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Monday, January 30, 2006

Already Gone

I wake to late afternoon sun; there should be moonlight.
Outside, the air is still and warm but the leaves have turned gold.
As in a dream I walk around - looking at things, touching things,
and gradually, I come to know that I’m not really here.
The house feels empty and silent.

The things that I love and use, are all here.
The chairs, the table, the lamps, the incomplete tapestry in the corner.
All stand as though waiting for me to pick them up.
Everything looks exactly the same, but everything feels different.
There is a smell of age, of dust, of sadness.

Slowly I wander, remembering the springs and summers of my time.
Somebody still lives here; I feel the emptiness in him as well.
And yet there is peace here. It emanates from everywhere and makes me smile.
I wonder if he smiles any more.
Does he remember what it was like when I was here?

All is as if I am still here.
But I am already gone.

Brittany Kingston
© Monday, January 30, 2006

Write, Write, Write

That's all there is to it really. If you're a writer, you write... and write... and write.

You slave away over a hot keyboard, cutting, pasting, rewording, checking spelling and grammar... Practicing and perfecting your art in the hope that one day you'll become a recognised, well-loved author. Computers are wonderful creatures, aren't they? We work with whole blocks of text now, instead of just one line. Whole pages appear, disappear [sometimes without our permission], and reappear in other parts of our novels in the blink of an eye -- or the click of a finger.

I remember my old typewriter days. I wrote a complete novel on one. Tedious. Laborious. Frustrating. Those are just a few words that come to mind. However, those were the days I was thanking my lucky stars that I had a typewriter. It was state-of-the-art. It was electric. It had a correction tape. Yippeee! I could correct my errors as I went. I thought those days were heaven.

The alternative was pen and paper. Ugh! Just the thought of putting pen to paper in the mechanical, muscle cramping, medieval ways of old gives me the shivers. We've come a long way.

Now, writers talk about disks, cds, dvds, memory sticks. We email our work all over the world and keep in touch with people we never see in person.

But the one thing that has never changed is that writers write. They don't just put words on paper. They create worlds, people, feelings, emotions. And they are driven to keep writing against all adversity.

Can a writer stop writing? No. It's always there. Even if it's lurking beneath the surface, it's still there -- that urge to create, that urge to get the words onto the page.

By that definition, I am a writer. So are a lot of my friends. None of us are household names yet, but we're hanging in there, writing, writing, writing...

Saturday, January 28, 2006

8.08 p.m.

No writing done today. The storms were too bad. I ran around all day cleaning the house, vacuuming up after the tradesmen had finished putting the air conditioner on the roof and installing the ducting. Great! A wasted day.

At least it cooled down a little.

Can someone pleeeeeeeeeze explain to me how a fridge – something we only put clean food in – can get so grotty and disgusting!!! I cleaned out the bottom of my fridge today. Yuk. It was revolting. It was full of water and slimy stuff. How on earth does it get that way? It’s nice and clean now, but I bet it won’t stay that way for long. [sigh]

Another One?

I had an idea for a short story. No, not another short story that turns into a novel like “Mark of the Condemned”. A real short story. I should keep plugging away at the other three novels I’m working on.

Susan and I have decided to drop “The Half Burnt Bridge”. It’s very 1970s and 1980s. A bit dated. Parts of it are really well written, and other parts need a complete overhaul. We’ve decided to shelve it for now. The stuff we’re writing now is much better. Perhaps we’ll find a market for it some time and that will give us a reason to rewrite it. It’s not a bad story. It just isn’t quite there yet. So... into the archives goes “The Half Burnt Bridge” and our beloved characters Jason and Brant.

I haven’t had much luck getting my short stories published yet. I had a “near miss” with one magazine and my “Sword of Anubis” vampire story. They even wrote a comment for me which I thanked them for. They said they seriously considered publishing the story but the point of view swapped too many times for them. They said the rest of the story was very strong and they liked it. I’m going to have a good read to see what I can do about that. A bit of rewriting can fix those POV problems. I like to write in third person omniscient which a lot of magazine publishers don’t like. They prefer third person subjective. But I like to get inside all the characters’ heads. Back to the drawing board for “Sword of Anubis”. If I’ve been sloppy with my POV, I can easily fix that. If not, then it’s ready for a new market. Wish me luck.

