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Posts Tagged ‘writers’

I remember grabbing Mr. B my teddy for comfort. He was my soft and cuddly place, my courage when I was scared, a good source of entertainment when I was bored, and a confidant—always a good listener when things at home were crazy.

The house was quiet, except for the howl of the wind outside and some shuffling sounds from the lounge. I could feel a change in the mood, like a bad smell seeping through the air turning everything unpleasant and I grew nervous. I pressed Mr. B to my chest and edged my way along the dark hallway towards the soft, gentle, triangle of light that rested neatly at the doorway entrance. My footsteps were silent against the thin layer of carpet but I could do nothing to dampen the thunderous beat of my heart. Still, I moved hesitantly towards the doorway, ignoring the strong urge to turn back and find sanctuary under the blankets on my bed before it was too late. Something was wrong, I could feel it, and I needed to find out. I waited for my eyes to adjust before I cautiously peeped around the corner.

Mum sat naked and slouched on the couch, her head buried in her hands, tendrils of long brown hair trapped between her fingers. She looked pale against the light. She was crying. Instinctively, she looked up, her tear-filled eyes locking onto mine for a moment before quickly averting to the floor where she searched and grabbed an item of clothing for cover. But I had seen the shame as clearly as I could feel the guilt in her presence, and the naked truth of our lives would be forever captured in that one sad moment, a moment that would later replay itself over and over in my mind as the years passed, and would play an integral part in my childhood and my future.

Excerpt (novel) – Insane Truth – Grant Ackermann

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In which book do the catchphrases ‘messing about in boats’ and ‘poop, poop’ feature?

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The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

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In which book does freelance surveillance agent and researcher Lisbeth Salander feature?

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Little House on the Prairie

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Name the most famous series of children’s books by Laura Ingalls Wilder?

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It’s none of their business that you have to learn to write. Let them think you were born that way.

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Which Italian novel for children has been adapted in over 240 languages?

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Doctor Stephens, with test results in hand, sat us down in his office. I can still smell that subtle lemon odour of disinfectant that hung in the air. He palmed away a strand of grey hair that hung across his brow and adjusted his specs, which usually rested low down on his pudgy nose. He set the pages on his desk, letting his fingers rest upon them like a paper weight, as if he expected a gale force wind to howl into his office and swirl them into a scattered mess on the floor. He cleared his throat.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, and his lips twitched into a crooked smile that seemed just as out of place in this setting as was the blazing red tie he wore around his neck. Pushing through the awkwardness, he continued giving us the bad news in a rather direct, matter-of-fact fashion, as though he was presenting the daily news at six. He gave us all the facts and all the results of the tests, but the bottom line, he said, was that there was nothing they could do to help them … there was no cure.

The girls’ level of the disease was classed as type two, which meant their bodies would slowly give way to this condition, gradually losing muscle function until finally their respiratory system would cease to work, their breathing would stop, and they would die. When? Nobody knew for certain, but the life expectancy of patients with their severity was not good. When he was done speaking, he sat back in his leather seat and waited, his fingers laced together on his lap.

We sat in stunned silence for what seemed like a lifetime, staring at him as though there was more to add, something vital that he had left out that would change this news into a positive feel-good moment. Something along the lines of, ‘Only a kiss from their true loves could save them, and it’s up to you to save the day.’ Then we would race home and kiss them and watch the magic transformation as they swirled in golden light to be healed of any such disease. But it wasn’t like that; it’s never like that.

Excerpt (novel) – Insane Truth – Grant Ackermann

 

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The darkness before dawn. The mumbling of prayers. Feeling alone when thousands are by your side. Last thoughts of family and friends. They sit in silence, waiting. Now the moment is upon them. Even the wind stops so there could be no mistaking the instruction that was about to be given.

Then the ramps lower and they charge forward, pushing aside anxiety and fear, letting courage and pride lead them by their hands and their hearts. Immediate flashes from an invisible enemy and the thunderous rattling, cracking sounds of gunfire rain down. Agonising screams of despair cutting through the now howling winds. The sun, finally peeking its head, brings light to those fallen, their tumbling bodies caressed to shore by the gentle hands of the waves. The smell of gunpowder doing little to mask the stench of death. The metallic hope of weapons, clutched with white-knuckled hands, offer no defense to an advantaged enemy. The red spray of saltwater touches lips and faces, mixing with tears, before rolling down the faces of a young nation. But it’s their will to keep moving forward, their courage and determination to fight for what they love and believe in … that true ANZAC spirit that never gives up and defines who we are and that makes us proud to be Australian.

Today on ANZAC Day we will stand and we will be proud. They will always be our heroes and we will forever be grateful for their sacrifice. We will acknowledge the past and we will celebrate the future. We will give thanks for our privileges and who we are as a nation. And we will remember and salute them … lest we forget!

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