The Time Travellers.

He travels through time,

Unceasingly, gathering knowledge,

Turning the time in his hand.


She travelled through time,

Once too often, seeking for someone,

Turning the time around her wrist.


He travels through time,

Becoming a genius,

Aware that he is lacking something.


She travelled through time,

Following her heart,

To the centre of the universe.


He travels through time,

Being drawn by an unforeseeable force,

Controlled by a desire.


She travelled through time,

Clutching her wrist,

Her heart out of control.


He travels through time,

Stopping every year,

Looking left and right.


She travelled through time,

Unbeknownst to her,

That she was searching for that someone.


He travels through time,

His hands itching,

Knowing he’s close.


She travelled through time,

And then she stopped,



He travels through time,

His heart suddenly breaking,

He clutches it.


They travel through time,


That they were passing each other.


They travel onwards,


Constantly looking, drawn by some force.


They travel forever,

Forever time travels,

Ageless and age old.


They travel eternally,

Looking for each other,

Drawn by fate, never reaching.


A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Twelve.


It came when the pup couldn’t sit still.  From my place on the ground, in my sleeping bag, I squint in the darkness at the pup who is sniffing around the door.  Her nose runs along the trapezium shape of my tent room, and her growl escapes her lips with a sense of threat.  I tell her to shut up, but she keeps growling, growling until it erupts into a bark and then barking until she can’t stop, not even at my command. 

And then she does stop.  Her ears, still folded like a puppy, perk up, and her eyes look as the ears scan the air for noise.

It began with a rustle.  A scuttle, snapping of twigs, and the sound of a falling cup to drive the pup to the edge.  She barked and barked and barked, her voice commanding and angry.  She starts running around the tent room, past my head, my side, legs, feet, the door, and back round.  She can’t stop barking as she raises her forelegs to attack the walls of the tent. 

And I think, it’s just my imagination.  It’s just my imagination.  We’re in a farm, with no one around, it’s nothing, just the sound of nature, there’s no way there’s a murderer out there. 

My brother is already snoring, fast asleep.  I don’t know about my parents.  I don’t know if they’re still awake.  I don’t care, because I’m busy squeezing my eyes shut trying to sleep.  I try because I woke up at four in the morning.  I try because I’m tired, yet I can’t get it out of my mind that someone was walking to our tent.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that we are not alone.

I scream at her to shut up.  And she does.  I use my harshest tone and she sits, her eyes are wide as they look at me, just moments before she starts bending over, ready to roll on her back.  I have my arm raised, a threat to gently punish her nose, but she rolls over.

I smile, it’s cute, so lightly, I tap her nose and tell her ‘no’.  She understands, and while I settle back into bed, she stays quite.  But the minute I close my eyes, she starts growling and then, she barks again.  I tell myself, it’s a good thing that she’s unsettled, it means she doesn’t trust the area.  She’s a good guard dog for a little thing.  She’s a good girl.  But she wouldn’t shut up.  She’s at the door and she’s barking harder.  Hard enough to shatter my eardrums. 

I close my eyes and try to listen in between the barking to see if I could distinguish between the sounds, but I can’t hear a thing except the cricket. 

At last I’m frustrated and annoyed enough to slam the sleeping bag away.  I stand up, after a few sharp words to her, I grab a torch.  I take a peek into my brother’s room, but it’s like he’s deaf or something.  He’s not even showing a sign of life. 

‘Idiot,’ I mumble and fumble with her collar and leash.  She doesn’t stop squirming once as I put it on.   Even as I open the door, she’s the first out, barking like crazy. 

I don’t dare to talk.  I’m spinning horror stories in my head again.  One part of me is telling myself not to let her go too far ahead of me.  She might get eaten.  The other part was saying go slowly.  If I do, then maybe I’ll see the attack before it happens. 

I stick my head out of the tent.  It’s cold.  But a summer chill, that’s refreshing and not freezing at all.  I look left and right.  I can’t see anything and I dearly hoped there was nothing there.  Then slowly I take my foot out.  Left first, search for shoe, balance then steady.  Then I stick out my right and zip the tent up in one shot.  It’s a trial, but the minute it’s closed I’m on my guard, my torch on and looking around for the smudge of white.  She’s barking at a tree and I flash my torch that way. 

I see a pair of eyes in the grass next to the tent, and I screamed. 

A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Eleven.

