Lynda Bennett cv

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by Lynda Bennett Publishing

Podcast history and links

Posters / cre ate d images Poetry

Photog raphy Children’s Stories

Non-fiction

Fiction

...about Lynda

Author bio.

Since moving to Melbourne in 2011, from her birthplace Sydney, Lynda has begun a new and passionate career in writing at NMIT Fairfield, Victoria. She will be completing her Bachelor of Writing and Publishing in November 2014, having had some short stories and poetry published along the way. She also loves taking photos with her iPhone.

In 2014, Lynda ventured in to publishing with her short philosophy book Sha’hallaan’s Truth, published in the Premium Catalog of Smashwords.

This became the instigator for the creation of her publishing brand LyndaBennett Publishing.

As a physiotherapist working with older Australians, Lynda Bennett co-authored her first book What Can I Do?- The essential guide to Australian Services for the ageing and carers. Published by Hachette in 2009, its purpose was to empower older Australians, their friends, and family.

Lynda is now combining her passion for writing and publishing with her desire to empower older Australians. Her exciting new project, 55, is a journal showcasing the talents of creative Australians who have had their 55th birthday – or more! Lynda – yes, she is over 55 - has written and designed most of the content for Issue 1, formatting it for digital, podcast and print versions. Three other contributors were commissioned to broaden the scope of this first issue, but Lynda’s plan is to increase the percentage of other contributors, by the next issue.

The aim of this Cv is to showcase a sample of what Lynda has accomplished for herself, and to demonstrate how she might help you achieve your publishing goals.

It is a flexible, ongoing document.

Sections Fiction contents Non-fiction contents Children’s stories contents Photography contents Poetry contents Posters / charts etc contents Podcasts contents Publications contents Weblinks contents

Fiction

Fiction contents Thirteen Paths 2013 First published in Offset 13, by Victoria University Press 2014 Subsequent inclusion in the 55 magazine, in this format Love Imperfect Excerpt from Lynda’s upcoming novel Love Imperfect.

Winners and Losers An exerpt from an as yet unpublished novel.

Thirteen Paths

By Lynda Bennett

“What do you want to do?”

I had gone to the psychic reader for an answer, not to be questioned.

“I don’t know whether to do it or not, that’s what I’ve come to ask you.”

“No wonder you need help. Is that what you believe: that it’s an either / or decision.”

“Of course. You either walk a path or you don’t.”

I was getting a bit testy by now. I had paid good money, and had to tell a few not-quitetruths about my whereabouts to be here.

Her plentiful breasts shook with laughter as she patted my perfectly manicured hand with her stocky, wrinkled fingers. Not only were my childhood fears stoked into little flames, but the small wooden chair she pulled out was blocking my exit.

Before I could set her straight about treating me like some gawky, over-imaginative schoolgirl, she spoke as she lowered herself, eyes glued to mine.

In the same tone as my maths teacher, she informed me that there were actually thirteen paths from which to choose and they all end up in the same place.

Ah. I got it then. That was her technique: to make you ask where? Once lured into feeling she has the answers, you’ll pay again and again for her secret knowledge. I told her I wasn’t in the business of party games and if my friends were wrong about her being able to help, maybe I should leave now.

Silence permeated my skin.

A soft, warm voice surrounded me.

“There are always 13 paths for every footstep.”

I wanted to object; I breathed out forcefully, but the vocal chords would not respond. Despite my “But…” that floated uselessly across the room, she continued.

“You can choose to act well or badly in five ways each, or do nothing in three.”

“I want to do what’s right,” I whispered.

“Right and wrong, my dear, are only points of view.” Her wide pupils and green irises fluoresced; mine were held captive.

“Let me explain your choices, then you can choose a card.”

I nodded irrelevantly, as she launched into her spiel.

Whenever we are aware of a choice, we can choose to help or hurt, in five ways. They are • To willingly, actively participate • To engage reluctantly • To act with the sole aim of impressing others • To act out of fear, under threat • Purely for gain You may choose to do nothing in three ways, being • To watch • To walk away • To observe and use the information to your own advantage As I emerged into awareness of the phones ringing and the customers in the main office, I shook my determination into responding with my only defence.

“And what if you just don’t know?”

The cards had shuffled themselves and spread into an odd wheel shape. I counted - thirteen, not twelve.

The voice in the air said to choose, and suddenly there was a hand reaching across the table and I touched one worn, slightly damaged at the edges, faded card.

“Before I turn it over, what did you mean that they all end up in the same place?”

“In death, of course,” replied the professorial tone, this time.

Swirling silence. My fingers jerked away from their choice.

“If it all ends in death, then why bother choosing? Who cares?”

The gentle laugh was followed by “you don’t think you’re going to live forever do you?”

Fiction

Death, forever, good and evil: these were not what I had come to ask about.

“Anyway, isn’t thirteen supposed to be unlucky? The Chinese say that 3 plus 1 is four, and 4 sounds the same as “death”. And everyone knows about Friday the thirteenth. So how can everything I do spin around the number thirteen?”

I don’t think I saw her stand, but there she was, turning back towards me with one arm crooked, offering me lustrous scarves. She reverently laid them over a soft padded bar immediately to my left, that I had previously not noticed.

“Feel them. One of them will feel comfortable in your soul when you hold it.”

Well, it was better than discussing death, so I reached out.

“They are silk and cotton, from nature, and reflect the thirteen colours of the rainbow – the seven basic colours of Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet, plus the six exactly between them, where they merge to become more of one or the other.”

Whilst remonstrating that I had never heard that before, my hand was drawn to the yellow - not the bright one, but the yellow / gold next to the orange one. The sensuous texture persuaded itself to smooth around my neck.

“Ah,” She said in an annoyingly knowledgeable tone.

“Can we get to my question now?” I refused to be seduced by the scarf. “Let’s do those cards.”

“But you have already answered yourself.”

Defeated and confused, I meekly asked her what was going on.

“The rainbow colours are also chakra colours.

Your question has been uppermost in your mind since walking in my door. You have chosen a middle path between the yellow of self drive and the orange of relationships or reproduction.”

“But…?”

“Of the thirteen choices, you don’t want to hurt anyone, including yourself. Neither do you want to do nothing, or you wouldn’t be here.”

I could only nod and frown.

“So to act positively, there are only the first two choices for you – to act willingly or reluctantly.

Yes?” More stupid nodding. And the stupid eyes were getting like I might need a tissue soon.

