal was to become became arduous, difficult and in some cases undesirable.

My anecdotal observations are not without supporting evidence.  Pennfoundation.org noted that ‘As COVID restrictions lift, it is natural that some individuals will struggle with social reintegration. Our social skills are like muscles that get weak if not used’. In a separate publication they stated that ‘people who have never experienced social anxiety in the past may go through re-entry anxiety’. Australian Unity agrees, stating in one article that ‘prolonged isolation can sometimes fuel social anxiety.’

Social withdrawal has many negative effects on mental health, including but not limited to depression, anxiety, low self-esteem and in extreme cases suicidality. In my office, I find myself offering the same feedback to multiple clients who recognise they have been affected by both this social disconnect and difficulty on re-entry. I often begin my asking what their interests are, and will outline the benefits of belonging to a group that meets the following criteria.

Firstly, it must have a group identity - A name, a regular meeting time or a set of behaviour that creates belonging. Secondly, the group needs to have a shared activity that the individual can participate in when they attend the group. Finally, the group needs to give each other peer feedback about the product of the activity.

It can feel incredibly intimidating to do this, and for some it feels way outside what has become a very small and limited comfort zone. My clinical experiences, and the research, support it usually being a worthwhile endeavour. Those who are able to connect socially report that after initial reluctance and hesitation, they make stronger and more rewarding connections.

Hillary Ammon, assistant professor of Clinical Psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania, indicates that, for most people, these feelings and worries disappear the more you engage with others.

My clinical observations appear to agree. In the clients I have worked with who have actively joined a group, they quickly report an upturn in mood and genuine pleasure at their achievements. This is the case whether it be through art, crafts, sport or indeed, writing.  Long term mental health is also improved, with research indicating that people with better social connections benefit by; their ability to recover from stress, anxiety, and depression, eating healthier, their physical activity, and weight, improved sleep, well-being, and quality of life, reduced risk of violent and suicidal behaviours and that it can prevent death from chronic diseases.

For me, writing group is it. We are, as you will learn in this publication, a diverse and varied group of many backgrounds and personal histories, joined by our collective love of shoving words next to each other to see what happens.

The infinite monkey theorem proposes that infinite monkeys with infinite typewriters over infinite time will eventually recreate the works of Shakespeare. With this in mind, there is hope even for a passionate novice such as I to create something legible.

It is the closest I have ever felt to being able to do magic. Words will take the reader somewhere, but before they did, they delivered the writer there first. This humbling journey propels me, and as I explore lands and meet people of my own creation in the name of art, I frequently meet myself there too.

Jenny Podorozhnaya is a registered Clinical Supervisor and Psychotherapist working at Positive Future Self in Port Lincoln.  She helps people feel better about themselves which helps her feel good.  It’s the ultimate Win-Win. Despite this, she still charges for her services.

References 

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC9407900

www.australianunity.com.au/wellbeing/health/how-to-kickstart-your-social-life-in-the-wake-of-covid

Member Spotlight

AILEEN PLUKER

In this issue we talk with one of Eyre Writers most productive and longest-standing members. With six novels published, Aileen gives no indication of slowing down her writing endeavors. And while she says her novel-writing days are over and she's sticking to shorter fiction now, the rest of us have our doubts!

Born in Melbourne, Aileen Pluker has lived in many places in Australia and overseas but has called Port Lincoln home since 1968. She writes in multiple genres for both teenagers and adults. Her latest novel, Who Am I? will, hopefully be in print before the end of the year.

When did you first know you wanted to be a writer?

I come from a long line of story tellers but I never dreamed that I would ever become a published writer.

What first drew you to the craft?

As a teacher I was always writing little plays for my students to perform. With the encouragement of Dieter Hauphmann I wrote the libretto for three successful musicals.

As a result of this success I joined Eyre Writers with the aim of becoming a play writer.

What genres and forms do you primarily write?

Though I still write the occasional script my main focus has been novels, teen and adult.

The genres vary, fiction: crime and historic and biography.

Publishing history.

My first two books Melissa's Medallion and My Name Is Sos were published under my maiden name, Cunningham. Tammy, Margaret Catchpole, If Only, and Getting Away With Murder, were published under my married name, Pluker. My most successful book has been Margaret Catchpole, a fictional account of the life of a real person who was sent to Australia in 1801

What are your current writing goals?

My first priority is to publish three finished novels. One, Who Am I? may be in print before the end of the year. Apart from helping with an autobiography I hope to finish a memoir of my early years and give more time to short story writing, maybe enter a competition or two.

Do you suffer from writer's block?

