Anne Skyvington
  • Writing
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      • Structuring a Short Story
      • Alternative Narrative Approaches
      • Genre in Writing
      • A Grain of Folly
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          • How I Created My Debut Novel
          • What I learnt from writing a novel…
          • Short Story
            • At the Swimming Pool
            • The Night of the Barricades
          • Poetry
            • a funny thing happened …
            • An ancient mystic: Rumi
            • A Window into Poetry
            • The Voice of T.S. Eliot
  • Publishing
    • A Change of Blog Title
    • 5 Further Publishing Facts
    • 5 Facts I Learnt About Self/Publishing
    • Highs and Lows of Self Publishing
    • A Perfect Pitch to a Publisher
    • A Useful Site for Readers and Indie Authors: Books 2 Read
  • Book Reviews
    • A Story of a Special Child
    • Discovering Karrana
    • A Young Adult Novel: My French Barrette
    • Randwick Writers’ Group: Sharing Writing Skills
    • The Trouble With Flying: A Review
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    • Ancient Stories from Childhood
    • Births Deaths and Marriages
    • Duality or Onenness: The Moon
    • The Myth of Persephone and Demeter
    • Pandora’s Box
    • 7 ancient artefacts in the British Museum
    • Symbolism of Twins
    • The Agony and the Ecstasy of Change
    • Voices From the Past
  • Australia
    • A Country College Residence
    • A Kit Home Goes Up in Vacy
    • A Sydney Icon or Two
    • 5 things about Coogee
    • Moree and Insistent Voices
    • Things To Do in Sydney
  • Travel
    • A Bird’s Eye View
    • A Tuscan Village Holiday
    • Back to Cavtat in Croatia
    • Travel to Croatia
    • 5 or 6 Things About Valencia
  • Guest Post
    • a father’s tale … by Ian (Harry) Wells
    • A Guest Poem: “First Loves” by Roger Britton
    • A Love Sonnet by Ian Harry Wells
    • “Snakey” by Roger Britton
    • Randwick Writers’ Group: Sharing Writing Skills
    • A Story of a Genteel Ghost told by Roger Britton
  • Psychology
    • Creativity and Mental Illness
    • Networking and Emotional Intelligence
    • C.G.Jung’s Active Imagination and the Dead
    • Psychology as a Field of Study
    • Western Influencers Down Through The Ages
  • Life Stories
    • Adriatic Romance … Rijeka to Titograd
    • Always something there to remind me…
    • A Well-Loved Pet
    • Candidly Yours…
    • Memoir Writing
    • River Girl: An Early Chapter of my Memoir in Progress
  • Welcome
  • Contact

Anne Skyvington

The Craft of Writing

  • Writing
    • Craft
      • Structuring a Short Story
      • Alternative Narrative Approaches
      • Genre in Writing
      • A Grain of Folly
        • Novel Writing
          • The Sea Voyage: a metaphor
          • How I Created My Debut Novel
          • What I learnt from writing a novel…
          • Short Story
            • At the Swimming Pool
            • The Night of the Barricades
          • Poetry
            • a funny thing happened …
            • An ancient mystic: Rumi
            • A Window into Poetry
            • The Voice of T.S. Eliot
  • Publishing
    • A Change of Blog Title
    • 5 Further Publishing Facts
    • 5 Facts I Learnt About Self/Publishing
    • Highs and Lows of Self Publishing
    • A Perfect Pitch to a Publisher
    • A Useful Site for Readers and Indie Authors: Books 2 Read
  • Book Reviews
    • A Story of a Special Child
    • Discovering Karrana
    • A Young Adult Novel: My French Barrette
    • Randwick Writers’ Group: Sharing Writing Skills
    • The Trouble With Flying: A Review
  • Mythos
    • Ancient Stories from Childhood
    • Births Deaths and Marriages
    • Duality or Onenness: The Moon
    • The Myth of Persephone and Demeter
    • Pandora’s Box
    • 7 ancient artefacts in the British Museum
    • Symbolism of Twins
    • The Agony and the Ecstasy of Change
    • Voices From the Past
  • Australia
    • A Country College Residence
    • A Kit Home Goes Up in Vacy
    • A Sydney Icon or Two
    • 5 things about Coogee
    • Moree and Insistent Voices
    • Things To Do in Sydney
  • Travel
    • A Bird’s Eye View
    • A Tuscan Village Holiday
    • Back to Cavtat in Croatia
    • Travel to Croatia
    • 5 or 6 Things About Valencia
  • Guest Post
    • a father’s tale … by Ian (Harry) Wells
    • A Guest Poem: “First Loves” by Roger Britton
    • A Love Sonnet by Ian Harry Wells
    • “Snakey” by Roger Britton
    • Randwick Writers’ Group: Sharing Writing Skills
    • A Story of a Genteel Ghost told by Roger Britton
  • Psychology
    • Creativity and Mental Illness
    • Networking and Emotional Intelligence
    • C.G.Jung’s Active Imagination and the Dead
    • Psychology as a Field of Study
    • Western Influencers Down Through The Ages
  • Life Stories
    • Adriatic Romance … Rijeka to Titograd
    • Always something there to remind me…
    • A Well-Loved Pet
    • Candidly Yours…
    • Memoir Writing
    • River Girl: An Early Chapter of my Memoir in Progress
Category