As she held the cloud-soft ends of the scarf with her small hands, I suddenly appreciated the understated strength they emitted.

“This is my favourite one. I want you to have it; to remember who you are.”

This was totally weird, and I’m not sure I should even tell anyone this, but I immediately felt yellow like the scarf.

“Do you see?” she asked patiently.

The little flickering flames of doubt and fear began to glow with a warmth of knowing that I still could not quite acknowledge.

“You can do both, my dear. It is not either / or.

You can go to Uni and marry the boy. You will be strong, smart and happy. The children will come when they are ready.”

The really weird part is that I knew inside me that she was right.

I wanted to learn more about the thirteen colours, and would never forget those thirteen paths.

Click the rainbow to discover more about the relationship with it and the chakra colours.

Love Imperfect

By Lynda Bennett

Richard’s choice this momentous Sunday was a picnic in the park, under the bridge. New Year’s Eve was approaching and he wanted to be with her, watching the city prepare for the end of year celebrations. He had a plan for his own celebration.

As his cab pulled up beside the kerb, Lisa was already waiting, standing on the new concrete pathway. From behind the safety of the reflective window, he absorbed her every movement, watching for signs. Her head was up; no ties restricted her shoulder length blonde hair. This was a new shirt; the bright azure blue material seemed to have clasps at the shoulders, from which sparkles rained down like fireworks. She waved, shimmering. “…like an angel.”

Richard hadn’t realised that he’d said that aloud until the taxi driver hesitated swiping his Visa card saying, “What mate?”

The weather was ideal and white caps on the low choppy waves danced and glinted with the last of the sunlight. Boats of all kinds passed by. Their colours, shapes and probable destinations charted their conversation as they wandered under and around the bridge pylons. He sensed Lisa was full of life and happy, yet there was a certain tension he could not define.

The harbourside would provide the romantic setting for his plan. Mark had been goading him a lot lately. His best friend was right, but he was also wrong. Richard was “chicken”, but not because he did not value himself. It was the risk of ruining a beautiful friendship that scared him. What if she rejected him? He knew she wouldn’t laugh at him.

She never had.

He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Lisa queried, leaning over him, enveloping him in her perfume and the softness of her hair. He couldn’t breathe, let alone speak.

She stopped pushing his wheelchair so that she could see his face. “Well?”

“Nothing,” he lied, but her frown creased his resolve.

“Just Mum,” he replied, thankful he was so quick at thinking, if nothing else.

“True,” Lisa looked into his eyes, straight through to his soul, “she’d go dingbats as my gran used to

say.”

Richard smiled, and it was enough for Lisa to resume walking along the gently sloping path to the water’s edge.

He wasn’t ready to tell her everything yet.

What he had been remembering was the awful confrontation when they had tried to tell his parents about their friendship. From the volcano of horror as his mother had abused Lisa, came the most radiant moment of his life.

He smiled again as he pictured his mother when he would tell her one day that it was her attack that had given him hope. He laughed aloud as a distant ship sounded its horn, leaving the safe harbor, wondering what Lisa would say if she knew he had immortalized those thirty-eight wonderful words.

“He is a man, Gail – intelligent, cultured and sensitive, with a man’s needs and a man’s feelings.

He has grown up whether you like it or not.”

Those twenty-seven were magical, but he nearly fainted at the next eleven words, and so did his mother.

“I might even want to marry him, for all you know.”

He saw them in gleaming amber, preserved forever. Richard liked fonts, so he imagined them written in Apple Chancery, italicized, and in hot pink. Glowing pink inside golden amber. That would have to be his consolation prize, if his plan didn’t work.

Lisa had phoned him yesterday, crying and angry.

He visualized the fluid crystals falling down her cheeks, and he loved her even more.

“Sheila heard me telling Karen about your mother,” Lisa had said.

“She burst into the tea-room and barraged me.

‘He’s not the secret boyfriend, is he – the one in the wheelchair?’ she said. Like you were a thing, not a person.”

Richard had started to say something, but had taken too long because he was picturing Lisa outraged on his behalf. He could smell the coffee, and wondered why they called it a tea-room. He didn’t care what Sheila said. He’d heard it all before.

He stopped smiling when Lisa repeated the next part of the conversation: “She said we were both

Fiction

pathetic – a cradle snatcher and a cripple – that we were embarrassing – unprofessional – and…” then the crying became a mixture of pain and outrage of her own.

On the long path to the secluded spot he had pointed out to her, he had time to review why he had finally made the decision to tell her. He wanted to start the New Year closer to his love.

On this balmy summer’s eve, he would tell her how he truly felt. No matter how good a time they had on their outings together, he could get no closer than holding her hand. The invisible, unspoken barrier was always up. Reluctantly he had, up until now, accepted this and been satisfied simply to enjoy her time, her company, her hand. He had planned every detail. Tonight he was filled with hope for more.

A more glorious sunset could not have been arranged – pinks and golds now arched across the western sky, like her words in amber. As they found a bench at the water’s edge, he transferred from his chair to sit close beside her. The summer night’s cool

breeze arrived, providing the excuse to place his arm around her bare shoulders. She didn’t pull away; she waited for him to complete it in his own time. All was going according to plan.

Lisa poured two glasses of the champagne he had brought. As she turned her face to him and lifted his glass, a container ship roared an urgent blast of warning to a small boat, and Richard’s dream fell apart.

They had been sitting half turned towards each other. The sudden bellow startled him; his right hand, about to wrap romantically around hers, violently spasmed, punching the glass out of her grasp.

They would have forlornly watched it smash to the ground if they hadn’t been distracted by his left hand. Previously lying lovingly on her left shoulder, it mercilessly flew up into the air, clipping Lisa on the side of her head as it went.

Richard wanted to amputate it there and then.

A catastrophic domino effect ensued. Lisa’s head was catapulted into his chest causing him to fall

backwards, missing the bench’s metal armrest by a literal hair’s breadth.

He wanted to die.

As she lifted herself off his hopeless body, he could not open his eyes. He could not bear to see her pity or contempt.

But the sounds did not match his vision. Slowly he forced his eyelids to part, just a little.

“You’re laughing?”

He had no idea how to feel. A toxic mix of pain, shame, relief and confusion had his heart racing so hard that if hadn’t already been lying unceremoniously on his back, he would have fallen there anyway.

“Of course I am. But where’s someone with a camera when you need one?”

She organized herself, and then efficiently helped him to sit up. Too efficiently. Back in therapist mode.

