It’s been some time since I’ve written anything, life (mainly ill health) kept getting in the way. However I’m still re-wording my 52c stories with a hope that one day they will be published. A number of editors have expressed that my prologue was too long, so here is my shortened version. I’d love some feedback…. thanks
I am 52C.
Within my place life thrives in its own unique way, a magical way.
Maybe that’s why Google Maps doesn’t know I exist.
For on their map I’m an empty space.
Other houses border my land, and are marked 52, 52A, 52B and 54.
My space should be marked 52C.
I exist on a street where lawns are lush, gardens clipped and paths swept. Nothing dares be out of place, and nothing is.
Except for me.
My presence sprawls beyond the mapped council limits. Neighbours mutter that chaos inhabits my land, without boundaries of concrete and weed killer.
Much of what they say is true, my garden’s life spills forth, my house a home for possums, bush rats, mice, spiders, noisy miners and owls.
My trees provide shelter for birds where constant treetop chatter drowns out the noise of suburban taming machines, of lawn mowers and whipper snippers.
When kids increase their speed as they approach, they know that the raised roots of my trees will send their bike wheels twisting and spinning as they whoop with joy.
Mr and Mrs Jones were the last people who lived within me. They worked as anthropologists, unearthing and nurturing my magic, filling my yard and house with cultural items collected during their travels. Masks, a fountain, a large buoy, books, and many other curious things.
Now my magic runs strong through these objects, transforming them into portals back to the cultures who created them.