Pregnant, Alicja had flown from London to Kracow to consult her dead father. An intense man, he’d been a Polish fighter pilot in the famous Kosciusko 303 squadron. After years in exile, the iron curtain had lifted, and he’d died in his beloved Kracow. Thoroughly English, Alicja was a stranger here. Yet, despite longing to be plain “Alice”, she still held onto the Polish spelling.
Strolling through Main Square, she didn’t see the oncoming tram. However, an invisible force shoved her to safety.
Somehow, she would stay.
Yet, could she?
Four years ago, I met Roland in our local bookshop. His father was a Polish bomber plot in WWII, and he came from near Kracow which somehow managed to survive the war without being bombed to smithereens. I have been helping Roland research his father’s story and being in distant Australia, I decided to visit Kracow via Google Earth the other night. It was exquisite. Have you been there? It’s definitely on my bucket list. an interesting aspect to this research is that my Great Great grandmother was born in what went on to become Poland and she was till alive when my mum was a child. I looked up the village she came from some time ago, and didn’t relate to it at all. Meanwhile, I am hoping to find a bakery which makes Makowiec (Poppy Seed Roll). Or, I might have to try baking it myself. Soon, I’ll have to start calling myself Rowski!
Meanwhile, I have recently started a second blog, where I’m exploring English-Australian novelist Ethel Turner, who wrote the classic “Seven Little Australians”. However, so far I’ve been showcasing some of her other writing. Here’s the link:
My agent was on the phone for the umpteenth time this afternoon.
“Have you reached a decision yet?” She pestered. “The clock’s ticking”.
“I’ve already told you. I’m sitting on it.”
Of course, this was counter-intuitive. Anyone else would’ve leaped at the chance to play Victoria in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats on Broadway. This was what I’d been dreaming and striving towards, ever since I put on my very first ballet slippers as a three year old. Yet, I knew that once I’d accepted, there’d be no turning back. That my life would never be my own again. Was it all worth selling my soul?
Or, did I even have a choice?
Of course not. I was the moth flying straight into the candle flame, but at least I was prepared.
At the age of 16, my grandmother, concert pianist Eunice Gardiner, won a scholarship to study at the Royal Academy of Music in London. At the time, Eunice was a sheltered Australian school girl living in Sydney’s Bondi Junction with her family. There was never any question of Eunice travelling to London alone. Indeed, her father said he’d “rather throw her to the sharks in Sydney Harbour”. So, on the 3rd December, 1935 she set off with her mother on board the Esperance Bay.
As it turned out, Eunice’s father died of a heart attack back in Australia four months later, and Her mother never saw her husband again. Eunice never saw her Dad. Moreover, Eunice’s older brother made personal sacrifices to continue supporting the pair in London. It was a very challenging road and Eunice’s incredible talent also had an incredible toll, especially for those around her. Indeed, in 1948 she left Sydney bound for New York leaving her husband, three young sons and mother behind. She returned about 12 months later at around 2.00am in the morning on Christmas Day morning. Hard to understand, and yet there have been times on my own parenting journey, I could’ve joined her.
The curtain raised. We all stood to attention and managed a macabre applause. The band had been blown up in the NYE Paris terrorist attack. In a freaky twist of fate, they’d just ducked outside to have a cigarette, and were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Meanwhile, their instruments which remained exactly where they were, had survived unscathed. I’ve heard that bass player, Sebastian Gordon, intended to quit that night, and that was going to be his last cigarette. Tragically, it was, although it wasn’t how he’d planned to quit for good. It wasn’t how they’d planned to stick together either. Either they’d been born under an unlucky star, or It was a twist of fate.
This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields at https://rochellewisoff.com/. This week’s photo prompt was kindly contributed by Dale Richardson.
Jackson was seething with rage, and vowing revenge. Busted with a bottle of Bacardi at school, the Principal had poured it straight down the sink, slapped him with a three day suspension, and hauled his parents into the office. That was it. He was immediately despatched to Uncle Bill’s piggery to teach him a good, hard lesson. “Suspension was a punishment, not a holiday”. The stench of pig still permeated his skin, as he emptied the contents of the takeaway container into her desk. A place for everything and everything in its place, it was right at home.
100 words. This has been another contribution to the Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields at https://rochellewisoff.com/. Every week, we write 50 words to a photo prompt. This weeks PHOTO PROMPT @ Jan Wayne Fields.
By the way, if you’re interested in old family photographs, you might like to check out my previous past. After my Great Aunt passed away, I’ve been putting some photos together and, of course, came up with some complcations.
