George Coombs
I have loved writing since I was a child and more recently I've felt a need to write what I think, feel and know wanting, in so doing to enter the reality of existence and share in a way that might help others during their pilgrimage through life to the waiting life to come.
This can be hard at times.Themes as loss, isolation, suffering, death, longing , peace with oneself have been companions on my journey as they have, of course for others. At one time I made up things from my imagination and even once won a prize with a Detective story, now I write about what I feel, know and experience trying and use language in a way that is careful and sensitive.
My evolving into the writer I am today links very muc with the passing of my mother. Mum was, for many years wheelchair disabled with arthritis and I was her carer and companion carrying out all her treatment, everything, you name it I did it. Many people, I know, join me in remembering Mum’s courage, good humour and concern for others, Dad and I missed her very much then, just last year Dad also passed on. I have written much poetry arising from this one of which won an award and, I have been through periods of serious and at times life threatening distress which have set me thinking and producing the work I do now as a writer and artist.
The stories explore life as it can be experienced, they enter into the mystery existance, I hope and believe they can will be helpful in some way to whoever reads them
A Little About Me
I have had several different occupations in my lifetime. They range from clerk, grocer, shop worker, nurse then I entered higher education and engaged in my undergraduate and postgraduate studies and I am now a lecturer by profession. Yet, with all this I have always loved writing and felt a need to write, to put into words what I think, feel and know wanting, in so doing to enter into the reality of existence
and share in a way that might help others during their pilgrimage through life to the waiting life to come.
Much about this can be difficult yet, immensely satisfying. Such themes as loss, isolation, suffering, death, longing have been companions on my own journey as they have, of course for many others. At one time I made up things from my imagination, now I write about what I feel, know and experience and in attempting this I try and use language in a way that is careful and sensitive.
A significant impetus toward my evolving into the writer I am today had been the passing of my mother. Mum was, for many years wheelchair disabled with arthritis and I was her carer and companion carrying out all her treatment, everything, you name it I did it all through those years. Many people, I know, join me in remembering Mum’s courage, good humour and concern for others, Dad and I missed her very much then, just last year Dad also passed on. I have written much poetry arising from this one of which won an award and, I have been through periods of trial and distress myself which have set me thinking and producing the work I do now as a writer and artist.
I’ve often had a sense of a humanity that has lost its way and is functioning in a manner that is bound to produce despair and ever escalating stress levels. The hard questions that many people would acknowledge if given the chance are not being asked. There is a need to explore beneath the surface, to question the way things are, to seek for clarity in our concern for justice, love, truth, meaningful community, life, death and to ensure we have a real concern for wholeness and healing for ourselves and for others. May I wish peace to all who read this book.
George Coombs
Prison
Silence between them. Each alone in a particular way. The lack of
sound was hostile and menacing. One wore wrist manacles. Symbols of fear yet who, in truth, was afraid of what? Where is the real scource of the terror that linked them together? Manacles were also symbols of power, which, when rampant always leaves questions like, who are the real criminals?
There was time to think. The prisoner needed this. The prisoner also had many questions. Asking questions perhaps caused the real criminals most anxiety
FROM JOHN
Memory. At his desk the feeling overwhelmed him. Gradually, a handful at a time, he swallowed every single one of the tablets washing them down with water. Thought and reason were numbed. Purpose, rescue could only be achieved by destroying himself. Refuge for John was death. In what seemed like a moment all the tablets were gone; he had taken the lot
FROM TALKING TOGETHER
Journey almost over. The young couple had been travelling for many days and gazed gladly at the hill overlooking a vast expanse of sea where an island was distantly visible. The man on the hill was wise and very kind, seeming to see clearly into people and touch them with his word while they conversed with him.
“My dear friends” he called “I have been
expecting you "
