As it was my daughter's writing that inspired me to put “pen
to paper” (never so figuratively as it has now become), I want to keep collaborating and sharing
our love of writing fiction.
So we have decided to regularly write a creative short story based
on the same inspiration. Here is our first collaboration: Growth
- See more at: http://www.thisisawand.com/search/label/All%20the%20Stories%20Matter#sthash.zml3SlZT.dpuf
As it was my daughter's writing that inspired me to put “pen
to paper” (never so figuratively as it has now become), I want to keep collaborating and sharing
our love of writing fiction.
So we have decided to regularly write a creative short story based
on the same inspiration. Here is our first collaboration: Growth
- See more at: http://www.thisisawand.com/search/label/All%20the%20Stories%20Matter#sthash.zml3SlZT.dpuf
As it was my daughter's writing that inspired me to put “pen
to paper” (never so figuratively as it has now become), I want to keep collaborating and sharing
our love of writing fiction.
So we have decided to regularly write a creative short story based
on the same inspiration. Here is our first collaboration: Growth
- See more at: http://www.thisisawand.com/search/label/All%20the%20Stories%20Matter#sthash.v4tHXvUo.dpuf
As it was my daughter's writing that inspired me to put “pen
to paper” (never so figuratively as it has now become), I want to keep collaborating and sharing
our love of writing fiction.
So we have decided to regularly write a creative short story based
on the same inspiration. Here is our first collaboration: Growth
- See more at: http://www.thisisawand.com/search/label/All%20the%20Stories%20Matter#sthash.v4tHXvUo.dpuf
Always
the Same
Inspiration:
Mummy:
She sat in front of the broken washing machine pulling out
soaking wet clothes. It wasn’t meant to be like this thought Moana. She fished
out a sodden little turquoise and red sock with goldfish on it and looked at it
closely. It belonged to her youngest, Aroha. Four children later, how had it
come to this? She slipped in the foam and dropped to the floor, beaten, broken,
mentally exhausted, without the strength to stand and face this next challenge.
Her pasty white legs slid around on the wet concrete and she curled them around
under her. It had been so long since they had seen the sun or sand, their
coppery golden glean long gone, and as for pretty painted nails, well… she
laughed to herself. Trying less than half-heartedly to stand, she flopped
around in the foamy water and the tears began to fall. Salty smears across her
cheeks, falling to meet the foam on the floor, where they sat like little gems.
Sapphire, pounamu, aquamarine, turquoise, paua.
Colours of the sea now missing from her life. She had given up those
along with wild waves and sandy shores for love when she had moved from the
cove to the modern suburbia she found herself now living.