The romance was gone. He knew it. The plan was gone. All hope sank. Contemplating the unfairness of life, he looked out over the water while Lisa picked up the broken glass, and confidently strode over to dispose of it in the rubbish bin.

Walking back, she watched him. Her heart went out to him as she saw the slumped shoulders, and the sadness settle over him like a blanket. She knew how hard he had been trying to please her, and how shattered he would be feeling.

“Come on. Cheer up. We are both okay, and it’s not the end of the world.”

“Not much short of it,” he reluctantly replied as he noted the richness of the colours draining from the sky.

Lisa sat down close beside him. He could feel her hip next to his. It was her turn to place her arm around his shoulders.

“I’ve had worse. Surely you’ve heard about the David incident.”

Met with silence, she continued.

“It was my first day in the therapy pool, and no-one warned me about David’s left arm. I bent over to hear him more clearly, his arm shot up, and I went flying across the room. I hit the wall so hard that I literally saw stars. I felt like I was in a Disney cartoon as I slid to the floor. Everyone laughed except me.”

As he slowly turned his head to risk seeing the expression on her face, Lisa leaned in to him.

Without another word she placed her lips gently,

lovingly, and longingly on his. As his head was exploding, he felt one of her arms slide behind his waist, and the other placed on his chest. With tears in his eyes, he could hardly breathe as she moved back slightly.

“Why now?” he whispered. He had waited so long, fearing their love may never happen.

Keeping her arms around him, she explained.

“I watched a movie on TV, late last night, about the end of the world. I was so miserable after Sheila’s harangue, I felt like a disaster movie. I assumed it would be one of those sci-fi, end of the world thrillers, but I was wrong.”

He shivered as a short burst of cool air breezed past. The sunset had faded to its final glow on the rim of the distant hills and building silhouettes. The lights on the boats began to blink and sway.

“But it wasn’t about the end of the world. It was about where you might be, what you’d be doing, and who you wanted to be with when it happened.”

He placed his right hand as carefully as he could on her thigh. Lisa paused for only a moment.

“The main character couldn’t be with his mother or his best friend, so he made a decision of where and how he wanted to be in his last hours. Following his own path led him on a journey to finally find love.

People around him did as they pleased, good and bad, without society’s limitations because there would be no recriminations.

Richard was getting a bit lost and hesitantly asked, “but how does that relate to us?”

“But that is exactly it. I only thought of you. I fell asleep holding my pillow, imagining I was in the arms of my lover, listening to beautiful music. As the cataclysm strikes, we are deep in a blissful embrace, held together for eternity.”

She lifted her fingers from his chest and stroked the side of his strong, soft cheek.

“The face before me is always yours.”

Richard bent to kiss her as he had fantasised so many times alone at night. It was briefer than he wished. Lisa relished his action but had not finished her tale.

“I need you to understand what happened to me,” she explained.

“My first waking thought this morning was that scene. I realised that with no rules governing me, if I could just follow my heart it would be straight

Fiction

in to your arms. It wasn’t all idealised, you know.

You were still in a chair, and I was still just me, but nothing mattered. It sort of hit me how futile it would be if I actually knew what I wanted, and what I think you want, yet lived my whole life without telling you, or doing something about it.”

The only part that struck Richard was that he was still disabled in her dream. It meant she really loved him for who he was.

“Why should I wait until I’m about to die, like the guy in the movie, to be truly close to another human being when there isn’t anything tangible to stop us?”

Two ferries sounded their horns loudly as they crossed paths leaving the wharf. He jumped, but she held him firmly.

“Do you realise we have known each other for nearly five years, and have wasted most of it because of other people imposing their prejudices on us?”

He could only nod in agreement, not daring to interrupt her earnest tone.

“Then I understood that, despite my thinking that I was so “cool” about disabilities, the last barrier was actually me.”

“No. You are the most perfect…” Lisa was in full confession mode and was not going to give him a chance to stop her.

“I’ve been discriminating against you, even though I didn’t know it. Society’s rules made me behave differently towards you because of what you are; how they classify you. Yet what you are is the person I care most about. The way you were born, and the things that have happened to you, have made you who you are.”

She noted his slight frown as he was starting to find it amusingly difficult to keep up with her.

“Don’t you see that without the what’s right and wrong thing going on in my stupid head, there was only one truth. I do love you Richard.”

A gasp filled his lungs and whole body. His back straightened. He did not want to breathe out as she continued.

“As I so blithely said to a patient’s mother the other day ‘love sees past those things’, I realised that I was lecturing myself. You work so hard to please me and show me love at every opportunity. You lift me up with your words, your eyes and your heart. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to be able to return that

love.”

As he clasped his errant hands behind her back, feeling her warm body in his arms, she recommended the movie to him.

“If it is on again this month, I’ll record it for you. I think you’d like it.”

This time he laughed out loud.

“Record it? No way. I’m going to buy it, frame it, and write the producer a huge thank you letter for helping you to make me the happiest person in the whole world! I love you too Lisa, with all my heart and soul to the end of the world, whenever it may be.”

Words about to be said vanished as their lips touched. Gentle, warm, brushing lightly at first, then lingering with delicious anticipation, they savoured the kisses of release. They were finally free to explore their love and their future.

Reluctantly, they left the cool and still busy harbor, making plans as they slowly returned to the carpark, and his taxi home.

The time had come to end these secret weekend meetings.

Winners and losers

Winners and Losers YOU WHAT?

I went to the council and threatened them with full disclosure of their dealings with the mining company. They buckled Anne,; we won!

Anne sinks to the chair nearby, the slight tremor in her hand worries David.

He reiterates, “We won, Anne, we won.”

Her naturally light brown skin seemed to go pale and he cannot work out the look on her face or see the anticipated delight in her downcast eyes. He slides in to the seat beside her.

He doesn’t dare touch her arm, he remembers what can happen if she is touched with her barriers up.

The tightrope she had been walking, had suddenly been cut at one end – the end she had not been prepared for.

“Please talk to me. I thought you would be happy...proud of me.”

A reluctant, quiet voice says, “I am, proud of your resolve. I’m not proud of me.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Tell me. Tell me now. Something is really wrong here”.

The blue glow emanating from her awed him. It always did.

“I am Sha’hallaan. I am not permitted to explain. They were not supposed to win, to create the reserve.”

“What have we been doing then? I thought you wanted to preserve it? You actually said so, before you left..”

He had never seen her shoulders like that: hunched forward, upper spine bent, eyes staring at a phantom speck on the floor. Anne, Sha’hallaan, never bowed, even to her father.

