Driftwood: An anthology of works by members of the Mackay-Pioneer Valley Arts Council Writers Group (Mackay Writers)

Words are the most powerful drug used by mankind.

– Rudyard Kipling

Driftwood

By Jane Paulsen

I walked alone along the beach

And came upon a driftwood tree

Brought here by countless waves

A present just for me.

I sat down close beside it

On that warm and breezy shore.

The waves lapped closer to the tree,

Than they were an hour before.

There was strange beauty in its shape,

Throwing shadows on the sand.

A balm for weary eyes,

A gift for questing hands.

I touched the satin surface

And let my fingers run.

Felt its warmth, all smooth and shiny

Bronzed by the evening sun.

And I wondered where it came from,

How far from home was it?

How many miles did it float

to rest just where I sit?

Memories flowed through my mind

Like driftwood on the tide.

Some were happy and made me smile,

Some were secrets I must hide.

Clouds were painted by the setting sun,

Pink and gold before my eyes,

As I slowly walked away

From my driftwood paradise.

I went back again days later,

To the sand and sea and space.

Although that driftwood tree was gone,

There was another in its place.

A Musing

By Jane Paulsen

It’s not easy being a muse, you know. Trying to inspire humans to produce great works is hard and unrewarding. I mean, obviously some humans are easier than others, and who your human is, is in the lap of the gods. Muses get assigned a human if it’s decided by the gods that the human has a talent. Do not ask me how they determine this – it’s a mystery to most of us who actually are out there doing the inspiring.

Da Vinci wasn’t one of mine, nor Shakespeare, nor the guy (I forget his name) who designed the Sydney Opera House. No, this century alone, I got Paul Crocket, Gunther Knerken and Maryann Canly who believed themselves a writer, a bard and a painter – what they were was mediocre, talentless and unheard-of. And quite short-lived, even for humans. Paul died in squalor, alone but strangely happy in a weird way, believing his works would be ‘discovered’ and proclaimed as works of genius after his demise. (Actually, they lined the cages of the landlord’s ferrets for three months before being put in the garbage.) Gunther … well he was killed by a jealous husband one night as he was searching for inspiration in all the wrong places, and Maryann wandered off into the Outback with a sketchpad, a box of pastels and a single bottle of water, never to be seen again.

It’s not as if I haven’t tried. In the early fifties I was doing quite well with Seth Nebly, until a can of baked beans fell on his head when he was looking in his cupboard for the sugar. And he gets all depressed. Apparently temporary blindness caused by swelling on his brain has an adverse effect on painters. So, six months later his sight comes back and instead of rejoicing, he mopes around whingeing I’ve lost my muse, I’ve lost my muse. And there’s me, dancing around, shrieking I’m here, moron. Right here! Of course, he didn’t see me – humans can’t see their muses. Well, after a few days of dancing and shrieking, I started to get worried; not to mention really tired of dancing and shrieking. My next centennial appraisal was due in a mere decade and a half, so I needed a successful project to lay on the plinth, if I ever wanted to be anything more than a minor deity.

Happily, or so I thought at the time, with all that gyrating and waving of arms, my robes created quite a breeze and the perfume from some jasmine that Seth’s mom had picked from the garden and arranged in a vase in his kitchen, wafted over. He turned his head and caught sight of them. Oooh, what’s this? A modicum of interest at last? I arranged a shaft of light, to give a gentle shine to the blossoms. He grabbed his charcoal and pad, and with lightning movements, it’s all there – the flow, the curve, the tender starriness of the blooms. I sense a masterpiece in the making. Yes! I’ve still got it.

Now, Van Gogh (also not one of mine, sadly) did sunflowers very successfully, so why shouldn’t Nebly do jasmine? Jasmine’s nice. Delicate white and blush pink blooms against strong, dark foliage. Humans like a contrast in their art. He just needed some fresh sprigs to get the colour perfect. Ever helpful, I nudged him out the back door with a spurt of perfume. He headed towards the bush, kitchen knife in hand and the spring back in his step, then strangely, he leapt backwards, waving his arms wildly, screaming, then gasping for breath and shortly after turns a very strange shade of blue. How was I to know he was allergic to bees? I’m sure it wasn’t in his file. Nice funeral, though. All of his arty friends came. Some of their muses sent me messages of thanks, because their humans were suddenly producing some wonderful stuff in tribute.

Well, with Seth gone to that great art studio in the sky, I was given my next assignment – Jenny Francis, aspiring author. Why she was considered worthy I’ll never know. Her plots were thin, the characters one-dimensional, the storylines drab and the endings weak. She didn’t need a muse, she needed another hobby. Belly dancing, maybe?

Anyway, here’s Jenny, wrapped in her humdrum life, with her humdrum boyfriend James, writing boringly humdrum prose and taking herself mind-numbingly seriously. Suddenly James, citing her terminal seriousness, ups and leaves her. Lucky James! I’m stuck with my assignments until one of two things happens: They die, or they finally give up the ridiculous notion that they can do anything more creative than a smiley face on the bottom of a birthday card. You’d be surprised how long it takes some humans to admit they’re talent-challenged.

