Wriday: A Creative Response

Wriday was a self-directed writing day for Riverland writers. It was a drop-in and tap-out style event with the goal of writing as much as they could! Riverland Coordinator, Kirste, opened up Barmera’s ideas hub, Part of Things for the day.

We invited some young storytellers come hang out for the day, chat amongst other writers, and asked them to write a creative piece in response to the event.

This is what they came up with.

Britnie Hocking

The pain in this world is heavy and it runs deep. 

It finds its way through the cracks of closed doors and snakes on window panes, pushing and shaking to enter. 

The knock knock of darkness gently beckons to be let in. The rise and fall of sleeping chests, not knowing the danger just around the bend.

The cold can’t find its way this far, though it weaves and bends through a  maze of hopefulness. The pleasantry of slumber cannot catch me as I descend into my dreams, ricocheting from one to another, falling, just to drown. Flying, just to stand naked in front of the crowd.

The peace that is the dream does not come for me.

Where the white-knuckle chill and searing hot of pointed laughter can’t peek in and where the hero of the story gets to be the villain too. The laughing here isn’t hollow, it’s full and heavy, it weighs on me and squeals in my ears that I am laughable. 

It’s the coolness of the Spring damp on your skin, laying with children in grass that itches and finding things that sting and bite when you explore. It’s beating the rain inside the house and then deciding to stay a little longer in it to remind you you’re alive and you feel it still. Feel the shift and it finds you and slowly pulls you along, tugging gently as it unfolds, time and time again. 

It’s that shift for me. 

The shift of the winds that takes you by surprise on a summer day, that makes the sweat on your body run cold for a silent moment. The shift which reminds you that time is still moving around you. There is no pause, no spasm of space that lets you sit too long in one place.

As the winter becomes spring and the spring becomes summer and the summer heat gives way to the autumn calm and back to the winter, the seasons wax and wane on themselves, taking precious time with them as they fold back to back to back. A concertina of years. 

And the time hasn’t taken the hurt from me. The hurt, once like a sliver of uneven ground is now a sinkhole in my soul. Reminding me of the hurt the world has given. The blackness of it, the hurt that I have found – lying on the surface of smooth ponds, and old arguments, now lives within me. 

The shift takes time and my body with it. The hurt sits like an angel, ageless on my shoulders, drawing lines on my face and bending my spine. Some days she is heavy, collecting their tears like pebbles in a bag, I can carry for her.  

I only hope that someday soon, someone might carry me.

This is Britnie and she is not a poet. She is a mum to three beautiful hurricanes, praying for her sanity daily. Britnie lives in activewear and she gets through each day with a little luck, some sarcasm and a whole lot of coffee. She is a passionate feminist, extremely chatty and loves TV and films!

Rowen Hurrell

This is part of the first chapter of a Kirishima and Bakugo fanfic I am working on. If you
are interested in reading more keep an eye out on ao3.

Bakugo opens the door to his apartment and walks in, dropping his backpack behind the door
before walking into the living room and flopping down face first onto the couch. Only when he
feels a rough pawing on the back of his head does he look up.

“Back again, are you?” He asks the cat, scratching behind her ear as a greeting. She purrs
contently and moves to curl up by his face.

Bakugo moves into a more comfortable position, knowing when she gets comfortable, he won’t
be able to move her for at least an hour.

Once he gets comfortable, the calico settled in his lap, Bakugo hears a knock on the door. He
sighs to himself and gets up, gently shoving the cat off his lap as he does so. He opens the door
with a scowl, only to be met by the most beautiful man he has ever seen.

He was tall, probably about 6’0, with bright red hair spiked up, adding an extra 3 inches. He
obviously worked out, as he was visibly built under his white tank top, and his scarlet eyes were
enough to make Bakugo’s knees weak.


The man raises a large hand to scratch nervously at the back of his neck.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. I’m Kirishima Ejirou. I live upstairs.”

Bakugo grunts in acknowledgement.

“Um, so this is kind of awkward, but I think my cat kind of got into your apartment through the
window. I was wondering, if she is there, if I could please have her back?”