“Tell me.”

“Please. You’re killing me.”

“I am so sorry. I couldn’t tell you. I will now. I own the land. I needed them to feel heard, and put up great ideas, but ultimately fail. It’s my land and I need to preserve it. There’s so much more to that land than just ecology.”

Part angry, part betrayed by her not sharing her knowledge or plans, part understanding when she says she couldn’t that that was true, part devastation at ruining her hopes, David’s thoughts and emotions bounced around like electrons in a laser before they could get out.

Where was the escape hole?

As the glow intensified, she straightened. “This land is the future. The future of the whole planet.”

He could see her eyes now, resolved but sad.

“I’m sorry David, but you must go immediately and make peace with the councilor. Let him win to refuse the Reserve status. He does not know who the company is that owns it. His greed to buy it is what will save me…save us.”

“You’re kidding!” But as soon as he said the words, he knew he would have to do it. He was her committed servant in body, mind and soul. Mostly they ran on the same path, in union, but sometimes he could feel the abyss. Sometimes he wanted to jump over the edge and forget it all had happened.

She touched his hand and the glow followed up his arm and enveloped him. She shared; he was enveloped in love and empathy and knowledge.

“I’ll call him. I could say it was for show, that I don’t really care about the land, just the University.”

Her soft smile warmed him.

“He’d probably buy that.”

She nodded.

“Right now?”

She nodded again. And took both his hands this time.

“I know this hurts. I am so, so sorry. Thank you.”

Non-fiction

Non-fiction contents Is the Pen Mightier than the Sword?

Creative non-fiction

2012 First published in the Espresso Shot Series, by Yarra Bend Press

Caring Too Much

Creative non-fiction

2013 First published in the Espresso Shot Series, by Yarra Bend Press

Hand-held Lasers

Technology information

2014 First published in the 55 magazine, in this format

Winter Wonder

Creative non-fiction 2013 First published in Swimming sometimes - NMIT magazine 2014 Also published in this format in the 55 magazine

Is the Pen Mightier than the Sword?

Is the Pen Mightier than the Sword?

Hello there. Whilst you are enjoying our ambience and refreshment, how about some food for thought?

Consider the phrase “the pen is mightier than the sword.”

Who said it first? It was spoken by Cardinal Richelieu (the character) in a play called Richelieu; Or the Conspiracy in 1839. The English author Edward Bulwer-Lytton was neither the first nor last to comment on the need to promote communication over physical violence, yet his particular words live on. Why? What is the significance of the word “pen?” It creates seemingly harmless squiggles on a page. When these lines and shapes of incredible variety are grouped, they are called words. So? Look at these letters: W…O…R…D…S. It is an anagram for S…W…O… R…D. The pen is a sword in disguise, rallying to a cause, paying homage to rulers, fighting bloodied battles, and bestowing honours.

The humble pen was pretending to be mightier, apparently advocating non-violent solutions. However, when you consider that one quick scrawl of that pen could lop off as many heads as the King desired, the pen certainly had the numbers.

Other aspects of superiority are size and portability. You could pen a few chosen words yourself in between reading me, tasting a morsel of lovingly prepared nourishment, sipping at your libation, and checking your messages.

The old broadsword might have been okay whilst you were mounted on your destrier, courser or rouncey, charging out to make a point. (Ouch!) Today’s pens vary slightly in size, but generally can be hidden in pockets for a stealth attack.

Who wins on comparative pricing? According to myArmoury.com, in 15th century England, the average sword cost the average person about 120 days of labour. The most expensive pen, the Tibaldi Fulgor Nocturnus, was sold in a charity auction in Shanghai for $8 million dollars! The average person, however, probably spends less than 1 hour of labour on today’s average pen. Economically there is a mighty difference.

For glitz and glamour, an even footing could be argued in terms of jewel encrusting, gold, silver and shine. I tend to suspect, in this case, size may make a difference.

The potent pen can also draw. While I am sure that some artistic merit may have been intended in the mayhem, the sword generally does not draw. If a picture does paint a thousand words, the pen is mightily prodigious.

But here I must draw a line. In terms of monumental fame, the sword is mightier than the pen. Famous fictional swords thrust up from cultures around the world. Neither pirates nor Errol Flynn could swashbuckle their way into the movie screens without a sword. King Arthur could not be king, without Excalibur. More recently, you could not have enjoyed the cinematic brilliance of the wuxia film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon without the theft of the sword known as Green Destiny. J.R.R. Tolkein has 18 named swords in his stories, and you could not forget the Volpar sword that slew Lewis Carroll’s Jaberwocky. Moving into the digital world, swords abound in games, with a variety of ‘powers’ added to the usual slicing and dicing.

Some historical swords range alphabetically from Grus in medieval Poland, the Seven Branched Sword from the Baekje Dynasty of an ancient kingdom in current day southwest Korea, Sword of Goujian from about 500 BC in China, the Sword of Mercy – part of the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom, Tizona from Spain’s El Cid, Japan’s Tsumugari no Tachi, the Wallace Sword located in Scotland, and Zulfiqar- sword of the Muslim Prophet Mohammed.

In writing the stories, the words of swords, the pen claims victory

Caring Too Much Caring Too Much Imagine walking in to a large room. It is filled with busy people of all walks of life. Some are seated at tables laughing and chatting. Others are completing business deals and celebrating, grandiosely attracting the waiter’s attention to order food and champagne.

Children are squealing with delight as they play in their designated area. Those walking are heading somewhere with purpose, searching the room for their friends. You have just come in the door and scan the room for anyone you may know, where the bar is, and how to order the food.

You are the only one standing still. While noting the general happiness, you observe a small patch where something is wrong. The people are not busy or happy; in fact you think that maybe there is the faintest sound of crying and some agitated action. You ask a passing waiter, who does not seem to react to your question, but politely asks if you would like a table on the opposite side of the room. You say no, but he gently takes your elbow and guides you away. He says this is a better part of the room and you will be better off there. He smiles and offers you the bright, colourful menu.

You are still concerned, but another person joins your table and you find yourself chatting and ordering. Maybe the waiter was right – it will sort itself out.

You hear a definite cry and there is the slightest, momentary glitch in the happiness level of the room. You stand up to see what is wrong, but immediately find yourself face to face with the senior waiter. He asks very politely if he can help you. Of course he can; he can tell you what is wrong and if anyone needs help. You are advised that it is none of your business and it will sort itself out.

