Dear Miss Slattery

Dear Miss Slattery,

Too often women feel defined by the men in their lives, however yours is a story of empowerment. Your relationship with Tibby unnerved me at times and was never what I considered to be healthy. His intrest was never you as a person, rather he valued you as a pretty object for hs collection. I found your leaving him to be a breath of fresh air on an otherwise suffocating relationship. I wish you all the best on your next endeavour into the world of love. Find somebody who loves who you are more than how you make them feel.

Regards,
Erin

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My calm, my quiet, my darling

Charles Harpur’s love sonnets to Rosa are a model for all love sonnets. Using the style and structure of a Harpur sonnnet, write a love sonnet to your own beloved! Can you create images as fiery as his?

How would one tell of your sweet embrace?
For no word from this world may adeqautely trace
the lines of your face and the strength of your arms
and how your gentle embrace calms
me when my head is reeling, and my heart is quick
My anxiety, blown out like a candle wick.

How does one describe your charm?
I find myself utterly disarmed.
Taken by your eyes, your manner, your smile;
the simple pleasure I take from admiring your profile.
Your voice is soft like summer breeze
And finally, I am set at ease.

Not a Morning Person

Write a passage in of your own in the style of an alternative/magical/mabarn realism.

The campus coffee shop is always so crowded in the mornings. Honestly! All I want is a cup of coffee to keep me awake through my dull law lecture, and I have to contend with being shunted around by various winged patrons, telepaths who ALWAYS push in front just when they know you’re going to make a space, and once a girl even teleported directly into the front of the line! Jeez, I knew city kids were rude but I did not expect to be pulled from my place in line by a rude siren who gives me a melodic “oh thank you darling” to make me forget I was angry in the first place.

And the barista! It always seems to be the same guy no matter what time I go, and he thinks he’s all that because he’s telepathic and telekinetic. Like shut up Adrian, nobody cares that you’re already making their order when they get to the counter without them even ordering, and yet he’s always so smug about it. When I get to the front of the line (not before getting absolutely covered in water by a rude nymph who just had to shove me while i was wearing my nice white top) he says in a bored voice “Large mocha no foam?” I roll my eyes as I hand over the money as the coffee in question floats over to me. Finally free from the cesspool of magic and rudeness, I have my first promising sip of coffee. It’s all foam.

I really need to get my own coffee machine.

Falling waves felling silence

We have explored the different ways in which Europeans and indigenous inhabitants experience and describe their landscapes. In around 150 words can you describe a landscape that you love and know well with the immediacy and richly descriptive manner of an indigenous person.

The sounds of the crashing waves lull me quickly to a deep medative state. The sharp smell of the salt on the air breezing through me, a sedative, the most potent drug. The sand beneath my feet and hands yields to my touch, embracing me, reminding me where I come from. We are all born from the land, and to there we all must return. The rock I use for my pillow is hard yet  not uncomfortable. The cool stone feels soothing against my wind beaten face. My hair whips around me, turning the scene into an ever shifting montage of sea and sand and sky. I can feel little crabs shifting the sand beneath my feet, sharing this place that is ours. He and I are equals- at least until the salt smell leaves and the city smog reminds me that I am Big, and he is Small. But for now i invite him to share my rock, and share my love.

The Middle of Nowhere, The Centre of Everywhere

Describe a landscape that you love- it could be your own backyard. What does this description show you about your values, your relationship to the landscape?

The green is overwhelming. The different shades seem to twist and blend into eachother as a painting might smudge under an artists fingers. The trees grow tall and bend with their own weight, stretching overhead and dappling the sunlight striking the wildflower covered earth. When did this place become so beautiful? The butterflies flit in and out of the trees, splashing colour throughout the verdent landscape. My eyes can never get tired here. How could they when everything changes, so slowly, yet right in front of my eyes. The peace is beautiful. It seems at once the most quiet, and loudest place I know. The peace is never quite broken. Rather it is accentuated by the birdcalls, and the soft, natural sounds of insects buzzing around the sanctuary they have allowed to partake in. Any scent of gasoline, food, or smog is gone, and yet I still find myself drawn in by the smells. The sweet smells of the flowers, the biting, bitter smell of crushed leaves and grass. This is my place.


This is a discription of a small clearing not far off a campground in Nowra. The campground itself is always rather busy, but the track that leads to the clearing is so overgrown that barely anybody goes there. When I was little I called it Wonderland.