Liz Marks lives in Auckland and is interested in writing stories from her past and those of her ancestors. A friend once told her she should start writing and she thought but what will I write? On this course she has discovered the way.
I am lying on my back, on a diagonal, at my mother’s feet, on her bed, with my legs criss crossing the air energetically. I like the rhythm and the movement. It is a cold, wet, dull winter’s afternoon in Christchurch. The house is quiet. My brother and sisters are out. My mother is resting propped up against two large pillows. I can feel the texture of the yellow candlewick bedspread under my hands. I pull at its thick soft tufts. Draped across the end of her bed is my mother’s puffy eiderdown, beige with a paisley pattern of navy, red and green that swirls and twists. I can see out the window a row of large walnut trees, their leaves drooping and dripping, wet, along the boundary fence beyond the garden shed.
Please submit your story via the Contact page and it will receive a gentle edit from Deborah.