The person at your table says ‘you care too much’ and insists you sit down and have another drink.

You do. But it is not in your nature to sit by and ignore a plea for help. You announce you are going to the toilet; you walk in that direction, but then slide around the outer edges to see the problem for yourself. People around the disturbance sit laughing at their tables with their backs to the cries. It is dark in that corner, and you do the unthinkable: you turn the lights up for all to see what is happening. Security guards appear from nowhere and the lights are swiftly dimmed. But not before the scene is witnessed and the aggressors are revealed.

A young person, you are not sure if it is a girl or boy, is sobbing. They look up as the beating ceases and the bullies run away. Through the tears, the words emerge: ‘thank you for caring so much’.

Have you been accused of caring too much, as a way of saying you are working too long or too hard on any project? When said to me, it was always an accusation. It was telling me to toe the line, get my work done in the requisite hours, then go home without making others feel unworthy. I was made to feel that I was unnecessarily putting too much effort into my work. It often made me feel guilty that I could not finish my work without doing extra hours. It was not effective in making me stop.

Who decides what is ‘necessary’? How much is too much?

LASER is an acronym; it stands for Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation.

These days, “light” has the broader meaning of any frequency of electromagnetic radiation.

Hand-held Lasers

By Lynda Bennett

“Hand-held lasers” are being used, by many doctors, physiotherapists, and acupuncturists to heal a wide variety of health problems.

Medical acupuncture combines eastern and western knowledge with state of the art technology. It does not replace orthodox medical treatment, but does complement it.

This laser pen is used for acupuncture.

•

It is placed gently on the skin over acupuncture points.

•

It does not pierce the skin.

•

There is no heat or burning

Acupuncture has been used for at least 5000 years.

The first textbook, the Huang Ti Nei Jing Su Wen, or The Yellow Emperor’s Textbook of Internal Medicine, was written in China over 2000 years ago. Today there are acupuncture schools around the world.

The following is a very basic explanation of acupuncture.

The energy of the human body is called Chi or Life force. After thousands of years of observation, pints were noted to have specific effects on the mind and body. It was also noted that many points had similar effects, and when joined together on drawing, they

Click here appear to be grouped into lines or channels.

Chi moves around the body in these channels. Injury or disease can interrupt or alter the flow of energy. Treating an acupuncture point will try to re-establish the normal flow of energy.

Dr McC, a melbourne GP, uses the Silberbauer Compact Laser CL mini 8-658. He explains briefly how to combine acupuncture theory with three main western scientific theories1.

The Gate Theory essentially says that acupuncture stimulates nerve impulses which block out the nerve impulses from painful or damaged areas of the body 2.

The Endorphin Theory has shown that acupuncture stimulates the release of the body’s own pain-

killing chemicals (endorphins).

3.

The Reflex Theory has shown that there are areas on the skin that are reflexly tender when there is disease in internal organs.

Stimulation of these points can alter the disease processes in the related organs.

When asked how long the treatments take, Dr McC pointed out that everyone is unique. It depends on the problem and how long they have had it. Part of the treatment time is good assessment, as in any medical practice. The actual laser treatment time depends on the number of points that need to be stimulated, but each point time is only a matter of seconds. Repeat treatments are usually weekly, or sometimes fortnightly. Results occur within the first 5 treatments.

Long term problems may require booster treatments as needed.

Technology

The power of a laser is produced by stimulating a particular chemical (the gain medium) to excite its atoms.

These atoms are forced out in straight lines, rather than radiating out like a lightbulb.

The use of the laser is governed by the frequency of the produced emission. We see them in everyday usage in many areas of life including CD players, laser lighting displays, and laser printers.

Just as home printers have reduced in size, so have lasers. They still exist as giants, but the lasers used in laser acupuncture today are more like a slightly large pen

made to be held in the hand This laser pen example (pictured), used by a Melbourne GP, is from the Silberbauer company and is used for acupuncture and treating small areas of skin wounds. It is only 18.8 cm long, emits a wavelength of 658nm, with an output power of 8 mW. Using different gain mediums creates different wavelengths, having varied effects on the body. In medical acupuncture, a low-level laser is used for many conditions, except for the eye, cancer and only with special precautions in pregnancy.

The electromagnetic Spectrum Song

“As a patient, I have been delighted by the quick, effective and painless treatment for my musculoskeletal injuries. I still have to take responsibility for myself in terms of food, exercise, rest and other health issues; more effort needs to be put in to remembering my own limits! The knowledge, that this gentle, effective, non invasive therapy is available to me, helps to keep me positive and active.�

Lynda Bennett

by Emerson and Wong. A fun song about understanding the electromagnetic spectrum.

Scan the QR Code

Story by Lynda Bennett. Flower images from Lynda’s garden in July

Many dread winter; but I love it. Winter caresses my face with icy cool fingers and I sigh with relief from the heat.

This year I relived the gentle snows of my childhood, not at a resort, but driving up the summit road to Mt Donna Buang from Warburton in Victoria.

Approximately a kilometre from the top, barriers prevented vehicles from proceeding, and directed the traffic into flat clearings to park. The road above the barriers was for walking, playing, crunching, sliding and snowballs. There were two large trucks – one selling hot chips, the other hiring small plastic toboggans. I wished I were six again in this wonderland.

Deeply settled on bending branches, there was no wind or rain to disperse winter’s rich, sparkling cloak.

Leaves and branches know the secret of bending with the weight, until the snow slides off and they are free again. They know how to deal with pressure and they teach me. The thick, strong arms held out from the trunk appear to tolerate the heaviest snowy-white layers, yet even the tiniest leaves tolerate the same pressure and sometimes more. Brittle branches succumb and crash to the ground returning to the earth. Some leaves will not cope with the bitter cold and cry brown tears as they shrivel and die.

But most of the flora knows. It does not fight the pressure. It welcomes the changes and bends in acknowledgement, bowing courteously until the snow slips off. It knows the power of cycles and the wisdom of welcoming winter as the cooler; the time of waiting and healing; the readier for the renewal.

Under the snow, the bulbs that elate in the cold are excited and strong, reaching for the surface. Spring may see their full beauty, but winter is the nurturer.

The tender green tips peek above the frosty grass in anticipation of the colours of spring.

Learning Tai Chi has taught me to be as the leaves heavy with snow: to bend until the snows fall and I can stand tall again. I learned to show my colours, breathe gently, and move calmly as the weather whirls around me.