Guest Post

a-genteel-presence
Guest PostWriting

A Story of a Genteel Ghost told by Roger Britton

A Genteel Ghost

a true story by Roger Britton

I never believed in ghosts before, but now I am not quite sure … perhaps a “presence” is what I mean …

St Mary’s Convent and school, in Warren, central New South Wales, had been the home for Josephite nuns for over one hundred years. A shortage of vocations meant that they could no longer staff the school. I had accepted the position of the new lay Principal. This old, two-storey convent, with its iron lacework verandahs, was to be our home. With my wife, Angela and our four children, we moved in during the Christmas holidays of 1977.

A willing band of excited children carted bedding, toys and toiletry items up the stairs. Angela unpacked and set about organising the kitchen boxes and food, knowing that hunger would soon call us to table.

convent-building-warren

The Lovely Old Convent Building in Warren

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A Story of a Genteel Ghost told by Roger Britton was last modified: August 12th, 2018 by Anne Skyvington
February 16, 2016 6 comments
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dad-nursing-newborn
Guest PostWriting

a father’s tale … by Ian (Harry) Wells

There really are FEELINGS IN YOUR HEART you don’t even know exist until you have a child of your own. It’s a sensation without description.

When our first-born finally arrived, it was the greatest day of my life. A fortnight after the expected time of birth, my wife was put into hospital, as the doctor was worried: the baby was too long overdue. Five days later, with still no signs of action, and on the doctor’s orders, the nurses began inducing the delivery. Two days after that, the baby finally deigned to arrive, but only after some twenty-four hours of labour.

I was teaching the two dozen students in my one-teacher school at Cobbora when the phone rang just before the lunch break that day. It was Doc Campbell ringing from Dunedoo Memorial Hospital telling me I was the father of a boy. He also said both mother and child were well, but very tired due to the protracted labour. I had spent a week batching, but had known THAT day would be THE day; it was Friday the thirteenth after all, when else would it happen?

dunedoo-hospital

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a father’s tale … by Ian (Harry) Wells was last modified: December 5th, 2018 by Anne Skyvington
January 25, 2016 2 comments
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common-death-adder
Guest PostNatureWriting

“Snakey” by Roger Britton

“Snakey” by Roger Britton

I soon learnt Death Adders were dangerous in more ways than one. The common belief among us school boys was that, once you were bitten by a death adder, you only had three minutes before your tongue went black, the whites of your eyes turned pink and you fell over and died in a writhing spasm. This belief sounded reasonable, so no one questioned its accuracy.

