Stories and Paintings
St Murray's Primary School. Oldham, England, 1987. “Back again, Deenis? Good heavens, most boys try to avoid the principal’s office, but you seem to hang around here like a stray mutt.” “I don’t mean to, sir. It’s just that I’m having trouble with some of the other boys.” “Oh, here we go again.” “Well, all... Continue Reading →
New Year's Eve 1989 in the Venison household was one to remember. So it is unfortunate that I'm the only one who does. (My parents, and my aunties and uncles who attended the party at our house, all woke the next afternoon with "nasty colds" that seemed to have wiped all memory of the night's... Continue Reading →
Miss Harvey was back to her bubbly self—and then some. During the morning lessons, her rhymes were catchy, her activities were extra-fun, and her jokes had never been cornier. She even made the multiplication test enjoyable. At morning tea time she asked Holly to stay back. Holly took a deep breath and waited at her... Continue Reading →
Holly stared in wonder at the weeping adult in front of her. She looked about the room and the windows to see if anyone else was seeing what she was seeing. There was no one. Squeals and laughter called from the playground. A distant tonk of plastic bat on tennis ball had Holly thinking for... Continue Reading →
Miss Harvey picked up the notebook. "You have a gift for writing," she said, though she seemed unimpressed. "Your style is very... uh..." Her voice trailed off. She set the book down, raised her head and drew a deep breath. She turned to face Holly, her lips screwed up to one side. She stared at... Continue Reading →
The next morning's lessons were unusually drab: a spelling test, an hour calculating the area of triangles, and then a science lesson that raised hopes by mentioning sharks and turtles before revealing itself to be a sermon on reducing plastic pollution in oceans. Miss Harvey, who usually coloured her lessons with rhymes, artistic activities and... Continue Reading →
Holly was good at cricket. Playing cricket on the oval at lunchtime was the closest she had come to making friends so far at her new school. When she played, some of the older boys talked with her and joked with her—no one else ever did. But today she didn't play. She just sat on... Continue Reading →
Holly set down her pencil and shook her hand to loosen the cramp. She looked down at the open notebook before her, its every faint-ruled blue line crammed left to right with large cursive handwriting—neat enough to be legible, but messy enough to keep up with the flow of inspiration. Most of her classmates were... Continue Reading →
All I used to know about this novel was that Mark David Chapman had it with him when he shot John Lennon. Fearing the book contained some bewitching influence, for years I resisted the curiosity to read it, lest I, too, be brainwashed into murdering an overrated music star. Then recently I watched a television... Continue Reading →
James Joyce’s loosely autobiographical novel spans several years in the life of young Stephen Dedalus. Observing him mainly in a school and university setting, the book focuses on significant events and stages in his development. These points are merely markers in the story, while the substance is Stephen’s inner struggle: his emotions, questions, doubts, fears,... Continue Reading →
