The Water Along The Shore.

The water along the shore,

Crashes without a sound,

Their waves bring emotions,

Across from other lands.

I close my eyes,

And count to three,

Breathing through my nose,

Breathing out through my lips.

The sand brushes my cheeks,

Blowing with the wind,

Kissing my lips,

Telling me that I am loved.

I sigh with my eyes open,

And sing the number three,

Looking for the sound of the waves,

That crashed along the shore.

The heat from the sun,

Beats down on my pale skin,

Turning it brown,

Looking for the summer touch.

I hum with my eyes blinking,

And count time in three,

The sound is coming,

Chasing across the sea.

The water along the shore,

Is the bringer of the others,

Giving us a sign of a life,

Beyond our own.

I sing out loud,

In time with three,

Sending my message,

Across, far and beyond

The water along the shore.

Water In The Boat.


I am swamped by the sea that floods my boat.  I am desperate in my fight to win.  But the water keeps on flowing, and the boat keeps on sinking.  Is it impossible to save what’s left of him?  Voices call out.  Hands grab at me.  I can’t die.  The memories must survive with me.



-ness is fragility,

Breaking into lustiness,

Transforming infatuation to love

And then sinking us in water

Where we become breathless, again.

Over The Falls.


She stood there, eyes staring out at the wide expanse of green and blue.  This was her world.  The green hills of her home were covered the colours of autumn, and the water below, still, crystal clear.  It called to her, longingly.  Closing her eyes, she breathed. As she dived, she thought, this is home.




She ran down the ramp, her ties flapping away from her.  She was free.  There were shouts of outrage behind her as her hair blew wildly around her face.  But she didn’t care.  She had to thank her saviour.  Maybe one day she would.  But now, she was the sea, diving in to swim away.


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…



It rages around me, tossing me high into the sky and sinking me below its surface.  It’s a maniac on the loose, it’s a typhoon at its worse, it rains, slices, drowns.  It’s water from the mountain top, sliding down the narrow mountain track to the reservoir below.  It’s a cruel element, but it’s beautiful.

Water Crown #2

Water Crown #2 (Photo credit: Michael Scott |

The Gathering.

It ripples below my feet, sending waves out to the other water dwellers.  The rain fell around, adding to the ripples, adding to the message I was sending.  The water dwellers would hear me, listen to me, grant my every wish.  It was a siren’s call and all would come here.  Let the gathering commence!

On the Ocean Floor.

The stories of mermaids tell always the same thing.  They dwell in the water, beneath the rippling waves in the deepest part of the ocean, where the temperature is warm, and life unknown can be seen.

They dwell there.

I am half-mermaid.  I grew into my legacy when I was sixteen and I’ve been hiding it for two years.  But how much longer can I hide such a secret?

The beach has always been my home.  The ocean, mere steps away.  My boyfriend always wondered why I swam at night.  And why I swam alone.

But it was my secret.  Not his.  He knew that.  And respected it.  Otherwise we were perfect.

Too perfect a couple some said.

But I didn’t care.   I loved him, and he loved me back.

So why did I stand on the beach with the water caressing my ankles?

I imagined the scaly, slimy feel of my tail sweeping me off my feet throwing me into the water.

I imagined the rippling, scraping, emerging sensation of the scales as they seeped out of my skin, bursting with the shimmering, mother of pearl sheen the scales possessed.

My legacy would come when I called it.  I was the one in control.

“Arianna come back inside.”

I turned to find my mother standing where our house met the beach.  There was fear and cause of fear all over her perfect face.

My mother was a mermaid turned human.  She knew what I was.  She knew I had to swim every night to feel alive.  She used to do it too until I was born.  When I was born, she lost her ability to be a mermaid.

I turned back up the beach, casting the swelling curves of the sea once last look.  She was still my mother; I had to dine with her.

Dinner was quiet.  As usual father was away on business.  Whenever he was gone mother was sombre and quiet.  I knew the story between them.  It was the sweetest romantic kind, which I would envy if I knew where in the world I belonged.

Mother was a mermaid princess.  Father was a wealthy business man.  She saved him from a shipwreck in her mermaid form and brought him back to shore staying with him while he remained unconscious.  She sang to him.  He heard.  She ran away before he could ask her name.  He never saw her either.

Back in her kingdom she begged a witch to give her the means to find her love.  In exchange she lost her voice.  On land mother had legs and yes she caught father’s attention.  Things went swimmingly until the witch showed up, beautiful and undeniably entrancing.  The minute she opened her mouth, father went to her entranced.

Mother was broken hearted and aimed to return to the sea having lost him.  It took the coaxing persuasion and convincing of her closest friends for her to return to land to retrieve her love and voice.

The story ends happily.

But mine?

I don’t know.

Mother says I’m human.  I believe her.  But I think I am also the sea.  I feel the sea in my bones, my blood, my heart.  It is in my ear calling to me, calling to the inner sea in me.  Sometimes I give in and I swim where my human friends cannot.  Sometimes I hold back because I love the life I have.

Does Poseidon, God of the Sea know what he meant when he created his creatures of the sea?  Did he know that someday the creature would wish to be human?  Is that why he created the witch?

I stand on the beach again.  I’ve been doing this so much more lately, ever since the passing of my eighteenth birthday, everyone knows where to find me.

My boyfriend comes and wraps his arms around my waist.  What would he say if he ever knew about my darkest secret?

I rest my hands on his and brush my thumb over the familiarity of his touch.

I would miss him if I went.

“What are you thinking of?”  He asks me as we watch the sea push up, holding for a moment, before sinking down and swelling up again.  It sighed in between and once again the ocean song filled my ears.

“I’m thinking of the ocean.”  His hands tighten in their clasp around my waist as though he is trying to hold on to me.  As though I am already deep beneath the ocean, skimming along the ocean floor.

But I’m not.  I’m still here.

He says nothing.  For once I wonder if my mother mentioned anything.  In all our arguments about my legacy, she made it very clear that for me to go beneath the sea would inevitably be the end of me.

I was only half-mermaid.  I cannot live below the water surface forever.  Just like mother should not live on land forever.  She might have lost her ability to transform, but she will always be a mermaid.  I see the hunger in her eyes when she watches me swim in the ocean in my mermaid form.  I cannot blame her.  I am what she is not anymore.

Shortly after, my boyfriend leaves me promising to see me tomorrow.  His parting touch relunctant.  I knew he wanted to stay, but I wanted him to go for once.  He couldn’t be here.  I needed him to go because what I would do next would break his heart.

I watched his disappearing figure.

When he was gone I walked to the sea once again.  My head turning to the house I was leaving behind.

“Goodbye,” I whisper.  It was a whisper that would haunt my mother’s dreams when she figured out what I’d done.  But this was my legacy.  I had to go.

The familiar sensation rippled over me, gills sprouted below my ears and the scales shimmered down my waist.  I walked further into the water, until my tail was submerged and there was nothing human about my bottom half anymore.  Then I dived.

One Life Choice.

There was water in my hair…how could that be?  I wondered as looked down at myself.  I was dry.  The water thrashed about me.  Where was I?  I wondered.  The beach.   I frowned.  Why was I at the beach?  Then the cries reached my ears and I saw my floating body on the water, lifeless.