Colour… I’ve almost forgotten what it is to have colour. We all have. No one knows whether there’s something wrong with our eyes, our brains or whether the entire Earth’s turned black and white with shades of grey.
People say it’s global warming, but I’m sure it’s the Big Bad Wolf, and I’m afraid. Very afraid.
Yet, I haven’t forgotten what it is to see red. Immerse myself in red. Be red. Red hair, red lips, red hearts, red dreams in red skies.
I also remember when the grass was green.
Anything, but black and white with shades of grey.
100 words. Photo prompt copyright Sarah Potter.
My response to this week’s prompt has been inspired by the weirdness of living in our current situation with the changes wrought by the coronavirus where wearing masks, social distancing and not hugging your friends has become the new norm. I now see scenes of people interacting normally on TV in scenes filmed in the past, and it’s starting to feel strange. Stop that. You’re not allowed to do that.
Gee , I really hope the vaccine comes along soon, and we can be ourselves again.
This has been a contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff Fields.
The Doctor didn’t know quite what to make of this place. The coastal villages had all been abandoned, and there wasn’t even a hint of living, breathing humanity for miles and miles. Yet, there were no bodies either, or that asphyxiating stench of death he knew too well. Indeed, there were even signs of habitation with tea and coffee still on the bench, and what seemed to be a lifetime’s supply of sugar. The Doctor wondered what had befallen this lost civilization. The only clue was a mask lying on the floor.
The odds of finding his daughter again were fading faster than the setting sun. Finally, she’d been spotted riding her a bike towards the marina. With his heart bursting through his chest, and his legs on the brink of collapse, Jim ran wishing he’d quit smoking 20 years ago. However, he was too late. All he found was her bike. Jess could be anywhere. Overwrought, he crashed to the pavement, banging his head. Jess popped out of nowhere, cradling her unconscious father in her arms. The risk of losing him far outweighed the argument she barely recalled.
Our family has had a few desperate search and rescue missions over the years, not only of humans, but also of dogs. The stress, acute fear and dreadful powers of the imagination take you in their grip and shake the bejesus out of you. You feel like your heart is out there somewhere hiding in the dark until its found. Then, the jubilation is incredible.
This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Every week, she posts a photo prompt and we write a response in 100 words or less and share and comment on each others’ efforts. It’s a great opportunity!
After a tumultuous battle between land and sea, the waves engulfed and devoured the crumbled ruins of Atlantis. Proud of its conquest, the ocean refused to regurgitate its shattered remains, or give up clues of its whereabouts. Rather, it kept its hoard buried deep beneath the sand, where its secrets could not escape. Meanwhile, the humans spun magnificent myths and legends. Surely, such a place could not exist, and the sea fuelled this deception with its whispers to keep its treasure secret. However, Poseidon had finally had enough, and left a solitary coin upon the beach. The time had come.
Goodness knows how I ended up at Atlantis from this photo prompt, except to say that my husband and I end up watching a lot of ancient history documentaries. Anyway, I had fun with this. We live right near the beach ourselves and have been through some nasty storms which have ravaged the coast, but no mysterious secrets have been revealed at our end.
This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields. Every week, she posts a photo prompt and we write a hundred words to the prompt. I am constantly amazed at how these prompts stimulate my writing, and I strongly encourage you to get involved and have a go. You might surprise yourself!
I’m not sure whether you’ll be keen to join me here. It’s Spring here, and we had a high of 32ᵒC today, and we’re back to having the air-conditioner on. That said, it’s going to be cooling down again later in the week. So, I’m not quite sure whether I should be packing up my woollens quite yet.
It’s hard to know quite where to start today. We’re in the middle of school holidays, and our son has a group of mates over and they’ve taken over the kitchen and are playing cards. I can’t remember the last time he had a group of mates over, and it’s really lovely to have them here. They’re really polite and a real pleasure. I’ve always wanted our place to be a bit of an open house where they feel free to bring their friends. However, life got in the way, and the house has had different ideas. Indeed, it’s been hard to contain the tide of stuff building up all over the place. However, we’ve been making some headway lately. So, hopefully this is just the beginning. Stuff out. People in.
Meanwhile, I thought I’d take you on a bit of a road trip. Last week, our son was offered some additional training on the sound desk at Church and to help out with sound at a funeral. I was stoked for him to not only get the additional training, but also to be doing something so worthwhile. The only downside was all of this was an hour’s drive away, and I’d also have to fill in a few hours and then drive him home. I get quite fatigued so aside from chewing up my day, I was also concerned that I’d run out of ergs before we arrived home. However, my son and I had great chats driving each way, which reminded me of the walks we used to go on when he was just a little tacker, and I wrote about it here: https://beyondtheflow.wordpress.com/2020/10/02/norah-head-lighthouse-nsw-australia/
The other complication, of course, was covid and trying to work out where I was going to go while he was busy. Although numbers are very low here, I’m still being careful.