It’s interesting, as I type up the stuff in my notebook how different the first parts of my journey to the middle of my journey were, I mean, I look at Part 1 – 8 and then Part 9 – Part 11.  The first part really concentrates on laying out a “setting” feeling and the second concentrates on “character” feelings…they’re really different.  I think I started to scare myself a bit too much in the second part,well, it makes sense, quiet places disturb me, and even though I’m a partial fan of horrors, it seems my imagination gets a little hyperactive at the chance to weave my own scary story.  Hmm…maybe in the future, I might turn my experiences into an actual story…



It was hot as we put the poles together for the tent.  The sun beat down on my neck and I felt the sweat drip down.  There was a cool breeze that blew from the sea below us.  We were perched at the edge of the land, yet if I were to go down to the water, I would have to walk a little further.  From where I was standing, on the edge of the flat earth, I could see the rows and rows of oyster sticks for the oyster farm.  It was a calming, breezy sight.  Very beautiful, very frightening.  For this to be so calm in this place that is so vacant, so alone, in the countryside, I’m not bothered.

I’m not bothered by the circle of caravans to our right.  I’m not bothered by the smoke that rises from them even though I can’t see anyone there.  I’m not bothered at all.  And yet, I can’t stop looking around every time I heard an unusual sound.  I can’t stop flinching even in the daylight. 

Again I remember that stupid movie. 

But I tell myself I’m not scared. 

I’m not scared at all.

We’re not alone.  Not at all.  People live here.  There’s an oyster farm, houses, caravans with smoke.  We’re not alone. 

So why am I unnerved by the sight of my pup wandering around sniffing the ground?  Why does it scare me when I can’t see her, just because she hid under the trailer and only her leash is visible?  Why do I try so desperately to make her eat and drink when she doesn’t want to?

As the afternoon progresses, my pup becomes more and more unsettled.  She can’t stop snelling everywhere.  She can’t stop moving.  We tie her to the gazebo, her leash long and free, but she wanders down past the tent I share with my brother, to the cliff edge.  And every time we had to haul her back.  She is unsettled.  And it makes me unsettled.  All of a sudden I can help but think, what she is smelling?  Even though I know that it’s a new place and that she’s not accustomed to it yet, I still can’t help but think, maybe she’s found something disturbing?  Especially when it’s the same spot constantly and when she constantly wants to walk down to the water through the long green grass and down a steep metre or two cliff.  It unsettles me.  Maybe she’s found a dead body?

A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Ten.

This really does feel more fiction than fact. But the place where we went, I really felt freaked out at first, as though I was in a freaky horror movie.  I literally started writing a horror story in my head…and that’s how it comes out on paper…so Part Nine, Ten and I think Eleven and Twelve will be a little different to what I’ve written so far… 


…The car shudders, and my dad swears, waving his hand in the back mirror of the idiot driver, his hand showing a rude gesture.

We turn back, and we drive a kilometre or two back the way we came, our eyes peeled on the left side of the road.  We watch the golden landscape framed in green fly past as we watch for the side that will show us the way.  I’m the first one to jump and shout.  I point, and my dad slams his foot on the brakes. 

As we reverse and turn into the narrow dusty gravel lane, I’m blinded by the sun and the sight of yellowed grass.

At first I’m elated that we’re finally here and we pull up to the big, abandoned-like house.  Outside there is are two people washing a bus.  It’s an old bus, not even a normal bus that’s just worn from use, but a bus that looks as though it came from another century.  My dad parks, and walks over to the gentleman holding the hose.  I can’t hear them talking, even though their loud voices are resounding back to us.  Their words are indistinct, and faint as though passing through a barrier of water.  I watch.

The building behind them is double storey.  It has worn pale yellow rendered walls and a semi-circle balcony sticking out the front.  At the side, behind the bus is a metal emergency exit leading to a door.  I can’t tell if it’s dark because it’s shaded or dark from the paint.  I can’t tell, but it’s like a blackhole in a sea of summer sunshine.  And I get that wash of eeriness once again, I shudder.

My dad comes back with a smile on his face.  And we venture further into the farm.  There’s a house up ahead, two houses, with a sign at the front.  As we neared, the texture of the road becomes rough and harsh, causing the car to jump high on its suspension.

We turn right and we pass between a shed sheltering a caravan and another parked in the middle of the mowed land.  Even in broad daylight, they look dark and abandoned.  With the shutters drawn and their doors shut, there’s no one home.  With the deceiving clothes line with clothes on it, you think, oh, there’s someone that lives here.  But as I look closer, at the one person tent next to the shed, I realise it couldn’t be possible. 

Lying across the tent was a branch from the tree above.  As we slowly drive past, I feel my breath catch with fear, as I ask myself, who lives here?


A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Nine.