My greatest challenge is procrastination. I can find a hundred reasons not to sit down at the computer. I used to go for long walks which seemed to help. One trick I use if I get stuck in a story is to write down the problem and think up three possible solutions then choose the best. You can always go back and look at the other ideas if the first one doesn't work.

How long have you been a member of Eyre Writers?

I joined Eyre Writers in 1990 after attending a couple of workshops. At the time we held monthly meetings at the Old Bakehouse and we submitted short stories, poems and reviews for the monthly newsletter.

What do you get from being a member?

Firstly friendship, from the beginning I felt at home. Then encouragement. I know that without Eyre Writers my stories would have remained inside my head. Finally the confidence to submit my work to the scrutiny of others and the pleasure of seeing my words in print. It is only with their support and encouragement that I have become a writer.

Island Voice - Tunarama

by Aileen Pluker

Once I looked and saw the light

of fires twinkling in the night.

As dark skinned people ate their fill

and sang corroboree.

They feasted on wild duck and fish

and kangaroo and snake.

They sang and danced the story of the tribe.

But now the flashing lights I see

yellow red and green.

Go round and round and up and down.

reflecting in the sea.

They now eat pies with sauce and chips

their music amplified.

To fill the aching vacuum of

the silence of the tribe.

*

We Walk

by Mary Gudzenovs

We walk,

Only feet apart,

Yet custom creates a chasm

We dare to cross.

But not here,

Not now.

Later,

When my mistress is idle

And my musketeer is free,

We will meet in the gardens To talk and lie together,

Away from disapproving eyes

That would take my love from me.

Take his life,

And my liberty.

We walk,

Only feet apart,

Yet a chasm separates our hearts.

Me, with skirts that skim the grass

In the wake of my mistress.

He with sword and pistol

Trailing her new suitor.

Careful not to smile

He catches my eye

Holds my gaze.

A shiver runs my spine.

Fear, or longing?

I am not sure.

We walk,

Only feet apart,

Up the stairs at end of day.

I stumble,

Not knowingly

But it is an excuse

For him to come to me,

Hold my hand and fuss.

My mistress,

Concerned,

Tells me to rest,

Him to assist.

He lifts me in a warrior's arms,

Carries me effortlessly.

We stand,

No feet between us.

Holding tight.

Delighting

In our unplanned tryst.

Knowing it will not last,

Wishing life were different.

He leaves me,

Makes a promise.

Tonight, when the moon is full

He will meet me in the garden.

I walk,

Only feet behind him,

My mistress between us still

As we follow his coffin,

Down church aisle

To bright sunlight.

He never kept his promise

That last moonlit night.

Duty took him far away,

Took his life,

Broke my heart.

I stand,

Alone now,

Just feet from his grave.

Time has not dimmed

The ache in my heart,

Nor stopped the tears I shed.

He cannot come to me

So I shall go.

As darkness crowds

A hand grasps mine,

A familiar voice speaks close.

My love, I kept my promise.

I waited in the garden, Come and join me there.

We walk,

Now, arm in arm

As lovers do,

Along garden paths,

And the world moves on without us.

*

Unanswered Prayer

by Dennis Lightfoot

His life had stagnated into a series of daily rituals. Every morning at sunrise he would go into his garden to select and pick what he thought was the loveliest flower he had grown - a bloom still cloaked with the morning dew. Then, with his prayer book tucked under one arm and the flower in hand, would set off to walk the several streets to his church.

Age and grief had taken their toll and now devoid of the need for haste he walked slowly along the pavement, head looking down, seemingly in deep thought.

Just as he had done for the past five years, he entered the church grounds through the wrought iron side gate that had seen as many decades as him. With head still bowed he trudged the gravel path to the small cemetery in the churchyard.

As he passed along the line of headstones he would occasionally mutter a polite

"good morning" to some of the familiar names of those he once knew.

Nearing plot number 21 his arm automatically extended, presenting his flower as an offering.

"How are you today my darling?" he said as he lowered his arthritic limbs to sit on the polished marble edging of the grave.

Once settled he then carefully placed his floral gift in the vase at the base of the head stone inscribed with 'Loving Wife of'.

With a slight tremble in his soft voice he then began to relate the events of the past twenty-four hours. Each letter and any phone calls received were the topic of his conversation followed by a report of the morning's radio news.

Then he became silent, his gaze transfixed on the name 'Katherine' embossed in gold. As he sat a tear or two rolled down his cheek then splashed onto the marble's glossy surface.

Several minutes passed before he rose stiffly then stood for a moment and with a choke in his throat said, "Until tomorrow my love".

Back along the path he walked but now much slower and in silence with only the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet.