On the mountain, winter’s cloak is stark white, deep black and shades of grey. People adorned in a myriad of safety-coloured jackets brighten the scene.

The clothing, that surrounds my body and keeps the heat in, is thick, soft and bright pale blue. But it is the scarves that draw my attention and are my favourite; the variety of colours and textures, lengths and shapes is boundless. Flying freely behind the children as they toboggan down the slope, they wave a rainbow of happiness.

Returning home after lunch from the snowy grey and white mountain, I search for colour, looking to discover what the birds and possums have already known: winter shyly hides her brilliance. In my garden, blooms of white, pinks and reds adorn the broad, shiny, dark green leaves of the camellias.

Sunny yellow daisies stand tall, and others creep below the bare trees. The possums delight in eating the bright purple bracts of the happy wanderer that grows wildly over fences.

The Happy Wanderer

Winter Wonder

Snowfall photos taken by Lynda Bennett at Mt Donna Buang, Victoria.

Creative non-fiction

Flowers and butterflies in a winter garden

Winter apple blossom

The wattlebirds acrobatically sup on the new, pale yellow-green brushes of the giant banksia. In another corner, near the bare cherry tree branches, a cloud of small vermillion blossoms erupts, beckoning bees, before producing their early, tiny apples.

Sweet scents seduce the gardener. The white blossoms of the Daphne, the early hyacinth and the viburnum withstand winter’s temperament. A few brave jonquils and daffodils defiantly release joyful aromas from their protective sheaths. The chill winds blow and the rains fall. The blossoms do not show that they even notice; they teach me resilience.

I had worn my warmest hat to the mountain, and did not remove it as I climbed the path to the top orchard.

Frost had brown-tipped some of the orange–twist lilly pillies, but the grey-green of the olives and the bright green of the lime leaves, seem unconcerned.

I find the bench and rest under the old apple tree. Its gnarly, twisted fingers compete to reach for the sun, with tiny swellings of promise along their tips.

My thoughts swirl like the gusts of wind. I tug my cap further down around my neck, remembering where I bought it. My favourite hat called to me through the window of the tiny shop in Lorne, offering me protection from the Antarctic winds whipping around my ears. Although I was wrapped and warm, the heat was escaping through my thick, tightly woven scarf.

Sitting on a pole in the shop, among other subtlehued clothing, my hat’s colours shouted happiness.

Knitted by hand from silk and wool, the riot of vibrant colour shakes its cosy fist against any grey day. As soon as it molded around my neck and ears, all my energy was retained, and I was happy. It still teaches me a love of colour, and protection of my thoughts.

In Lorne, I was sad and no amount of chat, hot chips and tourism could assuage the depth of my loss.

Winter of comfortable jackets and roaring fires, and

the pleasure of cuddles had abandoned me. The love of my life, my dog George, had reached the end of his time on earth. He hated being cold and had a method of discovering the warmest person or the optimum heated spot to settle on. He would have claimed my silk hat, if he’d had the chance.

In the late afternoon, idling down from the orchard, I pass my neighbour’s bright yellow winter wattle, attracting the bees and tiny birds. My eyes search across the valley, marvelling to find other large wattle-yellow patches adorning the hillsides.

George, the Shih Tzu, and Littleman, our enormous black cat, have both found a permanent resting place near the orchids, this winter. I pause and lean against the new retaining wall on a cold, grey, now rainy day, and cry and smile at the same time. Beside me, in the waning light, I notice only one strappy-leafed, tightly-bunched orchid is flowering. The delicate redthroated green-lipped sprays emanate from the pot given to me several years ago when my father died.

Dad’s orchid has bloomed since early March, and has continued throughout winter, perhaps to welcome my two small friends.

I am next to George’s resting place and I am wearing my hat. I tug at it again to warm my thoughts as much as to protect me from the fine drizzling rain. A golden gerbera is flowering early in the earth above George, as if he is saying, “I am here”.

Georgie’s smiling early Gerbera

Winter Wonder

I remember the wonderful life we had with George, and then the memories of others I have loved and lost come flooding in. They teach me love and gratitude.

Those of you who have known the unconditional wagging-tail love of a canine companion will know my loss in your bones. It was cold that day. ; he didn’t like being cold, especially as he got older. I buried

Creative non-fiction

For a moment I allow my mind to stray, and remember George’s friend and love, Saffie. While George loved to be warm, clean and dry, she loved mud and salty water, and running in the wind with her double-thick fur coat. No matter how cold the evening gales blew, no man-made coverings for her, she was up for a walk. She loved winter. Her aim in life was to create love and laughter. We all miss her and when her funny, flickery, flighty candle went out, a little light went out in all of us too. Littleman, though a cat, was their pal. He is curled up on his blanket beneath the overhanging stems of Dad’s orchid, next to George.

They all watch over me now, as I watch over them.

I look along the wall that has created the new garden. From Georgie’s spot across the back of the house to the side fence, there are a variety of short stems jutting out defiantly from the beige-gold straw mulch. The roses, whose tender toes were planted before the frosts, develop stains of passionate red in patches over their stark, sharp stems and thorns.

They listen to the cold, settle in, get comfortable and ready themselves for the energetic task of bursting forth their brilliance in spring. A peace rose was bought for my mother, given to her by my father on their honeymoon sixty-four years ago. A new peace rose has been planted this winter, beneath her bedroom, and the memories are stirred.

The days will warm soon, and my heart already secretly mourns the loss of a chilled sunrise. Brilliant diamonds will no longer cover my carport in the

mornings, bouncing tiny rainbows, responding to my smiles. Clouds of ‘dragon’s breath’, as I have called it since my childhood, will cease to puff from my mouth as I exhale when I venture out to bring in the waste bins after the morning collection.

Spring will bring the fruit blossoms and warming, sunny days. Spring will be busy, clearing and mulching and planting. The baby birds of all sizes and sounds will announce their arrival. I will join the others in celebrating the emergence.

In summer, I shall pick the crops and delight in the freshness of our bounty. Sometimes I shall be forced to hide from the unyielding, unfriendly heat. The cooling water is not enough for me, and I will count the days til winter.

Autumn will lift my spirits again, with another bounty of crops and cooler nights. The falling leaves will decorate my hopes, and herald the return of winter.

As a child, I raked the fallen autumn leaves in to great piles to be gathered with my parents. Now, I gather the falling leaves and each one brings me closer to my beloved winter. It is the time to collect the last of the harvest, protect those that need it, and make the home snug.