So this post is more fiction than fact, though there is fact interwoven, my imagination did get a little hyperactive…



…It was near midday when we arrived.  Coming down the highway, going up the Eastern coast on the Australian map, it was a pretty standard section of the highway.  Plain, grey tarmac, with white lines down the sides and middle, some dotted and some solid.  The car, follows, gently rounding each corner, with a firm grip and a grace-like performance.  I feel calm as I look out the window, up into the sturdy, solid, skinny trees.  I don’t know their names.  I don’t know what they are, but the light that streams through their dry yet most like atmosphere, is almost magical.  It twinkles, almost.  It dazzles, definitely.  And it highlights the leaves on the trees; skinny and long and dry, some green, some pale brown. 

In the front seat and the back, family members Mum, Dad and Bro, were totally arguing about something.  Left, right, back, forth, they argued about whether it the upcoming turn, the one after, or the one passed.  It was just an ordinary argument, one of an annoyed driver, who needs, desperately, to know which is the road to turn off, and which isn’t, not “oh, maybe it was that” or “Darling, it was that one!”  One was a passenger seat driver, whose past time was to not really pay attention, even though she was paying attention, and then make comments, that were relevant, but in the long run, not really useful, because they were always a moment too late.  And the other, happened to be looking at the roughly drawn map, trying his best to pinpoint the relevant roads to the ones that had passed. Overall, he was failing.

As for me, I couldn’t help the tingling, unsettled feeling that was creeping up my arms.  I snatched the paper from my Bro and looked at the ballpoint drawing.  Its crass, and bland, with a line or two there representing roads leading off the curly squiggly of the main highway.

And I said, ‘Go back.  We passed it,’ but it’s like I’m being ignored.  And I think, oh who cares?  But I watch, this scene is too friendly, too normal to be comfortable.  I feel the change in the air, the darkening of the sky, the uncomfortable feeling welling in my gut as I turn my head back to the window.  I feel a little dizzy as I watch the forest slipping past me, their lower half covered in black from some hell bent fire.

I remember the stupid movie I’d watched a few nights before.  Advertised as some kind of thriller, I expected a thrilling ride, only to discover it was a rather low budget two character film set in an isolated camping place, ending in a murder suicide.  Oh yeah, did I mention the dugong that was dragged to the campsite, with no explanation whatsoever, except that it was a plot device for scaring the second main character?  And, that’s right, the dog is the only one who survives, purely because he’s left behind in the car when his owner runs mad with fear, right up to the point where he’s smashed to gory bits by an oncoming trucker.  Lame.  Except when the car I’m travelling pulls to the side of the two lane highway, on a rather rounded curve, not particularly dangerous, but still, I’m unsettled by the thought of highway horror crashes.

Dad takes out his phone and dials, while our pup is wandering around the car looking for a nice view of her owner.  For some time she’d been out, car sick, sleeping in front of the air-con with her folded ears sticking up.  She was an energetic little thing.  But it isn’t until later, when I’d feel unsettled by her constant state of unsettledness. 

The highway is barren, a car or two passes every so often.  Even the car and caravan that’s been with us most of the way pass us.  We’ve speculated several times on the destination of that car, but we never found out.  Still, it was a past time.  But now that we were lost, at the end of our journey, I think we’re all a little stressed.

I watch carefully as my dad talks on the phone outside.  He’s walking around smoking, talking loudly like there’s a problem with the speaker on his phone.  My bro looks a little worn, and my mum is teasing the pup.  But I’m queasy, so I open my wind a little.  What if I was wrong?  What if the road we had to go to was too small to spot?  Where are we going? 

My dad looks a little pissed.  And several more cars pass us on the highway, each one rattling our car as they fly by.  I grip the door, a little panicked, but okay.  That is, until one passes too close to us, just as my dad hangs up his phone…

A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Eight.

The continuation of that random stray thought from part six.  Turns out I did write something more…



…We came to a river, except there was no river.  It was just dried sand and silt, and perhaps there was a trickle of the remaining water.  There were large grey stones to either side of the monolithic obelisks marking a former time and land.  They were embedded in a frame of pale gold hills…


A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Seven.

I just realised how many sections I have on the travelling part.  It’s not surprising since it was a 6-8 hour trip and I was in and out of sleep a lot.  



…I know I had my eyes closed for a long time.  I could hear the wind blowing through the small crack in the window and I could smell the faint scent of nature.  Even though I was submerged in darkness, I could still feel the movement of the earth below my feet, I haven’t forgotten that I’m still in a car.  I just choose not to see it…


A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Six.

This was just one sentence that must have floated into my head.  It seems, I didn’t write anything else particular on this page of my notebook.


…There was no water in the river except enough that it meanders where is once overflowed…

A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Five.