From the cemetery he made his way to the church. At this time of morning it was usually devoid of other worshipers. Inside the empty church each step he took on the wooden floor echoed through the building.

He moved forward his eyes riveted on the burning large candle upon the altar at which he paused and stood, head bowed in prayer, and then laboriously lowered his aged body to the kneeling position in front of the altar.

Slowly he raised his eyes to the effigy of Christ nailed upon a wooden cross.

With tears welling in his eyes, he said in a quivering voice, "Please Lord Why? Why her, Why not that drunken driver? Why her? Why did you take my precious daughter and not that law breaker?"

*

The House We All Lived In

by Xanthe Walker

"The walls were built and so were the floors,

Fences and windows and ceilings and doors.

Once brand new, never been tainted.

The dwellers, they fought and danced and painted.

Keys were shared by unique walks of life,

Creating stories of beauty and strife.

It's yours for a time, a heavenly sanctuary,

The ownership you have is only temporary.

Lives do change; for better or worse,

Between these walls, a blessing or curse?

We all call it home, you, me, and him.

Here come the new tenants!

Please let them in.

This is the house we all lived in."

Ode to Irene

by Christine Houweling

I've made my will

With no bags to fill

I'll wear a shroud and hop on a cloud

Away from earthly things

To a heavenly fling

don't be sad I've had a good life

remember me but in your heart

Please set me free

Autumn - Port Lincoln

by Patricia Virgin

Soft days, windless, caress my skin,

Gentle as a lover, seducing.

A reflective sea casts glass images

Between sun-road and sand-slick

Shimmering boats ride the serenity,

Light as ghost gull souls.

Across a plain of lucent liquid

Boston Island crouches,

A placid beast anticipating

A break

Of storms

In tribute to founding and lifetime

Eyre Writer member

Patricia Virgin, who recently passed.

I am the Global Child

by Kathy Blacker

Listen...

hear the sounds of no tomorrow

the futile screams of nothing more

my cry of what I might have been.

Look...

see me as you once were and weep

the tears of guilt for what is lost

shame at your indifference.

Lament...

my passing from sweet innocence

taken before the flower blooms

broken on the altar of war and greed.

Learn...

what is done is done and gone

but, what is now is not forever

for change will bring a new beginning

I am the Global Child

Love...

without the shackles of race or creed

see in me for what will be

the future of the world.

*

Sneak Peak -

sample of a work in progress

The Princess and Me

by Xanthe Walker

Everyone waited for the Princess to be born. Due on the Summer Solstice, she was going to be the golden girl and spread joy throughout all the kingdom. The longest, hottest day passed. So did four more days after that. On an ordinary day of the year, she was born. And so was I. For us, that was true magic.

Nurses and midwives hurried upstairs to the Queen's master bedroom. She was given sashaberry tea and her pain evaporated. A healthy baby girl was born. Sky blue eyes like a cloudless summer day. A mess of honey-blonde hair and little rose-red cheeks.

Princess Aurelia. A delight for all the family and friends.

A couple of maids and a midwife stayed in the basement and delivered another baby.

Although, my mother was not provided any pain relief. Fourteen hours of fighting, pushing, and sobbing pass and another baby girl is born. Mousey-brown locks and hazel eyes. Eyelashes that seemed too luscious and thick for a new-born.

My mother cradled me all night long. Whispered to me, "My baby Astrid. Oh, my little darling. My pretty Astrid." Hopeful joyous fantasies of her motherhood enveloped her, grasping her so sweetly. My Nursemother, Delores, says she was still smiling in the morning as her cold, rigid, body held me close.

Aurelia and Astrid. We even sound like twins. We are twins. Separated only by blood.

She taught me how to read and write, I taught her how to remove stains from her dresses, we cleaned each other's skinned knees, we would braid each other's hair. As children, we were equal. Two young girls who played together, sang together, read together. We were ignorant of the future held for each of us.

It began after we turned twelve. Suddenly there was no time for me. She attended etiquette classes, toured the kingdom, and was enrolled in a specialist college. Delores was threadbare and insisted I start taking on my own duties. I started off with washing linen and making beds. Sometimes I helped peel and chop vegetables in the kitchen.

Whatever odd job there was, I was there.

Afternoons were my free time. Without Aurelia, I taught myself to sow using scrap pieces of fabric. Evenings became our time. Catching up, playing chess or cards, and filling each other in on our new daily routines. My working life was monotonous compared to her princess adventures. She recalled the classes she'd taken, the people she met, the delicious food she'd eaten.

One day, she had gone horse-riding with other noble children.

"They're not like you. They talk funny. Not a scratch or bruise on them. Mother was furious at my bruised knees. Not how a princess looks!" she mimicked.