OK. It’s back to Ranger and Jaxxlar the Shadow Runners now.

Writing Day At Last

Yay! Geoff is back at work today. I can now spend all day writing, if I want to.

I just finished talking to Maureen [friend at Ararat] on the phone. Only a two-hour phone call this time. Quite short really. I was catching up on the fire situation. Very scary over Halls Gap way. This hot, windy weather doesn’t help either.

Today is supposed to be another 37 degree day. It looks really stormy. I wonder if we’ll get any rain. Probably not.

The workmen are still up on the roof, in the roof, all over the roof... installing our air conditioner. At long last we’ll have cooling for this house. I don’t mind the heat – as you know – but last night wasn’t pleasant. It was 32 inside the house and it didn’t cool off. It will be nice to just turn on the cooling and get a good night’s sleep. I usually don’t have any trouble sleeping in the heat, but last night there wasn’t even a breath of air moving anywhere. The fan was only moving hot air about. Hmmmmm. Must be getting soft in my old age.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Mark of the Condemned

Chapter One or Preface



The High Priest rambled on making symbolic gestures, shaking his stinking incense burner in Jovahn’s face. Jovahn glowered at him. There was no need to hide his contempt now. The crowd fell silent, watching, waiting, trying to catch a word or two to gossip about later.

The High Priest was enjoying every moment of his performance. The crowd greedily devoured every word he spoke, and that was exactly the way he liked to have them. He concluded his mutterings with a grand gesture to the heavens.

He looked at the condemned man with an over-exaggerated expression of pity. “When you meet the great and terrible Almighty, my son, I hope he finds it in his heart to grant you a modicum of mercy.”

Jovahn would have spat in the High Priest’s face if his mouth wasn’t so dry.

The High Priest took the key dangling from his sash and unlocked the neck shackle that was holding the condemned against the centre pole. “Go in peace.”

More like ‘go in pieces’, Jovahn thought. He was still chained to the pole by ankle shackles so he couldn’t escape, but it was good not to have the weight of the metal collar around his throat. Now, at least, he could stand and meet his end face on.

He watched the High Priest walk from the centre of the arena. It was because of religious freaks like that he was being executed. They’d come early one morning to his land to collect their tithings. It hadn’t mattered to them that this was the third year of a drought and that there was nothing to give. Rhani, his sweet Rahni, had offered them what little they had in their larder, but the bastards wouldn’t take it. He and Rahni were seized and held while the High Priest’s henchmen threw burning brands on the roof of their house in punishment for withholding their tithe.

Rahni had struggled. She’d screamed that the baby was still inside, but they ignored her. She bit the arm of the noviciate who held her and broke away. Jovahn struggled to free himself from the three men who’d been holding him down, but with a knife at his throat, all he could do was watch in horror as the scene unfolded before him. He saw the head priest lift his cross bow and take aim. He screamed out a warning – too late. The bolt had flown straight into his wife’s heart. She’d fallen through the doorway, her arms still outstretched toward their baby.

Strength born of madness had overcome him and Jovahn had fought his way out of the grasp of the three young priests. One of the novitiates tackled him and managed to get the knife to his throat again. Still hoping to reach his infant son before the house burnt down, Jovahn fought with all the strength he had left. In desperation, he’d slashed the man’s throat, but the weight of numbers was against him and he’d been overpowered and knocked unconscious.

Later, he was told that the novitiate had died of the wound, and that was why he’d been condemned to death instead of just being shipped to the mines. He didn’t know if that was true or not. He didn’t care. Death would be better than a life underground anyway.

Tears stung his eyes at the memory of his wife and son. He swiped them away with the back of his hand. It didn’t matter that he was being executed. He had nothing left to lose except his life. And what was that worth without Rhani and Darrik?

The High Priest disappeared through the door with the serpent and the cross embossed on it. He’d have a good seat for the fun that would follow. He reappeared on the balcony and climbed up onto the dais where he sat looking piously regal.