As the light fades over my winter garden, I go inside and snuggle into my thickest dressing gown. The comfy velour against my skin hugs me and tells me ‘all is well, the day is nearly done’. As the evening chores are completed, the light quilt, the warm sheets and soft blue blanket beckon me. They promise ease and dreams, and wrap their reassuring arms around me.

Winter is not a sad time. Winter will always be my special time; it is a time for rugging up, and staying warm in the cold; it is for resting and remembering; it is for loving and healing; it is a time with colours hidden, waiting to be found.

Blue Iris

Fire and Ice orchid

him in a new section of the garden in is newest thick, warm, brown coat – the one he liked, not the stretchy one that he hated having dragged over his head, with feet poked through holes and red stretchy fabric pulled up under his arms. I freed him from the collar that for fifteen years he had barely tolerated, except for the certainty that it meant going for a walk or even better, a drive in the car. I said my goodbyes without any pretence of holding back tears; he deserved every drop.

Children’s stories

Children’s stories contents Dana and the Unicorn 2014 The first in a series of Dana adventures.

Letter to Sophie in a Heart 2014Originated from a workshop with Tony Birch

Dana ...and the Unicorn

Dana and the Unicorn

Dana trailed her fingers through the cool stream. She waited for her call to dinner, dreaming of fairies and horses and cats.

She heard the fish but was sure it was her tabby purring loudly as she rubbed her thick fur across Dana’s back.

“Please help me.”

This time it was even louder, and she stared at the spot the words came from, in the middle of the creek.

“But you’re a fish.”

“You see me as a fish, and so does Kitkat, but I am really a unicorn magicked into the water by an evil witch.”

Dana’s eyes widened, and Kitkat stared at her dinner.

“What do you want?”

“Help me get out of the water and turn back into a unicorn.”

Then Dana heard her mother’s first call to come inside for dinner. She jumped up, ran in to the open clearing, and waved so her mum would know she had heard her call. Her mum always called three times, so Dana went straight back to the fish.

“You’re a very pretty fish,” said Dana. “I know all the fish in my creek, and I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“You are very clever, Dana. I have swum a long way to find someone like you to help me.”

“But I’m not magic. How can I possibly help you?” she asked, as she knelt down so low that her nose almost, but not quite, touched the cold water.

“Come in to the water and lift me on to the rock.”

“But you’ll die. You are a fish.”

The fish was pleased that Dana’s first thought was for his safety.

“Thank you Dana for caring about me. If you put me on the rock with the frog, he will help both of us.”

Dana had been told not to go in the water alone in case it was too deep, but the fish cried out again: “Please help me Dana, this is the last day I have left to release me from the witch’s spell. At the last rays of the sun tonight, I will remain as a fish forever, unless you help me.”

“But you are slippery. I can’t catch you,” she worried aloud.

“I will help you,” Kitkat sweetly mewed.

She fell back on to the wet earth as the loud croak startled her. “No! Do not listen to Kitkat. I will help you. My sticky feet and tongue will help to hold Fish as you lift him up.”

Dana’s mother called for the second time. She would have to decide quickly, or risk getting into trouble for being late to dinner.

She knew Kitkat would not go in the water so she called out, “Thank you Frog, we will help Fish together.”

The water was getting cold on her toes but she stepped out until the water was half way up to her knees.

“Fish,” she called, “can you come closer and meet me half way? I am scared of the deep.”

As the sun was getting lower in the sky, the light was changing. Dana noticed that as the water was getting darker, the fish was getting shinier.

“I can only come a little closer or it will be too shallow, and the rocks under the water will hurt me.”

Dana took a few small steps out further, carefully feeling for a safe footing.

Suddenly her long hair was blown across her face by a sharp gust of wind. It covered her eyes and almost made her fall.

Frog reached out his long sticky tongue and held her firmly until she was safe again. His special feet kept him firmly stuck to the rock.

“Oh, thank you Frog,” said Dana as she wriggled her toes in the loose pebbles until her wobbly feet felt strong

again.

“Dana,” called Fish. “I’m sorry you were frightened, but I’m scared too. Can you hurry please, the light is fading and…”

“Dana, you must come in now,” called her mum very loudly. “The light is fading and…”

Dana had to act swiftly.

“Yes, Mum. I’ll come right away,” she called back to her mother. The light was fading, almost to gone.

Glowing in the last of the sun’s rays, the fish came as close as it dared. Dana took one big step forward, and plunged her two small hands into the darkening creek.

It was Frog’s turn to get a surprise when her splash startled him. Luckily a frog can stick out his tongue very quickly, and he stuck to Fish’s side as he had promised, pulling him safely towards the rock.

Almost as soon as he landed, Fish grew bigger and bigger, and even shinier than before. As Dana stepped carefully back to the grass on the edge of the creek, she noticed Kitkat crouched under the nearby bushes.

“You funny thing, Kitkat. Why are you hiding?” Kitkat hissed in the way that he did when next door’s dog came to visit.

When Dana turned around to see how Fish was, she took a deep breath in and said in a very small voice: “You are so, so beautiful.”

“Dana, if I have to come and get you…” Dana knew what her mother meant by that, and ran all the way back up to the house. She was sure she heard the words ‘very brave’ and ‘thank you forever’ floating out of the other words all blown about by the wind.

“I’m sorry Mum, but there was a fish and a frog and a unicorn and…”

“I’m sure there were, Dana, but you know the rules. I shouldn’t need to call you more than three times, and the light was fading.”

Dana smiled and agreed: “I’m sorry Mum. I came as quick as I could, and I know the light was fading. I’m sure it will never happen again.”

Then she skipped off to wash her hands for tea.

Letter to Sophie in a Heart

Photography

Photography contents This selection only photographed with iPhone

1 Newborn innocence

2 Relaxing cats and dogs

3 Leap of faith at the NGV

4 In my garden

5 2014 Hurstbridge Wattle Festival steam train at the bottom of our street, Eltham, Victoria.

6 2014 Sunshine at the end of Winter at NMIT

Relaxing cats and dogs 2

1

Newborn innocence

3 Leap of Faith at the NGV, Melbourne

In my garden with my iPhone

4

“She’ll be comin’ round the corner” for the Wattle Festival. Taken at the bottom of our street.

5

Sunshine at the end of winter at NMIT 6

Poetry

Poetry contents Swimming in the Dark 2010 2012 2012 2014

Written First published in InFusion 48 anthology NMIT Collingwood Podcast via From the Courses Mouth Published in 55 magazine on ISSUU in this layout

Lonely as a Cloud 2014 Written 2014 First published in InFusion 50 anthology NMIT Collingwood 2014 Published in 55 magazine on ISSUU in this layout

by Lynda Bennett

I’m swimming in the dark And I think I like it.