I giggled at her, moved my chess piece, "Checkmate!"

Cheek in palm and dreamy eyes. She was gorgeous. Doll-like. "One of the boys had his eyes on me."

"Uh oh..." I sweep the chess pieces into their wooden box. Clunk, clunk, clunk. " don't have time for boys," we make eye contact, "They're feral."

"Astrid!" She grinned and pinched my arm, "This one isn't. His name is Ambrose."

For many years this moment is one l've always been drawn back to. The first time I ever heard his name. No clue of his appearance, his family, his beauty, how his mind worked, or his goals. The damage he would cause. He was just a name in a conversation about a boy I never met.

"Yeah well, you're the princess," I smiled, "Make sure he knows that."

On our sixteenth birthday, we met briefly when her itinerary allowed her a break.

She was dressed in a sparkling dress, the colour of a ripe peach. I made sure to wash behind my ears in preparation for our meeting. I gifted Aurelia a hand-made riding jacket. The elbows of her favourite jacket had worn away that spring. This one was yellow, her favourite colour, with embroidered flowers on the elbows, collar, and pockets. The inner lining was a blue floral fabric I bought at the markets. It was my best creation. My magnum opus.

Aurelia bought me a new pair of leather boots. Mine had busted a month prior and I'd been scraping by despite the gaping hole in the soul. She also gifted me a rose quartz necklace, the gem carved into a smooth crescent moon shape.

"A rose-quartz crystal helps you receive and radiate love," she smiled.

Aurelia watched me run my fingers over the gem, her eyes lingering on my bony fingers and calloused knuckles. " want you to wear it always and know my love will always be with you."

Then, I noticed an identical gem adorned around her neck, except hers was carved into a sun. She is the sun, and I am the moon, we'd say.

I looked up at her, "Thank you... This is the prettiest thing I own."

She smiled at me. She'd grown up to be truly beautiful, but I would die a thousand deaths to have her never smile at me the way she had that day.

She twirled a golden lock of hair around her forefinger. "Astrid. You're a sister to me. My parents know you're not a noble, but they know what you mean to me." She pauses, " want my friends to meet my sister. I want you to meet my friends.'

I was silent.

"My parents think it's a good idea. We're horse-riding to the beach tomorrow afternoon. I'd love for you to join us."

My eyes stayed low, "I don't have a riding jacket."

*

ANT HILLS

Helen Van Rooijen

In formation like red iron clad gladiators

chests bared north to defy the heat

immortal, Spartacuses, against the thunder

and thrust of monsoonal rains.

Spinifex at their feet, are the fallen shards

of reason, as inside, termite blind

and burrowed deep against the light,

a million feet build and rebuild their coloseum.

Time, the ever callous judge, clamours to destroy

with swords of storm and tempest

and fists of mindless human vandalism,

to break the cycle of their eternity.

*

Writing prompt: photo of an old laundry trolley in among some trees

Fooling around by Dennis Lightfoot

'George! Have you shifted my washing trolley??'

'Nope!!!'

'I've just taken the washing off the line and now both the clothes and the trolley have disappeared! Oi! Ebony, Brock, what have you done with my washing?'

We haven't got it Grandma.'

'Just wait until your mother comes to collect you at lunchtime. I will tell her about all the tricks you have played on me this morning. I don't think she will be happy with you when she finds out that you changed the sugar for salt and spoiled my cup of tea. I bet she won't think it was funny the way you swapped my boiled egg for a fresh one at breakfast time - wasted a good egg that did. Enough is enough - I would like my washing back. NOW!

'Honest Grandma, it wasn't us.'

'Last we saw of the trolley was when Pa was wheeling it over to the trees.'

'George! Where's my washing trolley??'

'The sheets and towels said they wanted to go camping so I took them to the trees.'

'What possessed you to do that - you silly old bugger??

'Grandma, what is today's date?'

'I think it's the first of April - why?'

The Great Race

by Diane Hester

inspired by the visual writing prompt:

Kartoffellage, a painting by comic surrealist artist, Michael Sowa

'Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, this is Goldie Butternut reporting to you live from Tuberville, home of the annual Solanum Tuberosum Fun Run. This year's race has drawn a fewer than usual number of entrants with only twenty-five runners participating. Reports from locals have indicated this may be due to the outbreak of blight which recently decimated the area.

'Though numbers are down on previous years, the entrants who are taking part are no less enthusiastic, most choosing to raise money for a favorite charity. I'm here with one such dedicated runner, Mona Lisa. Ms Lisa can you tell us about your charity?

