The Moving Pen | Classic Blog

Classic Blog

Sharing life experiences in style.
Over Promise

Lisa sips at her zero-alcohol beer and stares at splashes of red and white as they wrestle over the sponsor-encrusted grass like bizarre racing cockroaches after the last crumb on Earth. “He’s crumbed it,” she hears one of the blokes cheer, followed by a clinking of glasses. She rolls her eyes – maybe she did understand AFL after all. Work social day in the corporate box at the SCG – …

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Throgmorton’s

The sign above the carpark entrance declares ‘Throgmorton’s Real Life Railways’, underlined by a set of railway tracks. A locomotive steams its way off sign to the right, the driver’s arm waving a cheery how d’ye do. Pharque, here we go. I pull up the car as son Joey and his four mates bustle to get out. Holidays can be real shitty, you know, draggin’ the kids around to crappy …

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  She’s exhausted. She wants to go back to the beginning, but she’s lost, lost. Too many people on the streets; cars and black cabs and the bright, invasive lights of huge department store windows and raucous cafes and dazzling, moving ads in bus stop shelters blind her. She turns up what seems a dusky street, somewhere to hide, but this place, Covent Garden (a place she knows yet can’t …

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George has been pouring drinks for Carol at the local pub ever since she moved into the area fifteen years ago. He was the first person that served her and he had been doing it ever since, week in, week out. George was hired as a barman a quarter of a century ago. Through the years, he had survived along with the pub the various economic downturns including the pandemic. …

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My toes are hanging over the edge as water crashes into the rocks far below. The Pigram Brothers sing of it, but unless you have felt the air whoosh around your own ankles, you just don’t get it. East Kimberley sunsets are silent. No one speaks – terrified to break the symphony of colour. Punk orange-pink fades to jazz lounge violet, then the curtain draws in readiness for Act 2. …

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Picture2 nature writing NSW

A piece to mark International Women’s Day on 08 March: A short story about a woman and a place using picture prompts “Oh Gran, come on, you have to come with us. You can get there on a boat, don’t have to fly – so you can still go even at your age. I’ve been reading all about it. They reckon it will be the last chance to see the …

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A wise man once said that ‘bad things will happen to you if you live long enough’. It rang true for Irene as she stood outside a her father’s nursing home. She recalled her father sitting on a single couch, staring into space. He would have been there all morning from when they got him out of bed hours ago. She felt a wave of sadness gnawing at her chest. …

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The Lady Juliana

  London was never this dark. Not even with the fog black as soot and thick as a toff’s curtains did it ever smother like this. Your hand is a hair away from your face yet no fingers, no palm can be seen. Open your eyes as wide as tea saucers, yet all that enters is the suffocating blackness pressing down, crushing. Like a blind man you feel only your …

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Gift Part 23

She shrieked. He saw a flash of bare skin and in his mind lights flared in a hospital room but vanished as she retreated. He sprang to his feet, alarmed. ‘You’re still here,’ she called from behind the closed door. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ ‘Let me get some clothes on.’ He stood in the living area breathing deeply. His shoulders were tense. He had seen a hint …

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Pellucid

They are lapdogs at the foot of my bed.  One is charity, a pallid young man seeking alms for those he has decided are less fortunate than he. One is ostensible family, a besuited man with a monocled eye who claims a circuitous blood link. The third the church, in the incarnation of the old dame who strips away the dead candles in the cathedral. I meet their sculptured faces …

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