Moonrise over Great Oyster Bay, Swansea Tasmania

This photo of Great Oyster Bay was taken at Swansea, Tasmania, the day before we ventured over to the Freycinet Peninsula (seen here across the bay) for a hike down to iconic Wineglass Bay. Tasmania is a huge source of inspiration for my fantasy fiction writing, with its beautiful, fierce wilderness and even fiercer convict history.

#faransilverton

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Great Oyster Bay, Swansea Tasmania

 

 

Done and Darbie’d – story intro part 2

Following on from yesterday’s post Done and Darbie’d – story intro part 1, here’s the second part of the introduction to my short story, which was published last year in The Never Never Land fantasy fiction anthology.

Dead tree at sunset

He loathed it; the wilderness, the witless horse beneath him. His fear of these ominous, overgrown hills was boundless. Fear that ran its chill finger down his spine in the dead of night, the fear of being lost while a dead man’s boots trod in his wake, a ghost seeking retribution.

Done and Darbie’d – story intro part 1

I’ve been playing around combining some of my writing with my photos – what do you think?

It took a special kind of man to ride out into dense scrubland hunting escaped convicts, but Tyrek Lind knew he’d never be that soldier. He inhaled sharply as a cluster of eucalyptus brushed past his face; a scent he knew would strengthen as the Port Scar sun climbed over the forest canopy.

Illira’s escape – a writing exercise

2009-05-17 On top of the worldThis is a piece I wrote when I attended Fiona McIntosh’s writing Masterclass two years ago. It gave me a good dose of confidence, a sort of epiphany that I could actually write.

Illira blew out a breath as she trotted towards the escarpment, trying to ease the heaviness in her belly. The field parted like a curtain before her horse, into yet another never ending row of wheat. A glance over her shoulder confirmed her suspicion; the trampled crop left a stark betrayal of the path she’d taken.

She pressed the horse into a canter, reassuring the beast with a hand on its damp neck. The gelding’s breath rasped over the whisper of passing wheatsheafs. Just a little further now to the cliff track, where their trail of hoofprints would disappear into the shale.

As the field ebbed away, a eucalyptus tang stung Illira’s nose, drifting from the forest spilt over the clifftop above her. The horse’s hooves crunched onto the stone path, a mere goat track, really, but at least it led to safety.

She bit her lip, having to let the horse slow to pick its way along, knowing at every step they were as exposed as a blowfly on a fresh shorn sheep.