The story is lumpy, many small hillocks under the white sheet that’s really a foot kicking my liver and pain shooting to the base of my brain, what’s that called again…the hypothalamus? Tonight, there was a room full of children all wanting their voices to be heard, a theme I keep coming back to, the small boy with the brown face from Egypt or was it Oman? His words are on the tip of my tongue. He told the old man with the kind intentions but he was listening to someone else; I have to try and remember because of his face, the pleading eyes. That was the moment I realised I had it, the whole narrative in a nutshell, the human condition laid bare and I had it! This’ll be the one they’ll want to publish.
Gail Ingram
Gail Ingram writes poetry, short stories and is working on a short novel for teenagers. Her work has appeared or is pending in Takehe, Fineline, The Climber 2012, Ice Diver, Building a time machine and The Christchurch Press. She is the president of SIWA (South Island Writers Association) and a member of Airing Cupboard, a group of woman poets. She is inspired by great books, family and conservation, particularly of the sublime South Island landscape.
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