Don't forget your free short story at the end of this newsletter CREATIVITY...? On a cool, grey, drizzly day, when I’m nursing a headache and completely devoid of inspiration, the Queensland Writers Centre's weekly newsletter tells me their magazine for the June quarter focuses on how writers think about and apply creativity in their lives. I can’t wait to read it. I’m hoping that somewhere in its pages it will tell me where I can obtain a supply of this creativity stuff. Even just a spoonful would be useful today. Then, instead of sitting on the deck listening to the waves breaking on the beach, I could go and sit in my office and be productive. WHAT’S NEW?
In line with my moaning in the paragraph above, again this month, nothing much is new. Neive Denis has typed The End to her latest manuscript, number 12 in her private investigator series. It still doesn’t have a title, or even a hint of inspiration for its cover. And, it is scheduled for extensive surgery late in June when it is to undergo its first edit. The release of Kayla Danoli’s latest book, A Life of Tea and Sugar, has been delayed for want of a cover. This could be rectified in the next week or so and, with any amount of luck, might see it released by the end of June. SOME LIGHT READING Below is this month's free short story. Old Jim’s Retirement Gulls wheeled overhead as Marian rushed from the house to the wharf where her husband’s boat was about to tie-up. As her husband, Bert, brought the boat alongside, her son, Russell, leapt off onto the wharf and made fast the stern mooring line. A dozen or so of the circling gulls landed on the wharf beside Marian when they saw Bert lean out and hand Russell the other mooring rope. Then the heavy work began. While Russell went to reverse their small van along the wharf to where the boat was moored, Marian helped unload the crates of fish from the night’s catch. As Bert handed her each heavy crate of fish and ice, Marian felt her knees sag a little under its weight before dumping them onto the wharf for Russell to load into the van. Judging by the number of full crates coming off the boat, it was worth staying out all night. At last, Bert uttered the words she wanted to hear before he joined her on the wharf. “That’s it, Luv. That’s the last one.” She plonked it down on the wharf and eased her back upright again. “You had better go through that lot and sort out what you want for tonight,” Bert said as he signalled to Russell to bring the van closer. “There will be about twenty of us, I reckon. Make sure you take out enough. Oh, and there are a few squid in that blue crate over there. Take those too. Some of that posh salt and pepper calamari stuff you make will probably go down well along with the fish.” “Have you told Old Jim about tonight yet, or is he still in the dark about it?” “I asked him to come over a bit after six o’clock for a drink, but he doesn’t know the other skippers and their crews will be there too.” “I hope it isn’t too much of a shock for the old bloke. Maybe you should have warned there might a few others as well.” But her comment went unheard. Bert was now standing beside the van and talking to another skipper who had tied up. Plunging her hand through the ice covering the fish, she felt around for a good sized fish. Selecting two from that crate, she put them in an empty crate. Then, with hands red and fingers aching from the cold, she moved on to the other crates, repeating the process until she had enough in her crate. As she examined the fish she had set aside, doubts crowded in. Were six fish enough? Maybe she needed another couple, just to be sure. And she still had to dig out those squid Bert mentioned. By the time Russell dropped her and her crate of fish at home. Marian had worked out tonight’s menu. The two biggest fish would be baked whole. Some of the oldtimers still preferred fish cooked that way. The remaining fish would be filleted, with some to be battered and the rest crumbed. As for the squid, three of them would become salt and pepper calamari. But not all the fishermen like that, and some didn’t eat squid at all. She would stew the other four squid with onions and tomatoes. The rest of the morning was spent filleting, scoring, slicing, and chopping, and there had to be a salad. She’d be feeding fishermen, not gourmets, so a simple salad would do. A conversation between her husband and son intruded on her thoughts about salad. “Old Jim had a son, didn’t he?” Russell asked. “Wasn’t he interested in fishing?” “No, he opted for university and now has an important job with some big firm down south somewhere.” “Why is Old Jim retiring? He’s been doing all right. He’s had good catches hasn’t he?” “Jim’s getting on a bit in age, and I don’t think he’s been too well.” “What’s wrong with him?” “Aw, he’s been tight-lipped about it. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s good news. Anyway, he decided to give the game away and already has sold some of his gear. A couple of people are interested in buying his boat.” “How do you reckon he’ll cope with retirement? Maybe they will pack up and move south the wherever his son is now.” “Not likely, mate. Jim’s wife wanted to move closer to their son, but Jim told her she would be going on her own. He was born and spent his life here in this village, and intended to die here.” By 5.30, bread rolls were buttered, salad was ready, the whole fish were baking, and the calamari stew was having a long, slow simmer. Mavis and Rhonda arrived with platters of pre-dinner nibbles, and Rhonda brought her deep fryer to cook the battered fish, while Mavis cooked the crumbed fish in her enormous skillet. Tables were set out along with plenty of chairs commandeered from neighbours. All was ready for the arrival of the guest of honour … who, if running true to form, would arrive ten to fifteen minutes late. Six o’clock came and went and, at 6.30, there still was no sign of Old Jim. Russell’s job for the evening, apart from keeping glasses topped up, was to keep an eye out for Jim’s arrival. At about seven o’clock, Russell wandered out front to check the house on the corner across the road. This time, when Russell rushed back to report to his father, he was concerned. “There’s no sign of Old Jim, but there are a couple of strange cars parked out front of his place, and a cop car just pulled up there too.” “I might wander over to see what’s happened. He’s getting on a bit and might have forgotten.” About ten minutes later, Bert returned. He strode in and banged a bottle on a table as he called for everyone’s attention. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid. Old Jim went out in the wee hours of this morning for one last fishing trip. When he hadn’t returned by lunchtime, his wife raised the alarm. Wreckage of Jim’s boat has been found out at The Shoals. There is no sign of Jim. It appears he now will forever be ‘out at sea’. What was to be his industry farewell party, now will be his wake. So, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll ask you to please charge your glasses and be upstanding. …Here’s to Old Jim…!” The End
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