Jovahn looked down at himself. He was skinny, tattered and filthy from weeks in the dungeon and the brand on his left forearm that marked him as one of those who were condemned to death, had festered due to lack of sanitation. The striking serpent was barely recognisable beneath the weeping scabs. No matter. He wouldn’t live long enough to die of an infection. He took deep breath and let it out slowly. Wasn’t he supposed to think profound thoughts now that he was at the moment of death? Where was his faith? Jovahn stared up at the High Priest. He straightened his back and struck a defiant pose even though he was powerless to stop the shaking of his body. He didn’t want to be afraid, but he was. He wanted to die with dignity. He’d even fasted these past two days so he wouldn’t disgrace himself at the last moment, and he’d made sure his bladder was empty before he was led out into the centre of the arena. He looked up at the sky. A perfect, hot sunny day without a cloud to mar the deep blue overhead. A perfect day to die.

The crowd roared. Jovahn pressed his back to the pole and closed his eyes. He heard the grates spring open, and quiet descended over the arena. He couldn’t hear the footfalls of the garrun. They stalked their prey silently, so he’d been told. He knew it was there, though. A gasp from the crowd told him it was very close. It would be over soon. He would be with Rhani and Darrik in the afterlife. At least his death would be quick. The beast would have been starved for a week to make it fierce and hungry, and it would have been teased to provoke its anger. He felt sorry for it. It too was a prisoner here, starved and beaten, then forced to eat something that wasn’t its natural prey. While garruns in the wild had been known to kill men, they didn’t usually eat them. It probably had something to do with the disagreeable taste.

Jovahn would have liked to have seen a High Priest tethered to this pole. How would one of them meet their maker? With quiet dignity? Or like most men, screaming, shitting and pissing in terror? A huff of breath on his face made Jovahn open his eyes. He wished he hadn’t.

A huge black nose was inches away from his own. Whiskers as long as his arms stood out from the broad, black face. It was a male garrun easily three hands taller than a horse and twice as long. Gold eyes were staring into his. Jovahn was struck by the feline’s beauty, its sleek lines, the sheen on its ebony fur, and the intelligence in those beautiful eyes. It was no dishonour to be at the mercy of a creature of such majesty.

“Make it quick,” he whispered. “Please make it quick.”

The garrun’s ears pricked forward at the sound of his voice. It sat down, watching him with an almost readable expression on its face. The tip of it’s long tail rose and fell like the tapping of an impatient foot.

Jovahn closed his eyes again. If it didn’t kill him in a moment, he would surely die of fright. “Go on, get it over with.” He turned his head and waited.

Suddenly, it felt like a rasp had been drawn up his body from his thigh to his shoulder. The crowd began to laugh; nervously at first, then, as the true magnitude of the ridiculous overtook them, unrestrained guffaws and shrieks rang out. Jovahn opened his eyes. The creature had licked him. Was he too dirty to eat? Was it tasting him to see if he was ripe? He almost laughed – more out of hysteria than from any sense of humour. Then one huge paw batted against his ankle and the feline lowered its head to lick around the shackle.

He’s going to eat me from the feet up, thought Jovahn. I’m going to live long enough to see myself eaten alive. Terror like liquid ice coursed through his veins. Sweat trickled down the centre of his back. He didn’t care if the crowd saw that he was shaking and sweating, nor that his supposedly empty bladder had added an extra depth to his humiliation. The large ebony feline of death was licking at his feet.

There was a plink and the corroded old shackle sprang open. Jovahn looked into the face of the garrun. His panic was such that he couldn’t even see straight. Was the beast smiling? The garrun lowered his head and began to gnaw at the other shackle. It too fell in half. Jovahn was free. Free to run. But he was frozen in horror. The beast wanted him to run. It wanted to chase him down and tear him apart like an animal. It was sitting there watching him expectantly.

“No.” Jovahn looked into the garrun’s eyes, pleading with him. “Thank you for letting me die a free man, but I won’t run.” He shuffled forward on legs that wouldn’t obey. He opened his arms and lifted his chin to expose his throat. “All I ask is that you kill me quickly.”