I used to think that life was sink or swim But no, that isn’t it.

The truth is sink or stay afloat And if you actually get to swim Then you’ve really made it!

Listen on soundcloud if you look this up https://soundcloud.com/from-the-courses-mouth/ swimming-in-the-dark-lynda

Swimming in the Dark

S

But swimming in the dark I don’t know where I’m going.

I do hope that it’s forward But at least I feel I’m moving.

Unseen rocks and swirling eddies Attempt to drag me down at times.

Just now I’m smoothly gliding.

Swimming in the dark is quiet And sometimes even lonely.

I am a little scared But the silence is lovely.

I have some time to ask myself Where I really want to go Tho’ I change my mind hourly.

Swimming in the dark Is really in my head.

Others see the light or lights Paddling straight ahead.

I cannot yet see the way, so I listen to the wind and waves And feel the world instead.

If I’m swimming near the rocks They used to bruise and pound.

Often I went crying under But now I swim around.

I thank the rocks for showing me A different way to floating flow To the treasures I have found.

Swimming slowly in the dark Before I disappear, I feel another hand go past Excited someone else is near.

We porpoise, dive, kick and sprint.

We are the water, the wind and the knowing Love is the light to conquer fear.

Lonely as a Cloud

by Lynda Bennett

I wandered lonely as a cloud

Adrift in a bright blue sea.

All the world was sunny ‘Cept for the little patch of me.

Casting my hopes to the wide horizon As far as my eye could see.

I searched for kindred clouds Floating as winds whisked me casually.

I puffed and piffed and skittered along Aware that what I made Wasn’t always wantedMy brightness-blocking patch of shade.

Giving protection from blinding rays, Some shake their fists at me.

Yet others want relief And welcome cooling sanity.

Sensible clouds in groups of greys Gather to decide.

A spit or spat to give Or a torrent of a ride.

I wander lonely as a cloud Who wants to stay just right.

Not threatening or mean, Reflecting colours dawn and night.

Do not mistake my quietude As careless inanity.

For those in brilliant blindness, I cry o’er homes and land and sea.

“She’s just a stupid little cloud Don’t listen to her whine.

All is as it should be, With the masses we’ll align.”

I have been known to yell aloud Puff up and explode.

Today I rarely bother As you follow your own road.

“Poetry”

Frayed, feathery, fluffy edges Conceal my desire To show bright blue will kill Like an all-consuming fire.

Illumination beckons you.

Put your filters on.

A shadow pause to ask What follows from this action?

It seems so right to act as one To love, or kill, or play As benefits the group To live and grow another day.

Deceptive blue is warm and happy “We do not want to hear.

Shoo you cooling cloud, Strive and thrive, we show no fear.”

Gentle drops of tenderness Let fall into your cup.

Steered by thoughtless greed You will surely shrivel up.

I wander lonely as a cloud Back to the bright blue sea.

Shielding those who wish Through open eyes, the truth to see.

It’s not about us, you or me.

Desire balance and care In sun and rain and wind.

Seek your right place if you dare.

How will you know when you are there?

Your eyes are open, seeing Courage moves you forward Small steps as a loving being.

Posters

Posters / charts etc contents Connections 2012 Poster for a new play. Creating the metaphor with swirling water, and text with neon glow.

From The Courses Mouth 2014 Poster put up around NMIT campus to attract submissions for their podcast. Created while interning with FTCM.

One Family Graph 2013 Published in Sha’hallaan’s Truth, in print, and in the Premium Catalog of Smashwords

Indigenous Publishing Slide 2013 Opening slide from a Powerpoint presentation on the current state of Indigenous publishing

Connections

From The Courses Mouth

! ! y r g n u h s i M t i C d e FT e f e s , a c i e l s P u m , s y e r i t r e o o st p , s w e i v r e int

FTCM

NEEDS

is grateful to all who have fed it before, but always needs more!

YES YOU

YOU !!!

We need you - the “but I’m not good enough”, the “I’m good enough but time poor”, the “but you’d never pick me” (yes we might, but you’ll never know unless you give us a chance), and the “oh, I forgot” contingent of brilliant writers in the BWaP community.

PLEASE send text food

today to ftcoursesmouth@gmail. com

starting from Tuesday 26th August 2014 and FOREVER

OR

Gallop towards fame via FTCM podcasts on Soundcloud

One Family Graph

ALL ONE FAMILY

Men

Adults

Children

Boys

Women

Girls

An example of a simple division - do they play tennis?

This could be anything that places people in smaller groups Yes

No

Yes

All these different people belong to a tennis club

No

Yes

No

Yes

No

All these different people do not belong to a tennis club

Yet they all belong to the one group - they are all people.

They are from the one group and are all the same - yet different!

Graph insert in Sha’hallaan’s Truth

Indigenous Publishing Slide

Opening slide of Powerpoint presentation on Indigenous Publishing in 2013

Podcasts

Podcasts contents

Swimming in the Dark 2012 on Soundcloud via From The Courses Mouth

Listen on soundcloud if you look this up

https://soundcloud.com/from-the-courses-mouth/ swimming-in-the-dark-lynda The Truck 2014 Soon to be available on Soundcloud via From The Courses Mouth Internship 2014 With From The Courses Mouth Learning all aspects of podcasting including software, submissions, recording protocols, author management, sound editing, music and effects blending, adding visual imagery to recording, addding author bios, story bios, author image, and uploading, marketing and promotion.

Publications

Publications contents What Can I Do? 2009 Published by Hachette Australia

Sha’hallan’s Truth 2013 Self published in Premium Catalog of Smashwords. Available online and at libraries va Overdrive.

55 magazine 2014 Created and published by Lynda Bennett online at ISSUU, as interactive PDF, and print version.

Podcast being generated.

Weblinks

Weblinks contents Reading Writing and Learning blog www.readingwritingandlearning.com

55 magazine blog 55magazine.wordpress.com

55 magazine ISSUU http://issuu.com/lyndabennett0/docs/55_magazine_issuu_preset

Sha’hallaan’s Truth This link for Smashwords (also available on other platforms) https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/431575

Swimming in the Dark Soundcloud link via From The Courses Mouth https://soundcloud.com/from-the-courses-mouth/swimming-in-the-dark-lynda