“So this little shit is yours?” Bakugo gestures to the calico that had reappeared by his feet.

“Oh my gods, Riot,” He turns back to Bakugo. “I am so sorry. I have no idea how she got out.
Can I get you a coffee or something? To make it up to you?”

Bakugo freezes for a minute, considering.

Is he asking me out?

“Fucking fine, shitty hair.”

Kirishima laughs at the new nickname, nearly causing Bakugo to have a heart attack.
“Awesome! You good to go now?”

Bakugo looks back at the mountain of homework and assignments waiting for him on his table.
Fuck it, he wouldn’t get much done tonight anyway. At least with some coffee he could work
later than usual.

“Fine, let me just grab my stuff.”

Bakugo grabs his phone, keys, and wallet from where he left them on the coffee table, and joins
Kirishima, who was waiting patiently by the door.

They start making their way down to the main door before Kirishima stops.

“Crap, sorry, I need to take Riot back to my apartment real quick. I will meet you at the main

Kirishima runs off before Bakugo can respond. Bakugo shrugs and continues down and waits by
the main door for Kirishima.

Kirishima jogs down the last hallway toward Bakugo.

“Sorry about that, bro.” Bakugo grunts in response. “Do you wanna choose a coffee place or
should I?”

“I don’t give a fuck as long as it’s not shitty Starbucks.”

Kirishima laughs at that, and Bakugo feels his heart skip a beat.

“I know the perfect place.”

*bio to be updated*

Timu King

For Scott, Trollkin, Birds and Spiders

in those early narrow 

corridors of human 

condition without sap

amber suckled confidence 

we warned of masks 

bone, brittle – safe, anonymity. 

A confidence flee flecked of


The masks are to blame! 

Less masks, more faces! 

Hark! A twitterbeast

came, marrow on beak 

chitin legs on vapours

prophetic, valencies swaying

from cornflower-blue

wings & eight blind eyes

to take the masks away

avian claws clutch 

& rent. 

to line her nest with names

now we stare @

bare-faced barbarism 

free of anonymity 

& common decency

conceit blows no 

thicker than a waifs 

wind sock caught 

Pulling her handles aught 

breakfast after wolf lane 

nicotine callouses lodged in wiry words, white

hair & patience, thin and twitching: remember him 

(it begins) armstrong killed us all, sanguine opinions 

dripping channel7, post-millennium nihilism, honour 

ripped at the spokes into confetti all over tour de france 

a golden ages’ ashes blown by those common tormentors 

of kinetics: momentum: heat – thieves that steal

rubber, brake-pad lining, the warmth of a long mak 

(it continues) armstrong killed us all, opened the door 

to the great beyond, the expanding above, our home 

is no prison, our mistakes are no permanent record

geological, economic myocardial infarctions multiply

swarm, around our ocean molasses cocoon

la madonna del ghisallo lays a hand; grace / peace 

(it ends) empathy escapes our emotional heat death 

that we started with a frozen flag in orbit. Madonna 

calls him back to the road on the back of DNRO wheels

a syncros saddle; and a deuter carry bag with its faulty 

catching zipper, yawning as metal incisors click &

disembowel: a bike pump hooked to a wheelright’s dream

squeezed into a needle-tip to conquer: to stopper 

an alchemist’s secrets of the road in Prestra valves

hybrid desires; momentum to kinetic potential 

to heat, to gold, to found footage on a security 

observer as a formula of shipwrecks, broken 

beasts & contact patches swearing parabolas 

as if to index, the limitations of human connection

with friction, heat, threads finding freedom. Remember him

Timu King is a West Australian refugee who works for the ABC in the Riverland, his defining calling to writing is an enduring love for all manners of creative process and unifying modes of understanding together as well as helping other writers with their own work. 

Writers SA’s No Limits Program supports literary activities in regional South Australia and creates industry pathways for young regional writers, from skills to publication. No Limits is supported by Restart Investment to Sustain and Expand (RISE) Fund – an Australian Government initiative, and Arts South Australia.

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