*Kill you? Do you not know what you are?*

It took a moment for Jovahn to understand that the voice inside his head was the garrun’s. He stared at it. It stared back.

*The br’hahn will not harm you, Sh’vahn.* The garrun leaned forward and touched his nose against Jovahn’s. *We, the br’hahn, call your kind the Sh’vahni – kindred spirits.*

Jovahn looked around wildly. The crowd had hushed and the High Priest was leaning over the rail of his balcony. His face was red and his knuckles were white where they gripped his staff. Shock and anger warred to take control of his features. Clearly, he had not expected this.

*Move Sh’vahn. Get on my back.*

Jovahn walked as though his legs had turned to rubber. He climbed onto the feline’s back and clung to the longer, thicker fur of its ruff. The beast rose with swift grace and prowled around the arena giving the crowd a good, long look. He stopped before the High Priest and roared in defiance.

The High Priest glanced around at his coevals. Those dolts weren’t going to be any help. They were sitting there with their mouths open like half-wits. The crowd was beginning to mumble. Soon, mob mentality would take over and he would have a riot on his hands. He had to take control of the situation, turn it to his advantage. He glared down at the condemned sitting on the beast. How dare that creature defy him. The beastmaster had sent a pet out instead of a wild animal. He would pay with his life for this insult. The High Priest saw only one way out of this. To save face, he would be forced to free that cursed priest murderer.

He held his staff over his head until all attention was centred on him. “Be still, my people. There is no need to fear.” He struck the heel of the staff on the stone floor of the balcony three times. “You have all been called to bear witness to this miracle. I have had a vision. The Great and Mighty One has spoken to me. He has decided to show mercy to this man as proof of His greatness. Let it be known that we allowed this man his freedom.”

The crowd roared in approval.

The High Priest pointed to the arena’s main entrance. “Raise the portcullis. In the name of the Almighty, let this man and his beast go free.” But not for long, he thought. No-one made a fool of the High Priest and got away with it. He would make it his personal quest to have this condemned man and his damnable beast hunted down and killed.

Jovahn watched the iron gates to his left slowly grind upward. He felt the feline’s muscles bunch beneath him and only just had time to entwine his fingers in its ruff before it sprang through the opening and raced out onto the main carriage way.

Horses and pedestrians screamed and scattered as they loped past. Jovahn couldn’t believe the strength and agility of the garrun as he twisted and turned to avoid them all. He clung to the animal with his legs and arms hoping he had the strength to stay on until he was well away from the city.

They left the road and headed deep into the forest. It was a part of Magenon that Jovahn wasn’t familiar with. He was from the cultivated farmlands to the south of the city. He’d never been this far north.

When the garrun stopped to drink at a river, Jovahn slid to the ground. He waded into the water and scrubbed at his ragged clothing and body in an attempt to rid himself of weeks of dungeon grime. The brand on his arm still burned and itched, but the rest of him felt much better for the wash.

The garrun was sitting on the river bank watching him. *Do you want to eat?*

“I’m starved.”

*Wait here.*

Jovahn watched the feline leap away into the undergrowth with a grace and strength he envied. He gazed at his surroundings. Everything seemed so bright after the darkness of the dungeon. There’d been a forest near his farm, but it had looked nothing like this. Here, the trees were tall and close together, and the undergrowth lush. If he strayed from this spot, Jovahn knew he’d never find his way back. He had no choice but to do as the garrun told him. He felt so small here, so lost and alone. Even if he could find his way out of this jungle, he had nowhere to go, nobody to go to. He sat and stared into the water, fascinated by its movements and by the play of the fading light over its crystalline surface. Just as he was beginning to fear he’d been abandoned, the garrun returned carrying a young antelope. He tore one of the animal’s back legs off with one mighty bite and dropped the haunch at Jovahn’s feet before retreating a short distance to eat the rest.

Jovahn thought his hunger would kill him as he searched the river bank to find a couple of stones that looked like they might give off a spark. He gathered dry grass and twigs to set the fire with then sat down to play with the stones. It took several strikes before he managed to light the dry grass, but eventually he managed to get a fire going. It would have been so much more convenient if he could eat the meat raw like the garrun, but even as starved as he was, that thought didn’t appeal to him.