I just realised, as silly as this delayed thought might seem, but I just realised that most of the things I’ve got written down from my trip are half fiction, half truth.  And they’re not really stories more like captured moments, framed with words.  I guess I was just a little stunned by the abstract beauty in front of me.  I was surprised.


The countryside is like a chessboard.  Where each black quar represents a green acre and each white represents a dry patch of golden grass.  The only difference is that there are more white squares than black.  For a moment I think, am I really looking at an Australian countryside?

A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Four.

Part Four!  Has a title.  This was the fifty-five word story that I began to think of during my trip.  Seriously, the first day was so hot, and sweltering, all I could really think of was ways of being cool, even though the air con in the car was on.  I also happened to discover the family Pup gets seriously car sick.


The Sweltering Summer.

It’s a strangely hot summer, the air is thick with sweat and the sky is clear and blue.  It’s a trial cooling down.  Ice-cream, icy poles, ice drinks, paper fans, air con.  The best invention of the twenty-first century.  Once rare, now capable of crashing the entire electricity grid.  What a hot, sweltering summer day.

A Quaint dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Three.

Part three!  These posts were easy I guess, I just love writing about the mornings and early dawn.  I think it stems from the fact that I just love abstract beauty or moments where you could totally write in a horror story or a moment of change or the beginning of a journey, there’s just a lot of material, a lot of feelings that can be processed.  Plus I had heaps of time to think about it in the car…



…The rising sun on the horizon assaults my vision.  It is a splurge of rose red-orange, pale pink and blue.  It covers its landscape with a healthy, beautiful and familiar sunrise glow.  Not even the trees can hide.  Lining up on the highest peak, a hill that is a patchwork of sundried, gold grass and green grass, are the actors that are the sole focus of the show.  It is they, a silhouette of the same size and nearly the same shape, branching out from either side, that are against such a mesmerizingly elegant backdrop.  Their faces are hidden but their shadows are important.  They’re like little soldiers, just with more arms and one leg, and the fact that all they’ll ever do in life is grow taller and taller, stronger and stronger, bear fruit, maybe, and shower the land with their leaves.  I think to take a picture, but I know I cannot capture its mesmerizingly dazzling beauty.  I know I’ll be too slow.  I know, once the moment passes, I can’t capture it again, not even with my meagre, compact camera.  So I look and write instead.  I must capture it.

And it passes.

I feel the sun.  It will be a hot sun.  I can tell.  It’s the colour of the dawn and the heat that radiates even though the sun has barely risen yet.  If the dawn is orange rather than rose-pink, I think it’ll be hot.  It’s like a fiery glow…

A Quaint Dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part Two.

This is part two!  I mainly thought about things I saw when I was in the car, it really helped me stay away from the whole car sick feeling.  I mean I’m definitely not a person who pukes, but I do feel queasy, so queasy, I sleep to forget it.  Normally it means I miss a lot, so every time I go some place, I feel like I’m missing out a lot.  That’s why this time, I wanted to stay awake and record the weird and beautiful, terrifying and scary, and abstract moments.  Because this time I have somewhere to put it, somewhere to share it and I definitely want to do it without pictures.  So hopefully you, dear readers, can feel and see what I saw!  Lol, I hope I captured it with my words 🙂



…I open my eyes and I’m blinded by the dazzling pale blue and pink of dawn.  I blink and I can’t believe my eyes.  It’s more than just waking from a dream.  It’s like rising from the dead, knowing that you’ll live another day.  A sign passes by that says “bacon and eggs” and I suddenly feel hungry.  I wonder when the next food stop will be.  I wonder how much longer I can hold on.

   The mountains and hills are still in a haze of morning mist.  It’s a light mist, nearly translucent in the morning light.  Yet it’s the kind of mist that shrouds a city or a country scape on a day that’s predicted to be hot.  I know in that instant that I’m probably wearing a bit too much…



A Quaint Dream: Words and thoughts, passages of prose, like a faint passing dream from my recent trip. Part One.

So recently I went on a ten-day fishing trip with my family.  They fished and I caught up on all the things I couldn’t do with a computer and internet in front of me.  I wrote with pen and paper, I drew and I read.  It was marvellous.  So for the next few days, I’m going to be posting about the things I wrote about during this trip.  They’re mainly things I found inspiring, beautiful or just plain weird/freaky.  So sorry for the absence!!! And I hope you enjoy 🙂  



…It was strange how silent the early morning could be.  There was barely a sound or a whisper.  Just cold air, chillingly comfortable against my skin.  The dawn was approaching.  Though still dark, the sky is already changing from a midnight darkness to the pale shade of baby blue that I loved.  All that was left was to get into the car and watch the sunrise as I head for a long and familiar journey.  I can’t wait…

Impending doom, or no?