In a large preserving bottle was a big ugly brute. It had a wide triangular head, huge fangs and a thick bulbous body with a tapering tail. The grey, black and brown bands would help camouflage it as it lay in wait for its prey. The adder’s eyes seemed to follow us as we dawdled into our Year Six classroom. I knew it was dead and covered with formaldehyde, but I always gave it a wide berth. It had to be the meanest, thickest and wickedest snake that I had ever seen. Bertie Butterfly reckoned its real name was a ‘deaf adder’ as these snakes were stone deaf, but death or deaf, we all knew you didn’t muck around with them.

My first real encounter with one was the day I discovered that I had left my lunch at home. Rather than starve to death, I decided to break school rules and risk a quick bike trip home to retrieve it. I grabbed my trusty push bike and headed off.

The road was so hot that summer that the tar was melting and sticking to my bicycle tyres. When I reached the bottom of our hill, I rode up as far as I could go, before dismounting and pushing my bike at a run.

I was on top of the death adder before I realized it. I gave a shriek of terror and tried to put my right foot over my left shoulder. The bike crashed down on the road and I fled up the embankment.

The snake stayed still. From my vantage point of two metres up, I observed the scene. The death adder seemed stuck to the tar and was, apparently, dead. Gingerly, I crept down the bank and collected my bike. Once more, I resumed my run, though I kept a wary eye out for any other scaly reptile that might have been parboiled.

“Mum! Mum! There’s a death adder stuck on the road!”

The house was empty. She wasn’t home.

I gulped down my lunch and headed back to school, with a biscuit stuffed in my lunch bag.

The snake was still there, and that was the beginning of my downfall. How could I resist acquiring a new specimen for our science table? A handy stick was found, and the dead death adder was poked and prodded into my lunch bag, minus the biscuit.

I arrived at the school corner just as the line-up bell rang. All the students were gathered on the parade ground and, knowing that I’d be late, I parked my bike and snuck in the back door. I was peeved that I didn’t have time to show off my prize to my mates.

Upstairs, I stole a glimpse out the window and saw our class about to ascend the stairs, while the headmaster kept time with a marching drum.

Now, I thought, how should I introduce the snake to the class? Hmmm, why not share the fright that I had had? Without thinking too much, I lifted the lid of Frances’ desk and slipped the death adder on top of her books.

Kenny Curll bounded into the classroom, racing Ferret to be first. The others staggered in, aware that they had a few minutes to gossip before the headmaster could pack away the drum and stride to the classroom. Ferret took up his usual role of cockatoo, ready to call a warning when Old Thumper was in sight.

“Hey Britt, where yuh been?” Curlly enquired.

“Ah, mate, you won’t believe what I found! Come here.”

Curlly sauntered over to my desk. Before I could explain, Ferret sounded the alert.

“Ssshh, Old Thumper’s comin’!”

Students dived for their desks to avoid a confrontation with the headmaster.

“Tell you later, Curlly.”

Frances and I tripped over each other to get to our shared double-desk.

“Quick, Fran, get a book out.”

The expectation was that we had to read quietly whilst awaiting the headmaster.

Frances gave me a smug look, lifted her desk lid, and put her hand in. Her hand touched something warm and clammy.

“Aaaaaaaaahhh!”

Her screech made my hair stand on end. Terrified kids ducked in all directions, screaming in fright and unison with Frances. Something terrible had happened somewhere.

Frances’ eyes widened. She paused for breath, then her shriek grew louder. Suddenly her bladder cascaded down her chair like Niagara Falls. She sprang to her feet and knocked over her desk. The death adder spilled into the jostling crowd.

Instantly the class realized why they were screaming. Additional yelps rent the air. Bodies pressed against the walls and a few pupils collided as they shot out the door.

“What the hell is going on?” bellowed the headmaster.

He was running down the corridor now.

“Stop it you idiots! Keep still the lot of you!”

Classroom conditioning kicked in. Instantly all was hushed. Students remained backed against the wall, warily eyeing the adder of death.

Frances, her chest racked with dry sobs, stood amidst a pool of piddle, her feet frozen to the floor. The death adder’s menacing gaze held everyone in fear, including the headmaster. I edged to the centre of the classroom.

“Its dead, Sir.” I whispered.

