It’s that time again…EPIPHANY TIME! and this time, I want YOU to join in.

whispers QWC

Look, see? It’s me!

 I’ve just returned from the Brisbane Writers Festival where I was asked to read some of my work at the Queensland Writers Centre Whispers salon, and, let’s be honest, I might be on a bit of a high.

Being up there, finally able to share with a real audience some of my own work was such a fantastic experience. It was daunting, yes, and I may have needed 3 trips to the bathroom beforehand, and there may have been some positive self-talk mumbled under my breath to the tune of I think I can I think I can, but once I was up there…It felt like I was doing what I should be doing. More than I ever feel at my work as a nurse, even on my best days where I know that to that one person, I am making a difference. This was different. It felt right.

My parents, husband and friend were cheering me on in the benches, and people afterwards I had never met before were very gracious in saying how much they enjoyed the reading, and one lovely lady even said she’d buy my book. I felt a thrill I’d never felt before. A tiny, tiny spark. A dangerous, maybe I can do this in the back of my mind. Continue reading

Week Eighteen Prompt: Inspiration

Shopping Trolley

I am a shopping trolley.

This is not a metaphor.

(I know what a metaphor is,

because a small human

hanging off me asked

a large human

what it was, once.)

I am a shopping trolley

(this is not a metaphor),

and I need to get to the sea.

I do not know why.

There is something somewhere,

in all of us. In the abandoned receipts,

in the one bad wheel,

in our metal bones,

that speaks to us.

To the sea, they whisper.

They whisper now to me.

I am a shopping trolley

(this is not a metaphor),

and I need to get to the sea.

Mr Coles and Mrs Woolworths;

they chain us together.

They do not want to lose us

(but what they do not see

is that

we want to be lost).

We are shopping trolleys

(this is not a metaphor),

and we need to get to the sea.

There is a careless woman,

one day.

She does not know, or has forgotten

that thing that mothers say,

“less haste more speed”. She leaves

me in a car park,

with one coin,

with an old plastic bag,

with her careless blessing.

I am a shopping trolley

(this is not a metaphor),

and I am going to the sea.

One more day, then

the day after that, and the

day after that.

Squeak, groan, rattle.

Damage done. Too many

Coupon Tuesdays.


I am a shopping trolley

(this is not a metaphor),

and I want to get to the sea.

And then?

There is the salt. It catches me

like an idea.

Clinging to my

abandoned receipts,

to my one bad wheel,

to my metal bones.

I have arrived.

There was a man

who oiled my joints.

Replaced my bolts.

Straightened my casters.

Welded my frame.

Until I felt brand new.

(I am a shopping trolley,

and I am at the sea, but-)

Him I will miss. 

Him, I might even send

a postcard.


Why did I write this?

Throughout this entire competition, so many writers impress me week after week with stories I could never dream up; stories which gave voices to the most unlikely of characters. One writer in particular has this week caused me to approach things a little differently, to find the magic in the every day, and to realise that everything, every person, every object, every thing you can imagine (and some you can't), has a soul worth writing about. Thank you  for helping me to see that.

Image courtesy of this website

Many, many thanks to the very lovely  for the speedy and thoughtful beta job.