But I digress. James leaves, Jenny mopes. And mopes. And mopes some more. Weeks turn into months of mopery, and I’m starting to lose patience. I’m not the only one. Her friends pool together to buy her a self-help book whose main message is You don’t like the way it turned out? Rewrite it! Imagine it better! And she did. With my help she reached deep into her unhappiness, poured all her emotion onto the pages and wrote a most un-humdrum story. Book of the year, it was. She was on fire now – I’m bombarding her with ideas. As fast as I can fling them at her, she’s churning out stories, then she’s attending book signings, giving interviews. I’m back, baby! Watch my smoke.

It was at one of these book signings she met Lennie. Eyes across the crowded room, heart going pitter-patter, the whole business, and pretty soon they’re together all the time. And Jenny’s too busy being in love, so she’s not writing any more. And then she can’t write. No matter how hard she tried. No matter how much I prodded and whispered. She was too settled, planning dinner for two and buying his brand of toothpaste. She reverts from bestseller to boring, overnight it seems. It bothered her and it didn’t please Lennie any I can tell you. No more gala occasions, no more magazine interviews. And pretty soon, no more Lennie. He liked her fame. He liked her when she was excited by life. He’d signed on for glamour, not glum. What can I say? He’s only human. He left and so did her desire to even attempt to put pen to paper. I was not looking forward to dreary months of moping, so one night, I tweaked her dreams. I gave her the bones of a story. And some flesh. And a few wonderfully descriptive passages. Then I let her remember it the next day. Not strictly within the muse-rules, I concede, but sometimes one must do what one must. And besides, even the minor muses had made fun of me at the last bi-monthly meeting. I was sorely tempted to throw down my nectar goblet and let loose with some descriptive phrases of my own, but I didn’t, and left with my dignity intact and a vow to myself to get Jenny either writing or written off. So, here she was, producing prose again. Her publisher was very happy, as was her bank manager. Her long-suffering friends were positively ecstatic – Jenny in the midst of a mope-fest was quite hard going. And I start to look forward to the muse meetings.

The public proved not to be fickle and bought her books by the hundreds. She was sought after by magazines, TV and radio shows. She was witty, she was interesting, she was glowing and she was writing like a Trojan. Well, not exactly like a Trojan, because as everyone knows, Trojans are known more for their wars than their literature. So, she was writing like a Trojan fights is what I meant.

Everything is going swimmingly, when into the sparkling pool that was Jenny’s life, swims James, suitably abject and apologetic. I fully expected her to give him his marching orders, but apparently, her memory is no better than any other mortal’s, because she welcomed him back with open arms. My heart dropped faster than a lightning bolt flung from the heavens. Not again! I had almost resigned myself to the whole waning talent/walking lover/crying Jenny cycle when I realised some humans may not be as stupid as I had hitherto believed (No offence intended to any of you humans out there). Certainly Jenny proved she wasn’t. She had a meeting with James and her agent. It went on for some hours, during which there was a fair amount of emotion displayed, but the gist of the outcome was that since she wrote best when she was unhappy and lonely and since she didn’t feel like being that way for the rest of her life, she was putting away her pen when it came to fiction writing, and was going to try her hand at lecturing instead. James was overjoyed (I think the strange fellow really loved her and cared about her happiness) and after a while the agent saw that although he may have been losing an author, he was also losing a potential suicide – lots of negative publicity not to have to deal with. Smiles all around.

Flushed with my success, – well, I would call the fact that Jenny is still breathing a success, wouldn’t you? – I went last week to collect my next assignment with a certain air of confidence. It’s a new age – the year is 1960, the war has been over for more than a decade, and there’s a definite feel of exuberance in the wind. And what do I get? A pimply, scrawny, round-faced teenager from Liverpool, that’s what! He thinks he can write songs. He thinks he can sing songs. With that accent, who’s going to understand him? But although I don’t hold out much hope I’ll do my best with him, true to my nature and purpose in life (And also because the gods can be quite scary if they feel your enthusiasm to your assignment might be lacking).

Come on, then, Paul McCartney, pick up your guitar, let’s stroll down to the Lennon’s council flat and get you and John to work ...

Storm Over Clarke Mountain

By Alexander Booth

The Range Rover was warm and cosy and Katherine relaxed as she drove along the last straight before the Tawny Creek Road would start its winding climb to the top of the range. Snow was expected but the forecasts were usually wrong. She was a good driver and never drove too fast in bad weather ever since she had skidded off an icy road in Austria.

Only a few locals used Tawny Creek Road as it had a reputation for washouts in the unsealed section up on the ridge. A few mysterious disappearances didn’t help either. The cashier at the last gas station reassured her they were just urban myths the locals used to stop the road being chopped up by too much traffic. Katherine