Lost in Mangroves

Lost in Mangroves is the sixth and latest anthology from the Tropical Writers Inc which formed in 2003.  I joined in 2010, inspired by the group’s vision and website, full of information for the aspriring, emerging and established writer. Writers’ groups, especially those with online services for writers in remote areas, enable us to connect through our craft.  The anthologies published by Tropical Writers Inc not only allow members to showcase work, but also they highlight some of the wonderful aspects of the Far North.

     I first submitted to a Tropical Writers anthology in 2011 with Category 5, a gripping collection following Cyclone Yasi.  If Lost in Mangroves is anything like Category 5, readers will be very happy.  If you are after some local and engaging festive season reading, support local writers and grab a copy of Lost in Mangroves (Collins Booksellers and Angus & Robertson) which comprises non-fiction short stories and poetry following the theme of ‘home.’ 

     Here is the back cover blurb:

Hack your way through the mangroves of this anthology and confront the labyrinth of contorted roots about the ghosts of childhood, stray dogs on Thursday Island, a dramatic eclipse of the sun, a royal visit to Cairns, Australians confused by an Indian custom, and solitude on sun-drenched sands.

     My short story, Ruby’s Tuesday on Thursday Island follows Ruby, neglected and pregnant, as she searches the island for a safe place to birth her latest litter of puppies.  It is a true story that involved the Torres Shire Council, the dog catcher and the RSPCA’s Chief Inspector of Operations.

     My copy of Lost in Mangroves is on order at Collins Booksellers at Smithfield.  Damn the distance between here and Cairns.  However I have been lucky enough to read the submission by Elizabeth Martin, The hat, the bird and the naughty little boy.  Elizabeth, like me is a busy mother of three boys, but she is also a GP.  How she manages to write and write so well given the demands on her time is a mystery although I suspect she does much work in the wee hours and under the influence of caffeine.  I have read quite a bit of Elizabeth's writing.  It is witty and engaging, and has a distant sadness that reminds me very much of Tim Winton’s work with a woman’s touch.  I feel this comes from her ability to tap into the realities of life, the struggles we face as we negotiate relationships and parenting, and get those realities on the page, or screen rather, in a raw albeit refreshing way.  Each time I have read her work I thought, Oh, that's exactly how I felt when ....

     Here are the opening paragraphs of Elizabeth’s story.  I cringed as I sensed something very unpleasant was about to happen, something that could have happened to me.

The hat, the bird and the naughty little boy

Long, long ago and Once Upon A Time, in a dreamlike state caused by broken sleep and the hormones of breastfeeding, I went to have coffee with friends. In those days I was obsessed with coffee. I tried to limit my habit to one cup a day, but with that came the imperative; it had to be a good one. Not only did the coffee have to be good, but the setting too. And that’s the reason I had a year’s pass to Wild World.

            My sister said later, you’d think the name would have been enough warning. Wild World is now called the Cairns Tropical Zoo, but is still home to the same assortment of crocodiles, snakes and—scariest of all—brolgas. The coffee shop is also still there. I can see it from the Cook Highway as I drive past. But I haven’t been back. I wasn’t officially banned; I just don’t want any unpleasantness.

            It was a sunny winter’s day, the tropical air only lightly laced with humidity, and I was drinking my coffee with a girlfriend, her husband, her two beautifully behaved daughters and my two sons. We stretched our dusty legs, relaxing after trudging the concrete paths of the zoo, letting kangaroos lick pellets out of our hands and ushering questioning children away from grunting, copulating wombats. The smell of coffee mingled with the streaking afternoon light and the screech of cockatoos. My younger son was still little enough to be in a pram—restrained, but later proving himself to be sensible and obedient anyway, the opposite of his brother who buzzed at the periphery of my coffee-sharpened vision, wearing a gorgeous denim hat.