All eyes swivelled towards me. Somehow, everyone knew I was the instigator of the chaos. I wanted to ooze down through the floorboards like the slowly receding pee.

“Britton, get that bloody snake out of here!” yelled Headmaster Nebone, forgetting about teacher decorum.

I picked it up on my ruler and once more pushed it in my lunch bag and left the room. Outside in the corridor, I could hear classroom order being restored. Desks were picked up and chairs straightened. Two girls led Frances out and down to the sick bay to change into something from the clothing pool. The three of them gave me reproachful glares. Frances was still softly sobbing.

Curlly came to fetch me, but the snake was to remain outside.

“Oh, man, that was marvellous,” beamed a delighted Curlly, “but boy, are you going to get it now!”

That afternoon I could hardly hold the handlebars of my bike. Three strokes of the cane on each hand had left them stinging and throbbing. Through my watery eyes, I couldn’t help giggling, despite the pain. As Curlly had said, it was an absolutely marvellous event.

It was sad, but Frances never ever saw the funny side of it.

© Roger Britton

Editor’s Note: I fondly believe that Roger, when he became a teacher of a small school in the 60s, must have experienced a huge wollop of karma from the behaviour of schoolboys in his classes.

 

“Snakey” by Roger Britton was last modified: September 20th, 2017 by Anne Skyvington
January 20, 2016 7 comments
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lady-robinsons-beach
Guest PostWriting

A Guest Post by Ian Wells

A Happy Childhood … by the beach

Memories of Freedom and Security

As a kid, I lived in a treasured place and time. It was the forties and fifties in Brighton-le-Sands. Life was simpler then. Kids could—and did—play outside all day. The crime rate was lower, we were happy with simple things, and only came home when the street lights went on. The streets were much safer places and were the venue for many games.

Back then, we drank water from the tap or from a hose, not from bottles;  nobody knew about the dangers of lead poisoning, or asbestos, let alone worrying about fluoride. We ate white bread, biscuits, cheese, real butter and bacon, untrimmed beef or greasy lamb chops, and we drank whole cream milk without any health issue qualms. Those were the days when we knew and trusted all of our neighbors, when we either walked or rode our one family bicycle everywhere we went.

historic-photo-of-brighton-school

Historic Photo of Brighton-le-Sands School

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A Guest Post by Ian Wells was last modified: December 5th, 2018 by Anne Skyvington
December 17, 2015 2 comments
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oskars-sylwan-bondi-beach
Guest PostPoetryWriting

Life is a Beach: a guest post by Ian Wells

Life is a Beach

Have you heard the saying, Life is a beach?
Have you ever strolled along a sandy shore?
Scrunching wet sand deliciously between your toes?

I have

I’ve watched the spray fly,
heard the waves pound
marvelled at dolphins dancing
enjoyed the birds’ aerobatic antics.

I’ve felt the sting of the hot sun on my flesh
while breathing in the tang of sweet salty air.
I’ve licked briny beads from my lips and tasted the sea.
I’ve walked with a well-loved someone, warmed inside and out,
talking and smiling and caring,

touching and laughing in the sun,
sharing our past, our present and our future.

Born and raised by the beach, I left for a while,

but the beach’s lure meant I just HAD to return.

Live well, laugh and love the beach, I cry.
I think I’ll always be passionate about my life…

and I’ll be so with a very special place in mind.

Life IS a beach!

© Ian Wells

 

Life is a Beach: a guest post by Ian Wells was last modified: December 5th, 2018 by Anne Skyvington
December 13, 2015 2 comments
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About The Author

About The Author

Anne Skyvington

Anne Skyvington is a writer based in Sydney who has been practising and teaching creative writing skills for many years. You can learn here about structuring a short story and how to go about creating a longer work, such as a novel or a memoir. Subscribe to this blog and receive a monthly newsletter on creative writing topics and events.

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About The Author

About The Author

Anne Skyvington is a Sydney-based writer and blogger. <a href="http://anneskyvington.com.au She has self-published a novel, 'Karrana' and is currently writing a creative memoir based on her life and childhood with a spiritual/mystical dimension.

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