It’s a fairly-new-year’s Saturday and the skies rumble grey over bleak, twig-waving hope of spring. Bedded down in my flat, I debate my options for the breaking day and year ahead. There’s a top ready to be returned to M... Continue Reading →
See my Story Time for the next episode: “Annie!” Later King would recall the spray of blood on the wall; watching it trickle; the gun where Annie had dropped it; their son whimpering in the corner.
King scrolled through the pictures on the screen. A shadow temporarily dimmed the light behind him. “Checking in with your whores again?”
Craters appear in the sands as we drag out our heads to observe the view, listen to voices which shout in silence above the roar of chanting seas. The pace of deprivation accelerates. Crimes formerly closeted by morality are exposed... Continue Reading →
In keeping with tasteful tones of past and present, the regular venue for Melbourne Lit Group is housed beneath the sandstone levels of Federation Square, in and bordering the historic Federation Wharf vaults. The restaurant overlooks the banks of the Yarra... Continue Reading →
by Penny Mitchell – Communications that Matter
Broken Telephone is a party game we played in my youth. The purpose is to whisper a message person to person until it is spoken aloud by the last in line. The game makes fun of poor listening and language skills. For it to be effective, the final version of an original sentence should bear some resemblance in structure, but mean something hysterically different.
Invariably the outcome fails to inspire a belly-aching response, because people don’t get the point or follow the rules. Often a smart-alec mucks up the game by inserting a different message or hi-jacking the original completely. Others think the challenge is to speak so that the receiver cannot get the message.
As the self-conscious perfectionist and English lover I was in those days (now less of the former), with sensitive hearing and good diction, I found the game…
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