The meat smelled so good as it cooked, Jovahn could hardly wait to sink his teeth into it. To his disappointment, he found he could eat very little. Weeks of surviving on the bare minimum had shrunken his stomach. He found a flat, sharp stone and cut the remaining meat into sections. At least he’d be able to take some of it with him.

He looked over at the sleek black form of the feline. Gold eyes turned to watch him. “My name is Jovahn.” He felt foolish talking like this, but the animal had heard and understood him before. “Thank you for saving my life, garrun. I owe you more than I can repay.”

The feline approached and settled himself on the opposite side of the fire. As he watched Jovahn, the flames reflected like sparks in his eyes. *I am Zorrrahn. I need no repayment. Br’hahn such as I search our whole lives to find one of the Sh’vahni. Most of us never find one. The Sh’vahni have become very rare since the beginning to the reign of the High Priesthood.*

Jovahn wasn’t sure if it was a good thing to be rare or not. “What happens now, Zorrrahn? Where do we go from here?”

The feline lowered his head onto his paws, half closing his eyes. *We go to the l’hahrim to train and learn to be Wardens.”

Jovahn stared at Zorrrahn. “But the Order of the Wardens was outlawed by the High Priesthood after the old king died. They said they had the great Almighty to protect them and they didn’t need pagan magic or ward riders.”

*Trust me, Jovahn, there is much you don’t know. The values of the old king did not die with him. The Order of Wardens is still alive. Unmated br’hahn are sent forth to seek out Sh’vahni and bring them back to the l’hahrim for training. I found you. We have a long road before us, Jovahn, and there is so much I have to tell you, but for now, rest. When your stomach is full and some of your strength regained, we’ll continue. I suspect the High Priest will have his men out looking for us. We have made a powerful enemy.*

Little of what Zorrrahn said made sense to Jovahn. The old ways of life had died along with their king. The High Priests had made sure of that. When they’d taken control, laws were changed, worship of the great Almighty was made compulsory, and the structure of the king’s court had been disbanded. Most of the ward riders had been killed, and the few who’d survived scattered. Jovahn’s head, which had only been full of thoughts of survival since his incarceration, now was full of too many foreign thoughts – most of them, if not treasonous then definitely blasphemous. He rolled onto his back and, for the first time in many weeks, watched the stars make sparkling patterns across the night sky.

Brittany Kingston © 2006

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Bigotry is Ugly



Another week has gone by and still no writing done around here.

All the GST and accounts are done and up to date for this quarter. With that out of the way, I’m still hoping to get into something more meaningful. But it’s hard when you live with someone who hates everything you do. I have to fight and suffer for every second I spend painting or writing. It doesn’t earn any money, you see. I was hoping it would, one day. It takes time.

From last Sunday until Thursday I spent every day being yelled and screamed at for being stupid, for wasting time on useless pastimes and not having the brains to do the books properly. It was really hard to concentrate through all that, but I managed to get it all done… for now.

True bigotry is very hard to live with.

I didn’t realize how much a simple comment could hurt. I guess it’s not so much what was said, but the intention and feelings behind it. When it’s said by someone who is supposed to love you, it makes it so much worse.

I’m as white as any albino, but I’ve always been proud of my gypsy blood with a big dash of aboriginal running through it. Unique is how I see it - richly cultured.

The comment was: “You’re nothing but a white abbo. You don’t have the brains to get out of the gutter.”

Those words alone mean nothing to me. I AM a white abbo. And proud of it. If a friend called me a white abbo, I’d laugh. But a friend wouldn’t mean it in an ugly way.

It wasn’t the words. It was the vicious intent behind them that stung. Even more upsetting is the fact that he actually believes it.

That kind of deep, ingrained prejudice is impossible to shift. So I found out. I thought that being married to me for 25 years would change his mind about something like that. It was only after 10 years of marriage that I found my birth parents. They’re nice people. Ordinary, uneducated, but genuinely nice. There’s nothing pretentious about them. They are who they are and that’s that.