"Yes, I'm running to raise money for the Slug Eradication Society. I just can't abide those slimy, disgusting creatures! None of us are safe when they're around. Everyone knows the damage they can do to a garden bed in a single night.'

'We certainly do. Thank you, Ms Lisa. And you, sir, can you tell us your name and what charity you represent?'

'Yes, my name's Burbank. Russet Burbank. I'm running to raise money for The Scab Foundation. Every year thousands of young potatoes are afflicted with this horribly disfiguring disease. The Scab Foundation conducts research into various treatments and preventions that-'

I'm sorry, Mr Burbank, I'm going to have to cut you off. There appears to be some kind of disturbance at the registrar's table. I'm going to work my way over there and see if I can find out what's happening.

'All right I'm here now at the registrar's table. From what I can gather, a runner is protesting after being denied entry into the race. Excuse me sir, what seems to be the issue here?'

'I'll tell you what the issue is. Blind racism, that's what it is. They won't let me take part in the race simply because of the color of my skin.'

'Thank you for that. A disturbing allegation there. Let's see if I can get a rebuttal statement from the chief registrar. Sir, excuse me, how do you respond to accusations of racism in excluding certain entrants from your event?'

'I reject that outright. It's not about racism. The runner simply didn't qualify.?

You're saying he's not a recognized cultivar? Sir, from where l'm standing I see at least six different varieties already entered. You've got Desirees, Colibans, Duke of Yorks, even an Idaho from the States.?'

'You don't understand. This is The Solanum Tuberosum Fun Run. The rules are simple - if you're not a potato, you can't enter.'

'But the runner just there, the one now being escorted from the grounds-'

'Is not a potato. Look, every year we get one or two of these imposters posing as spuds trying to muscle in on our race.'

'Imposters?'

'That's right. Don't you have eyes, he's a sweet potato. That's not a cultivar of

Solanum, it's not even in the same family.'

'I see. Well. perhaps he assumed that...given this is just a fun run and the aim is to raise money for charity...

'So, what, you think we should let anyone enter? Just throw the rule book out the window, is that what you're saying? No, I'm sorry. You open it up to sweet potatoes and where does it end? Next thing you know you've got carrots, turnips, and - heaven forbid - pickles trying to run in the race. Is that what you want? I don't think so.'

'Thank you, sir. Well, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. A willing

participant in this year's race denied entry by a pointy-headed, bell-bottomed eggplant sticking to his out-of-touch rules. Some would argue that's shredding the values of vegetables everywhere. Other's might call it outright slaw.'

*

On Words and Thinking

by Alison Manthorpe

Who wrote: How do I know what I think until I see what I write? I can't remember.

And when I looked it up I wasn't much the wiser - a quote from WH Auden quoting

EM Forster quoting an old lady in the version How do I know what I think until I see what say.

I do believe that writing has a great deal to do with thinking. Practising the careful arrangement of words on paper to convey a precise meaning is like physical jerks for the brain. It seems to me we need good word skills to define our thoughts: that words are the tools of logical thinking. The better we are at constructing clear and coherent sentences, the better we are at getting our thoughts in order.

The practice of writing improves linguistic skills too. Since I started writing - not committing Great Thoughts to paper, only constructing stories to amuse myself - I can express myself verbally more fluently than I ever did before. In a discussion with others my ability to marshal my arguments logically and express them intelligibly improved out of sight once I began writing almost daily. And writing hundreds of words at a sitting, not just the paragraph or two I used to grind out now and then in letters to my friends and relations. Which reminds me - I write better letters now, too.

A mate said writing should be fun. And it is. That's why I write. So sweating over a writer's block is nonsense; it means I have forgotten why l'm doing it and am taking myself too seriously altogether. And if when I write the results don't match the intention, who do I think I am? Tolstoy? I'm a woman of limited talents enjoying herself, that's all. My critical faculty is playing spoilsport and stopping me writing at all. Get thee hence, vile spirit, and let me get on with it.

Some writers use words like a juggler, throwing them up in fountains of coruscating colour and glitter, so that we can revel in the fire and the drama.

Others use words like a calligraphist, placing them carefully and accurately so that we are breathless at the clarity and exquisite rightness of them in a context.

Others are like jigsaw-puzzle solvers, who spend hours hunting and matching words to create a colourful and pleasing picture at the end.

Others, like me, are less ambitious. We merely do our best to use good words in good order to make our stories pleasing to read and as clear as possible to anyone who chooses to read them.

Published by:

EYRE WRITERS INC

PO Box 1771

Port Lincoln SA 5606

(C) Eyre Writers Inc, December 2023

Copyright of individual contributions is retained by the authors.

All other rights reserved by the publishers.