You have been sitting on the train to Sydney for some time already.  Your backside is feeling a little sore and you can’t help shifting every so often to get comfortable in your chair.  You cross your legs one way, then what feels like only a second later, though it really has been at least five minutes, you uncross your legs and cross them again, this time right leg on top, left leg on the bottom.

Some time passes and you’re really bored.  You’re nervous and when you left Melbourne, you’d been alone.  You have no interest in the countryside speeding passed and yet you are staring at it as though it is the most interesting thing in the world.  You don’t want to listen to music in case someone talks to you, so you take out a book instead.  You’ve been reading this book for a while, though it’s small, you are so close to finishing it. So you open the book.

‘Little Snow had reached the end of her journey, the burden of the book of tomorrow that she carried in front of her could at last be given to its rightful owner.  She gets off her horse, wipes the sweat from her forehead and walks to the little out-of-the-way church.  The book hummed in Little Snow’s hand.

‘Little Snow walked a little faster, grinning, her journey had come to an end.  Praising herself for obeying instructions and refraining from reading the contents of the book, she tapped her armour, immensely pleased.  She was relieved, but as she reached the door, her hand leaning forward for the knocker, she tripped.  The book flew out of her arms and slammed against the door, slipping out of the pouch.  The pages fluttered in the cool evening breeze, and Little Snow glimpse what was written.

‘Horrified she covered her eyes, but it was too late.  The owner stood above her, dark and frightening in the sunlight afternoon.  He said, ‘I’ve come for you.’  Shivering, she knew the devil had come. ’

You close the book.  For only a few pages it had taken the rest of the journey to read.  Now your train is sitting in Sydney.  The story unnerved you, alerting the suspicions in your mind of the end of your own journey.  Was that really the end? You think as you grab your bag from the top storage, there is a sudden tremor.  Would something befall you at this moment?

This was a story not meant for the light hearted, named ‘The Book of Tomorrow’, with its lightweight pages and elegant mass produced leather cover.  Or leather like material anyway.  You can’t help but be deceived by its elegance wondering exactly what the discussion around made it so significant.  It was such slim volume and its contents were so particularly mundane, you began to question the authenticity of the reviews that you had read.

But there was a feel of truth in its words that make you anxious.  You’re so close to the end of your journey that you wonder if maybe, just maybe your fears will come true.  You can’t help going round and round in circles, thinking about this possibility, then thinking about the story, before going back to the possibility once more.  It unnerved you.  And yet…

Stepping out of the train, You find that your fears are unfound.   The story, you think, was just a story.  Because waiting on the platform is your family, smiling and laughing, calling your name.  They have been waiting forever for you.  You smile, because it’s the happiest moment of your journey.

Now, you say, if you want the happy ending stop reading here.  Any further and you’ll regret it.  This is a story called ‘Impending doom’, and no story like this would end on such a happy note.  For you say to your family, let’s go home, and you go home without a care or worry in the world.  You smile happily, laugh happily, share jokes happily, smiling with your widest smile.  You are happy.  Nothing can touch your happiness, spoil your moment, take away your joy.  Nothing.  So you think.

But no, even as you walked away the first time, you felt the slightest twitch in the corner of your eye, like something dark and shadowy had been there.  You turn, nothing.  It was only imagination.  What shadow could possibly follow you but your own?

And still you go to sleep without a care or fear.  You dress in your pyjamas or your boxers or your t-shirt, whatever’s comfortable and you lie down next to your love of your life.  You might talk for a bit before you sleep, or you might touch their cheek, kiss their lips, just anticipating the next moment, and not thinking about the past.

You sleep slowly, the faint traces of the days smile on your lips.  But at the last minute, as your eyes drift close, you remember something faint.  The story had a strange narrative.  It was the journey of Little Snow, a character you had never heard of before today.  It was a moral story, and ended the way it did, but there was something unusual about it. While you think about this you don’t see the shadow crawling across the dark.  You don’t see it slipping up the bedside shading your lamplight.  So when you go to switch it on, you think the lamp is broken.

Honey, you say, but your honey is already sleeping.  You sigh and fumble about in the dark until you find the light switch.  When you switch it on, you think for a moment there’s something wrong because it’s still so dark.  So you flick the switch again, but the light goes and you realise the light must have been on all along, so you switch it on again.  This time you see a book dangling in front of your face.  Your arms and legs can’t move because their covered in darkness.  On your neck, there’s a chill, and it whispers in your ear, ‘I’ve come for you!’