Is it me? Do I come across as inept, stupid and uneducated? I hope not.

I always thought that if you came across someone who is prejudiced about your race, religion or whatever, all you had to do was to let them get to know you and show them from the inside that their original thoughts weren’t true.

Too idealistic. It obviously doesn’t work that way. Or, it really is me who seems to confirm everyone’s wrong beliefs.

I only know one way to live and that is to just be me. In this case, I’m sorry it isn’t good enough.

Now… if I could only find that glue… there are bits falling off my heart…

Tiger 5 months old on January 18, 2006 Posted by Picasa

Tiger discovering that basil isn't really a dog's idea of a gourmet meal. Posted by Picasa

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Writing Day

Sunday is writing day.

Back to the Shadow Runners. It looks like our friends have found love... of sorts. Jaxxlar doesn't understand how he's ended up in the situation he's in with Dahrrrgh. Ranger would quite happily be involved with Valerian, but he's actually being a gentleman about it all. Valerian, having made up her mind to have him, can't understand why he's backing off.

Where is this all leading? Stuffed if I know. I'm only the author. The characters are telling it like it is. I'm only along for the ride.

Mark of the Condemned.

Seems like this won't be such a short story after all. Why am I not surprised? I'll just let it run and see where it ends up. Don't be surprised if it turns into a novel. I won't be. It has that feel to it. I really like the characters too. They're emerging into real entities.

So... today, forget the garden, forget the accounts, forget everything. Shut the office door and lock the real world out.

Sunday is writing day.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

So Much For That...!

What was I saying about a quieter start to the year?

It's already off to a bad start.

Geoff ended up in hospital with a suspected blockage to his heart. He went down to Melbourne for an angiogram but they didn't find the problem. So now I guess it's back and forth to doctors and specialists and hospitals for tests, more medication and heaps more money. Just great!

In the meantime there's been an interesting development from my kidney disease. I noticed a couple of weeks ago that my right foot was giving me weird signals. That's the only way I can describe it. Weird. Sometimes if feels like there's a wire stretched across my toes. Sometimes it feels like someone hits me right across the toes with a sharp stick. That one actually hurts. It's all very strange.

I went to the doctor the other day -- yes, I actually did take myself this time -- to get some tablets I'd run out of. That must be the eighth deadly sin: Thou shalt not run out of tablets. I just happened to mention to the doctor about my weird foot. I felt like a complete idiot saying: "My foot is giving me weird signals." Anyway, she didn't laugh. It seems that my kidney disease is well known for causing 'peripheral neuropathy'. That doesn't sound really good to me. It seems to suggest that the nerves in my foot might be dying. I have to discuss it with the specialist when I see him in early Feb. Wonderful! One more thing to deal with.

I've had enough already and we're not even out of the first month of the year. Jeez, I'm looking forward to the next 11 months.

I hope my poor shadow runners are faring much better than I am.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Great Start!

We certainly started this year off with a spark. A fire spark, that is.

New Year's Day began quite ordinarily. I cooked the turkey really early in the morning because it was going to be a hot day and I didn't want the oven on heating up the kitchen.

With that all done, we closed the house up and put the air conditioner on. It climbed to 43 degrees Celsius. The previous day was 42 but the heat was clear. This day was overcast and very windy. A really nasty day.

Lunch went off alright with Geoff, Rhys [son], Susan [friend of mine] and I all sitting around having a casual meal. After that we all went our separate ways. Susan went home, Rhys went around to his girlfriend's house and I decided to go outside to take the washing off the line. All very ordinary -- except for the heat.

I walked around the side of the verandah to where the clothes were hanging and the sky suddenly turned a dirty orange colour. Only one thing turns the sky that colour: bush fire.

Smoke enveloped the place and I thought, "This is not good."

I pulled all the clothes off the line and raced inside to close all the doors and windows and put towels down along all the cracks. The wind was blowing in our direction. I couldn't see any fire but I sure could hear it and smell it. It was roaring and causing the wind to heat up even further.

Geoff came home and I asked him if he'd seen where the fire was. He said no. He rang the fire brigade and they told him that there were 5 fires all around us.

