Anne Skyvington
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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
MemoirWriting

My Brother Donny

written by Anne Skyvington September 27, 2012
dante-and-beatrice

My brother Donny was brave. He could climb the tallest trees in the valley where we grew up. I was three and afraid of the dark. Dad sent me back to my room in the middle of the night. He wanted Mum all to himself. I climbed in next to Donny and felt the flip of his penis like a lizard, as he moved in his sleep to make room for me. Donny wasn’t afraid of snakes or frogs or anything.

We rode Midge bareback and did circus tricks upon his rump. Donny got blamed for everything. The scapegoat. In biblical times he was sent out into the desert for the sins of his brethren.

He even got blamed for putting water in the rain gauge.  I did it to punish Uncle Eric for scaring me.  He scared me with his gruffness. He ran Grandma’s farm like the Godfather. His red face, loud mouth and jerky hands on the reins.

me and donny on midge

Me and Donny on Midge

When my brother went off to school, I was sad and angry. He didn’t notice me when he came home from school on that first day. The longest day of my life. Only now do I realise it was a case of unrequited love on my part. No one knew. Not even Donny.

Mum and Grandma laughed when I said the words, Say you love me, Donny. At the end of the longest day.

I like ya, he replied. Part of the male tribe now.

I might have shouted out bad words after that: I hate you, I hate you.  Down by the gum trees on the farm next to the swamps. That’s where I went to escape, bareback on Midge.

One day Midge reared up and crushed Donny’s skull. I felt guilty, as if it was my fault. Donny wasn’t good at school. Not like Billy, the cuckoo in the nest. Mum said he was a genius. When he listened to the ‘Chickabidees of the Air’. He was only two or three.

‘There’s a thin line between genius and madness!’ Grandma said to her.

Donny found birds’ eggs and blew the muck out of them through a tiny hole. He put a speck of red wax on the hole and placed them in a glass-lidded box.

Once he caught a sparrow on the farm next door, and showed it to Old Ned. He took it from him, raised the axe slowly and deliberately, and smashed its head upon a block.

Don’s head has been asleep for a long time now. It’s time for me to go to him in the nursing home. It’s time to whisper in his ear. The same words of love I cried out that day long ago. He’s in a dark place and afraid to let go. Time now to fly and soar like an eagle high up in the sky.

Fly, Brother Eagle, fly!

eagle-soaring

My Brother Donny was last modified: February 26th, 2018 by Anne Skyvington
children take on guiltfreudian analysis looked back to the past.memories buried in the unconscioussymbolism of birdsthe symbolism of reptileswhat was chickabidees of the air?
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Anne Skyvington

I have been a reader/writer all of my life as far back as I can remember. Blogging has opened me up to another world, where I can share my skills and continue to create through word and picture. Writing is about seeing the world and recreating it for others to see through different eyes.

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6 comments

Ian Harry Wells January 29, 2016 at 7:53 pm

I have recently read or re-read the couple of stories about your beloved brother (‘The River Clown’ and ‘My Brother Donny’). They shine with demonstrations of sibling affection, but they are also made dismal by your sadness and melancholy. You demonstrate loss and dislocation well with your delivery. I am left feeling quite sorrowful.

Reply
Anne Skyvington January 29, 2016 at 8:08 pm

Hi Ian
Yes, it’s probably at the root of my emotional problems as a child, and what influenced, to a great extent, my self esteem problems as I went into adulthood. It seems that I took on blame (guilt) for my brother’s accident, as if my thoughts and actions leading up to it might have caused it to happen. Strange how children do this sometimes. The good thing is that I got to find my “cure” before Don died, and I was with him as he passed away peacefully in a kindly nursing home in Brisbane, Georgina Hostel.

Reply
IAN WELLS December 14, 2016 at 9:26 pm

How poignant!

I have read and re-read this post a number of times over the last eighteen months since first discovering it. It keeps drawing me back. Each time I tend to “tear up”, sometimes metaphorically and sometimes actually. I both envy and pity you for having lived the experiences you describe so well. What a bond, a love and a truly wonderful life experience you depict.

I can appreciate your style and your honesty and have a real respect for your writing skills as showcased in this brief work. It is an emotive, creative and honest outpouring of personal loss and regret.

It ranks right up there together with the couple of Rumi, jacaranda and “golden” posts. No, it tops them all!

More please.

Reply
Anne Skyvington December 16, 2016 at 11:08 am

Thanks again, Ian. It’s a brief summary of the story of my childhood memoir, “River Girl”. I discovered , through writing it, that I had blamed myself, or taken on some of the guilt, for Donny’s accident when he was eight, and I was six. The actual words spoken, after he returned home from his first day at school were: “Say you love me, Donny”, and he’d muttered “I like ya'” (Mum told me this) because he was now part of the “boy tribe”. Mum was going a bit deaf, and Donny had been my surrogate carer/nurturer. I became more secretive and I internalised my loneliness and anger afterwards, I think: dangerous for a person’s health. Ironically, Don turned towards me (and my Armidale College friends) for company later on, when he was lonely and on a slippery slide through alcoholism and ill health.

Reply
IAN WELLS December 14, 2016 at 9:28 pm

“‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” – Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Reply
Anne Skyvington December 16, 2016 at 11:11 am

Yes, I think I was the one suffering from unrequited love at this stage. There were surrogates, however: Nature, our pony Midge, the farm across the road and the river a creek we got to swim in.

Reply

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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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