Colleen Flanagan

About Colleen Flanagan

Passionate Writer

I live in Redcliffe, Queensland with my husband Peter and our cat Wyndoe. Peter and I have been travelling to Africa for more years than I can remember. We took our Jeep and camper trailer to Africa in 2019 and spent ten months camping in the southern African countries. Between game drives and sitting around our campsite, I started writin

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About Colleen Flanagan

Passionate Writer

I am passionate about writing stories that take place in some amazing African countries. Botswana, South Africa, and Tanzania hold a special place in my heart. The animals, people, and scenery are awe-inspiring to me, and I hope you enjoy reading my work as much as I love writing it.

Writing Safari

Passionate Writer

In 2022, Peter and I went on a writing safari in Zimbabwe. We stayed at Nantwich, which is Tony Park's lodge, in the beautiful Hwange National Park. The safari was hosted by Tony Park and Jo-Anne Richards, and seven other talented writers joined us. I learned a great deal about creative writing during the trip. I am now a member of All

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Courses

Passionate Writer

Courses

I have completed a Creative Writing course and a Thirty-Day Bootcamp with All About Writing.

Also, Jo-Anne and Richard mentored me with the first chapters of my manuscript - The Curious Incident of the Komatipoort Witches.

I am also a member of the Queensland Writers Centre.

Looking for feedback.

Chapter One

Etta’s body tightened as the pangs of childbirth clutched at her. This baby would be born under a sky confused with wispy mackerel clouds and upheaval, not in an air-conditioned hospital. The storm that had scudded low before dawn was a distant memory out in the bay. The sticky humid air pressed down on Etta. She prayed for Jesus to bless this wondrous occasion and to lift the curse. Etta left the spindly stems of the geraniums to twist through the lavender, which was wilting in the heat. The coolness of her weatherboard Queenslander made her body shiver or was that the child struggling to get out?

Banksia was already locked in his office preparing the sermon for Christmas Eve Mass. He would be no help with the birth. Etta phoned her neighbour, Clementine, to come over. She had brought six babies into the world; this was Etta’s first.

The baby would always recall the exact moment her first breath of clean air entered her. She came in a rush, ignoring the yelps of pain from Etta. The suffocating heat of a room with all the windows shut tight stifled her. The baby settled in Clementine’s outstretched arms. Drops of perspiration splattered over her skin as she was laid across Etta’s breast.

A flurry of wind rose from nowhere in the airless room. The windows flew open, letting in the sweetness of lavender to mask the cloying traces of afterbirth. Etta’s howl of panic peeled off the wall. Clementine fell to the floor, crossing herself and covering her head against the squall.

Feedback

I would welcome any gentle feedback.

Looking for Feedback

Chapter 1

Bella stood on the foreshore staring into the hollowness of the sky. It had been a week since that night, but still, the memories clustered about her. The sun slanted behind her, digging into her shoulder blades; beads of sweat trickled down her back. The rays so thick with remorse you could cut through them with a knife, trailed low over the ocean. Bella tried to catch at snippets of her married life. Where had it gone so horribly wrong? Bradley had been too overpowering for her gentle nature. Bella’s anxiety twisted inside her. She had tried several times to apologise but Bradley refused to speak with her. He even refused to allow her to visit her cat. Dorset must surely be fretting for her. His tolerance for having to deal with her depression and anxiety now floated out of reach.

The air back in her stark motel room, across the street from the beach, had stifled her. The lingering reminder of previous forgotten guests laced permanently into the threadbare wallpaper. Bella had needed to breathe in the salty tang of the ocean.

Bella ran barefoot along the beach; her dress clung tightly between her thighs. She thought she could outrun the bubbles of resentment that bounced off her husband, but she couldn’t. The loneliness shadowed her everywhere. Strolling to the water’s edge Bella let the pull of the waves suck around her ankles. Strands of seagrass nibbled against her toes. She shivered when a slight breeze floating over the water tugged at her dress.

I would welcome any gentle feedback

First Paragraphs of African Justice

Vietnam

Chapter One

The day Sable’s sister washed up on the banks of the Thu Bồn River became the day she planned to leave home. And yet she never did. Not then anyway. Now with Mai bloated and beginning to slowly rot, Sable is to be overlooked to become Bô’s favourite. Mai’s spirit struggling to leave the mortal world, watched her body start crumbling into dust. Mai in her death sees the world more clearly, still, she is powerless to stop Bô pushing Lan into a miserable life of prostitution. Her spirit cried salty tears of regret that fell softly down Sable’s cheeks. Sable snatched at the tears thinking they were her own. She wondered if it was possible to start crying without realising it. For the first and only time in her life, Sable was relieved to be overlooked for being the plain sister. Bô ignored her, in his haste to send Lan to spread her legs and earn money.

Bô, fed up with Sable not bringing in any money to fill his threadbare pockets, sent her to work for the largest rose seller at the Hoi An Market. He had been sleeping with the owner and she needed younger hands to do the tedious jobs. Sable left each day before the sun crawled across the streets and strolled home in the dusky twilight. There was little reprieve for being sick and Sable dared not ask for a day off. The markets were close enough to home that she could smell the spiciness gathered outside her window each morning. The aroma seeped into her soul.

Sable’s task was to pick the thorns from mountains of long-stemmed roses. Roses in too many vibrant shades of red, orange, pink and yellow, caused Sable’s eyes to sting at the end of each day. She sat on a small wooden stool at the rear of the stall surrounded by tubs of roses, out of sight of everyone except her boss. The wizened lady who owned the stall worked Sable so hard that her fingers were constantly bleeding. Her arms and shoulders ached in time with her loneliness, carrying the heavy buckets of water from the dirty river to the markets.