We weren't prepared. We have a flood plan, not a bush fire plan.

The next few hours were spent blocking spouting and drains and filling them with water, trying to get all the leaves and debris off the roof. This wasn't possible because the wind kept blowing leaves and twigs from all the nearby trees. But we did what we could.

Rhys, his girlfriend and her brother arrived and helped. We all put on overalls and nearly cooked. Then the power was cut off by the authorities in case the fire burned the power poles, so the inside of the house became an oven. I was worried about the fish tanks. They were heating up. The fish are all tropical, but I don't think they liked being in 40 degree water. I wondered how I'd save Oscar the oscar. I was considering throwing him in a bucket with a lid on it or something. The other fish would have to perish. Not a nice thought but there'd be no time to save them.

I locked the 2 cats in one room so I could grab them and shove them in a basket if I had to. I put the bird's cage where I could grab him too, and tied the dogs up on the verandah within easy reach. Our only hope would be the lagoon at the back of the house which has 20 foot high sides and plenty of water. We could all shelter there if the worst happened. The road would be blocked as the fire was coming from that direction.

We had hoses connected to every tap. Geoff had the fire fighting tank and pump on the back of his truck, and we had sprinklers ready to go on the house roof. We didn't have any tennis balls to block the down pipes so we had to use rags. The old spouting was leaking all over the place. It was nearly hopeless.

There was nothing we could do for the cattle. They would have to get into the river or anywhere, or follow us into the lagoon if they didn't panic and run. There was no time to think about things or belongings, or even clothes, to save. We put our wallets in our pockets and our car keys and that was about it. Saving ourselves and the living creatures was about all we thought about.

The fear was, that this old place is about 100 years old now and all made of wood. I don't know if we could have saved it. Our only hope was to wet the wood down as much as possible to make it hard to burn. The lovely old antiques inside would be lost forever or damaged beyond repair by the heat.

Helicopters and planes were flying about overhead dumping water and fire trucks were all over the town. Nobody could see anything for smoke and it was all very confusing. The wind kept changing direction and nobody knew which way the fires were going to go.

There were reports of sight seers getting in the way of fire trucks and police. There were kids on bikes heading over to have a look and people on foot out everywhere just watching. One policeman on foot was run down by a car. Luckily he wasn't hurt, but I bet he wasn't happy. Silly people. All they were doing was getting in the way and putting themselves and others in danger.

After about 4 hours of hosing the house down from every direction we could, the wind suddenly died and it began to rain a little -- not enough to make a difference, but it did cool down dramatically which helped. Then the smoke began to clear. The fire was under control.

No houses were lost in Wangaratta. What a relief.

We were left happy, but with a very big lesson in what we should have had ready. As I said before, we're all geared up for floods as we have at least two every year. We're very fire conscious, but right here on the edge of town we don't tend to think of bush fires.

We know different now. We will be as prepared as we can be for next time -- pray that there isn't a next time! In the meantime, I'm going out to buy some tennis balls.

Our animals all survived their ordeal and so did all my fish. It took quite a while for their tanks to cool down, but by early the next morning they were all back to their normal 28 degrees.

All in all, a quite exciting start to 2006. Let's hope the rest of the year is a wee bit quieter.

Plurk

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Glenloth Earth Tones Art at Zazzle


Gypsy Stone Dukkering

Casting the Stones

Long before the Tarot became synonymous with fortune telling, Gypsies used the natural world around them to help them see into the troubled hearts of those who came seeking knowledge and guidance.
River stones, gems, crystals, sticks, needles and bones were often used by the dunkerer [dukkerer] or palm reader.
I love using my own set of river stones that I personally hand picked and charged with healing energy.
When I read, I'm not so much telling a fortune, as looking into the heart of the energy surrounding the person I'm reading for. I believe this gives a more accurate insight into what is at the heart of a problem or situation and can provide real, down to earth ways of helping people deal with what life sometimes throws at them.
Casting the stones is something I love and I hope to continue with my readings for as long as life will allow.

Láshi Baxt Me Zhav Tute

(May Good Luck from me go with you)

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