However, filling in time actually evolved into quite an adventure for myself, as I ended up spending the afternoon at Norah Head enjoying the stunning views and checking out the exterior of the lighthouse. Not unsurprisingly tours inside the lighthouse are currently cancelled due to coronavirus. If you’d like to read more about my day out at Norah Head, you can check my post here: https://beyondtheflow.wordpress.com/2020/10/02/norah-head-lighthouse-nsw-australia/
Lastly, our weekend was also busy as our daughter was performing with dance team at her dance school for their annual production concert. The standard of these students is incredible not just in terms of technique, but also in terms of expression, feeling and churning your emotions around and giving you goose bumps. The ballet was Les Sylphides with music by Chopin and the original choreography by Mikhail Fokine. Les Sylphides has no plot but instead consists of several white-clad sylphs dancing in the moonlight with the “poet” or “young man” dressed in white tights and a black tunic. It was incredibly beautiful, and it was almost unbelievable to see our very own daughter looking so beautiful in the flouncy romantic tutu and en pointe and to my untrained eye looking like a professional ballerina. Yet, at the same time, you could also interpret this scene as something of a horrific nightmare where she was paralysed inside this cold, detached, untouchable character something like a porcelain doll. Like many teens, there have been times when she’s been quite withdrawn and it was this aspect of her that I saw in this character. Well, at least the first time I saw it. I experienced that less the second time I saw it and appreciated more of its beauty, as well as the technical complexity of the piece. Indeed, I’d really like to see it again just to really savour and remember it for all time. There was also a musical theatre number followed by a moody contemporary piece called Cosmos, choreographed by one of their teacher’s, Miss Karina Russell, who recently played Veruca Salt in Charlie the Musical. I felt really spoilt being able experience such incredible creativity and talent locally, especially with my daughter in the cast and being able to soak all this up on her journey towards becoming a professional dancer. I was also over the moon to see my friends from the dance school again for the first time since about March.
We’ve also been attending an online conference with our Church, Hope UC. Obviously, due to Covid, it went online. For some, this was probably disappointing because it cut the program back considerably and you’re listening to sessions online, even though we were encouraged to watch it in groups, which we did and we also shared a meal and more than our quota of cake and dessert. So, juggling conference and our daughter’s performances and rehearsals, it’s been a busy time.
Finally, I’m pleased to report some progress on the garden front. While I was at Norah Head, I bough half a dozen red Salvia’s which I’ve planted in a row out the front. I also bought a very striking non-flowering plant, which as an unusual choice for me as I love prefer brightly coloured flowering options. However, this one made was an exception. I also need to confess that I still haven’t planted the gardenias I bought a few weeks ago. However, they’ve been well watered and are still alive, which is still a good outcome. I’ve been having trouble working out quite where to plant them. I know I’m probably over-thinking it, but you can’t keep moving plants around like paintings on the wall, especially once they’re dead.
Bill was completely bamboozled. The ringing in his ears had become so blaringly loud, it sounded like someone was banging inside the donations bin. Yet, that was ludicrous. He had the only key, and guarded his charge like a hawk. There was no way anyone could get in or out without his explicit say so.
However, everywhere else, the tinnitus decrescendoed back to its annoying pianissimo.
Monday, Bill was making his coffee when the banging became an explosion. A flash of light, and the red bin was gone like the Tardis.
This is another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff Fields. We’d love you to join us: https://rochellewisoff.com/
By the way, this week I have an unfair advantage. I supplied the photo prompt. So, I can also let you know that the photo should be rotated left with the beam of sunlight in the top left corner. That was my fault. Well, I’ll blame my dodgy photo editor and trouble rotating images.
This clothing bin is a bit battered and bruised, and I felt it looked a bit like it had crash-landed from outer space and would make great inspiration for Friday Fictioneers. Despite being an avid amateur photographer and responding to other people’s photo prompts for many years, this was my first contribution. I can’t wait to read all of your responses.
BTW in case you’re wondering, Woy Woy is in New South Wales about an hour North of Sydney, Australia. I know this is quite a throw back. However, here’s a link to a 1932 movie of Woy Woy and I particularly loved seeing a steam train crossing the Hawkesbury River Bridge: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ci3_j_1iQpY
Here’s a few local images, and you’ll be excused for thinking Woy Woy is home to the pelican: