The day after tomorrow

It's called the Day After Tomorrow, DAT for short. And because of it, I know exactly what to do in order not to get killed in two days. So I can relax, and I won't have to worry about anything any more. Brilliant, eh?
Honestly, this machine has the best VR graphics yet, and that is saying something. Those scientists have really got onto something this time. Imagine it, a machine that calculates one possible path of your future, and then simulates the results. And it's never wrong. The military and Secret Services have got them, all the rich people too. It costs a fortune, so the closest most people ever come to them are the ads in the Arcade. But those people don't deserve them anyway. It was their choice to be poor, DAT taught me that. Every part of your life is based on the choices you make, and so every bad thing that happens to someone was their choice, and their choice alone. It wasn't any fault of mine.
Those blacks starving in Africa? I reckon they're just trying to get our food, money and sympathy. Bastards.
Yeah, it's their choice. Life has just felt so much better since I bought that beautiful machine. Now I know that everything that happens in the world was because of someone else's choices. And it's entirely up to them if they want to die from the BioPlague or not.
Yeah.
Anyway, it's been interesting talking to you. Look, no offence, but I think you should change your mind about being a beggar. I mean, seriously. Do you really want to live the rest of your short life wearing rags and begging for money? Think about it, OK?
What?
No, you cannot have ten dollars. Haven't you been listening to me? It's your choice if you want to be poor, but don't go trying to inflict it on anyone else.
Of course it's your choice!
Yeah, well, it's entirely up to you if you want to get evicted.
Well, if you didn't want it, then why did you choose it, huh? Answer that then.
What did you just call me? Speak up! Don't look at me like that! How dare you! You know who I am! I could have you slung in jail for verbal assault you know!
You don't care? Look, I am the richest man in America!
Yes, it was my choice to be rich.
Well, the fact that my father was a billionaire might have something to do with it... But I chose him, as well!
Of course you can choose your parents!
Well, its hardly my problem if you chose to have a drunken gambler for a father.
I...
I'd better be going. I've got an appointment to attend to.
For the last time, you cannot have any money!
Look, that's what soup kitchens are for!
Now GOODBYE!

A monologue/dialogue

Drowning cats. That's what it sounds like. Drowning cats on drugs.
What? How can you say that?
Just listen. He sounds like he's dying really slooooowly. He's not even making any sense! I mean, what the hell is he supposed to mean by “I'm worst at what I do best?” That's such a contradiction!
It's not supposed to make any sense! You derive whatever meaning you want from it!
The only meaning I can see is: I'm on drugs and I can't think of anything else to say so, hey, how about we put in something that sounds really deep but is in reality a load of crap? And lets put it to some heavy music and scream it out real loud so that no-one can understand us!
Look, the lyrics are an anthem to teenage rebellion.
“Load up on guns, bring your friends?” Come on. It sounds more like the anthem for “Serial Killers United”! And what the hell does the mosquito and the albino have to do with teenage rebellion? Admit it, you have no idea what you're talking about.
Well... I... The music is great, you've got to admit that.
Oh god, now he sounds really strange. What song is this one?
“Come as you are”.
Well, this doesn't make any sense either. What's with the “And I swear that I don't have a gun” business?
Well, obviously he hates this person, and he's trying to get them to come over, or whatever, and he's swearing that he doesn't have a gun, when actually he does. I think.
Guns again. This guy is seriously wrong in the head.
Was.
What?
Was wrong in the head. Not that he was.
Why, did he burst his lungs trying to rasp out those lyrics?
No, he killed himself.
Ha, that proves it. Wrong in the head. Insane. How did he kill himself?
He shot himself with a sawn off shotgun.
So I guess he did have a gun then, huh?
It's not funny. He was a good man.
Good? I had no idea. What the hell is this song about?
Tea.
What? Tea? How can you have a rock song about TEA?
Well... He obviously liked it.
Tea. He liked tea. And so naturally decides to write a song about it. Cherry flavoured, no less. How very creative.
Hey, I like this song.
I thought you would. Seems like it would be just your cup of tea. Excuse the pun. I think I'll change the track. What in the name of hell is this supposed to be? This sounds like the sound effects to some low budget science fiction movie about flying saucers!
Radio friendly Unit Shifter.
Radio Friendly unit shifter. Radio... What the hell was wrong with this guy?
Nothing was wrong with him! He was amazing!
Amazingly high, by the sound of his voice in this song.
Look, just because you don't have a voice like Kurt Cobain, doesn't mean you have to insult his music.
Yeah. You're right. Sorry.
It's OK.
I'll see you round.
Bye.

Resilience

See this man, as he gazes out the window at rapidly passing scenery. The way his short blonde hair falls over dark blue eyes . He is one face of many on the train, but he is the one we will observe.
He is listening to music on his MP4 player, and tapping his fingers to the beat.

Lets hear what he hears...

“Well I think it's fine, building jumbo planes.
Or taking a ride on a cosmic train.
Switch on summer from a slot machine.
Yes, get what you want to if you want, 'cause you can get anything.”

Lets see what he sees...

The brick walls of buildings speed past, with the occasional blurred bit of greenery. The train stops as it reaches a station, and his attention is grasped by an old man sitting on the platform, his tanned, weather beaten face etched with an expression of sadness. His clothes are tattered, and he clutches his frayed and billowing jacket around him in a desperate attempt to ward off the winter chill.

The song changes...

“It doesn't matter to me
It doesn't matter to me
I'll sit home and watch you all on my colour TV”

The train roars on, the sound of its passing drowned out by the music. Into a tunnel now, lit by fluorescent lights. The walls are covered in graffiti, hastily scribbled tags that seem to blend into one another with the speed. The train slows at it rounds a bend, and his eyes widen as a huge artwork is revealed, the other more mundane graffiti leaving a reverent space around it.
Beautifully painted vines, covered with leaves and blood red flowers, seem to grow out of the wall itself. The word “Resilience”, entwined by the vines and painted in black and gold copperplate writing, glimmers in the dim lighting of the tunnel. He frantically pulls a camera from his bag, but it is too late. It's gone.
He slumps back and sighs, replacing the camera, as the train emerges into the bright light of day.

The song changes...

“Perfect by nature, icons of self indulgence,
just what we all need
more lies about the world.”

A billboard comes into view, a pouting female model advertising a product, saying,
“Life just gets better and better.”
Scrawled across her face in spray paint, are the words: “Sincere lie.”

And now the train stops again. He glances up at the sign on the station, and stands, taking his bag.
The doors open with a hiss, and he steps out into the open air.

Is religion the most destructive institution in the world today?

Religion

Noun

1.a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, esp. when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs.

Is religion the most destructive institution in the world today?

What a question.

I, for one, am not religious. Although many of my friends and the people I know are. So I will try to answer as best I can.

Religion, like so many other institutions, is hierarchical and sexist. Religious doctrine was written by men, and religious texts are read and interpreted predominantly by men. God is male, Allah is male, Buddha is male, Jesus is male. Eve was made from one of the ribs of Adam, implying that she is inferior to, and controllable by, him.

Religion is based on the separation of man from nature. You can be a Good Christian, or whatever you may be, and still destroy the world we live in. The world was made for man, and therefore he can do as he likes with it. I have heard the argument that humans are superior to animals etcetera, because, after all, have you ever seen an ape owning a house, a dog driving a car?

And my response to that is, is that necessarily clever? Cars, amongst billions of other man made inventions, are immensely destructive things. Is it clever to destroy? To kill without thought? To divide the world into tiny squares of land?

To roughly quote Douglas Adams' “The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the galaxy” from memory:

“Man believed that he was superior because he had created atomic bombs and waged war on his fellow humans, while all the dolphins had done was have fun and play in the water. Funnily enough, the dolphins believed that they were superior for precisely the same reasons.”

So, is religion the most destructive institution in the world today?

Richard Dawkins claims so in his documentary “The Root of All Evil.”

But to say that religion is “It”, is an oversimplification.

Education. Science. Corporations.

What of them?

Education serves to turn children into unquestioning, subservient little workers.

Science is a play on the religious separation from nature. Oh yes, they say that humans are animals too, but man is still superior, isn't he? They experiment on animals, create bigger and better ways to help global warming along, and to kill other humans.

Corporations continue the cycle of consuming and work. Earn more, buy more, and then you need to earn more in order to buy more. Round and round and round we go, until finally the Wheel of Fortune clicks to a stop at the spoke marked “Death”.

And there is so much more.

So, no. Religion is not the most destructive institution in the world today.

Then what is, you ask?

The institution to rule all institutions.

Civilisation.

The most interesting person you've ever met.

Her name was Draya. I first met her when I was on the bus going to school. She asked me if she could sit next to me. I said yes, of course. I was rather the School Jerk, so I was happy for anyone that wasn't a bully to sit there. I didn't notice the cat ears and claws until it was time to get off.
I don't know how many people meet their imaginary friend at the age of fourteen. And she was so real.
Draya, I miss you. You were my only friend. Come back. I'm sorry.
The day I lost her was the day my mother died.
I'd known that she was dying. But nothing had prepared me for the reality of her not being around any more. The phone call came at ten o'clock in the morning. My father answered, and when I heard him crying I ran downstairs. One look at his face and I knew what had happened. Draya lay a hand on my shoulder as he walked over and hugged me.
“I'm sorry.” She whispered into my ear as I stared numbly at my father's chest. He said I didn't have to go to school. I shook my head. I would go, because if I stayed at home I would have to think about her, and I couldn't bear that.
On the bus Draya didn't speak, just lay her arm on my shoulders and purred. It wasn't like her, usually she couldn't stop talking, and part of me wished she would start one of her pointless conversations with a question like: “Which would you prefer: To be eaten alive by ants, or be burnt alive as a witch?”
But I was also glad for her silence.
Perhaps I should take the time to describe Draya properly.
She was a little shorter than me, which meant she was fairly tall. She had long black hair, that ran wild and free of the torment of any brushes, combs, or shampoo. Her skin was dark, almost chocolatey in colour. She always wore the same frayed denim skirt and a matching vest , over a black T-shirt depicting a snow-leopard. She had pure white claws that she kept razor sharp with a nail file. Black cat ears would twitch back and forth as she listened to everything going on around her. Her eyes were yellow, with slits for pupils during the day, becoming orbs in darkness.
Her favourite sort of music was heavy rock, which was strange, because I hated it. Can imaginary friends have different likes and dislikes to their imaginer?
She was a wild girl. And the most interesting person I'd ever met.
I know, I know, I 'm talking about her as if she was real. But she was. At least, she was to me.
While we were at school I was teased for talking to myself when I was speaking to her. It was Brian Harrison of course. He's always trying to make me look stupid and uncool, and invariably succeeds. I won't go into the details, but I ended up with a blood lip and a black eye because of the encounter. My emotion levels had already obviously been running high, but now I was furious as well as miserable.
And I got mad at Draya.
She asked me if I was okay, and I blew up.
“Of course I'm not OK!” I hissed at her, quietly so that no-one would hear. “I've just been beaten up because of you, and you're not even real!”
I knew I shouldn't have said it as soon as the words came out of my mouth. She gave me a hurt look, and then just... Disappeared.
Draya, I'm so sorry. Come back. I'm all alone now.
Draya, I'm so lonely. I miss you.
I lay down my pen, and feel a single tear trickle down my cheek. I lost my Mother, and now I've lost her. I look at my watch. 12 am. It's time for bed.
As I crawl into bed and turn off my light, I suddenly sit upright. There is a noise at my bedroom door. And it sounds like cat claws, scratching to come in.

A children's story

A children's story.

We are the unborn children. We are walking down the beach, gazing around us at the other people here. Our feet sink into the warm sand. Ahead of us a group of adults are playing with a beach ball, throwing it from one person to the other, and each time the ball seems to be a little smaller. As we come closer we see that the ball is a tiny Earth. Many people are joining in with the game now, children as well. We call out to them, telling them to stop, but they laugh and throw even faster. The ball keeps growing smaller and smaller, and it's really obvious how much damage they're doing. We start to shout at them, and now we're joined by all the people who care about us. Here are all the ghosts of the animals that they've brought to extinction, all the people that they have destroyed and enslaved. We crowd around them, pressing closer and closer, and there is fear in their eyes. But they do not stop. As the ball diminishes, the swimmers in the water come onto shore, coughing and choking. The trees around the edge of the sand are shrivelling and dying. The creatures of the sea beach themselves in a desperate attempt to get away from the acidity of the water. Our tears pool at our feet, lapping at our toes, and even those are polluted now.
Finally one of us leaps for the Earth, now the size of a golf ball, and all of us join the struggle in a life or death game of keepings off. The tormentors throw the earth higher and higher. The birds swoop above us, and now one of them catches the earth in its claws, and flies far away, keeping it safe.
We all leave the beach, staring at the destruction. And the question that's beating a frantic tattoo inside our minds can be heard in the lamenting wails of all living things.
Why?

She looked in.

The window opened up on another world, a place she had never seen... She looked in, and fell into it's depths.
She was lying in what she knew to be a forest, having seen pictures of them in their last days. The leaves above swayed gently in the breeze, turning the ground into a great pattern of filtered sunlight. Flowers blossomed all around her, filling the air with a perfume that didn't seem quite right. Somehow, it was fake. A scent like something you might spray from a bottle.
Ignoring this flaw, she got up from the leaf litter she had been lying on, and watched as a four-legged creature stepped daintily towards her. Deer, she thought, and stroked its velvety nose. Birds tittered in the trees above, their melodic calls awing her.
She had never heard birds before.
The deer walked away, then glanced back, as if willing her to follow. Its soulful brown eyes appeared slightly glassy, but that didn't matter. She strode after it, following along twisting forest paths. Eventually it stopped before a bubbling stream. The water was clear and pure, and the sound of it rushing over the rocky bed was like millions of tiny bells. Wrong, said a voice in her head, but once again she ignored it.
Small fish darted toward her as she stepped into the stream's depths, tickling her bare feet. The deer bent its head and drank, and she had a sudden urge to do the same. But she couldn't, she knew she couldn't. If she did she would be thrust away from this place, and she didn't have enough money to return.
The world around her had already begun to darken and disappear. She sighed, annoyed. Surely it hadn't been fifteen minutes already?
"I'm sorry." Said a metallic voice from above, "Your session is over."
The Virtual Reality booth materialized around her. She pulled off the VR goggles, and stepped out into the world of plastic and metal. The world where there were no forests, no birds, no deer, left. She exited the Arcade and looked up at the sky, comparing the swirling darkness to the bright blue of the fake forest. Had it really been like that, all those years ago? Or was it, like the Politicians said, all just a tale told to make the human race seem evil?
She supposed that she would never know.

Exercise.

Black... White... Light... Dark...

The colours of the battlefield that is never stained with blood. I await the orders of my King as I glare over at the opposition.

There, opposite me, they make their first move. A white man moves forwards two steps, at the ready. I come up to meet him, and there we stand. Both unable to attack the other, each immovable in an eternal stand-off until the other either moves, or is killed. A white horseman jumps over his fellow man, threatening attack. I am tempted to run, but I am loyal. I will never turn back. Another knight comes forward, one of ours, to protect me. I nod at him, thankful, and he grins back, eyes full of blood-lust.
Out comes one of the white kings advisers, his bishop, ready for action. He is so close, I want to attack him, but I know my sword will not reach.

And so the arrangement of the troops continue, like a dance. One is threatened, the other defends, and so on. Until, finally, in a clash of weaponry, a bishop kills the knight that once defended me. One of my fellow infantry immediately avenges him, but I am no longer defended! And then I am dragged off the field, while the white night takes my place. And all is darkness...

"Ha!" Comes a voice at the edge of my consciousness. "I'm up a pawn!"

Pawn? What on earth is that supposed to mean?

A Tapestry of Memories

The Mountain stood tall above the sandy plains of the desert. It had been there for many centuries, and would remain for many more. As had the cave near its summit, and the woman who lived there. She had no name, and the people of the Village below merely called her Oracle, for that was what she was. Nobody knew exactly how old the Oracle was, or even if she was still alive, for no-one had dared travel the perils of the mountain path that led to her home, for many hundreds of years.
And so tales turn to legend, and memories to dust.
One young girl believed the stories, and decided to travel to the mountain's peak, in order to know what the future held for her. She left her house in the dead of night, whilst all were asleep. She took with her enough food to last her some time, filled a skin of water, and so began her journey.
The first twenty-four hours were perhaps the hardest. After walking until early morning she fell to the ground in exhaustion. She slept until the heat of the noon sun awoke her, and her back ached from lying upon the hard rocks that were strewn over the dirt. That day she didn't get very far, as her legs were strained and sore from the previous night's climb.
It took her three days to reach the cave.
Exhausted, and now unsure of the truth of the old stories, she stumbled into the cave mouth, and fell unconscious.
Light played patterns over her closed eyelids, and they flickered open. She was in a cavern, lit by a single torch over what appeared to be a marble table. She stood, and staggered over to it, awed at its beauty. Upon closer inspection, she saw that it was no table, but an open coffin. Inside lay the perfectly preserved body of an old woman, eyes open and staring into those of the girls.
Despite the urge to scream and run away, she could not move. Horrified, she found her arm reaching out to touch the woman's forehead. She tried to pull back, but could not. Her hand touched the cold, clammy skin, and she was flooded with memories.
She remembered things she had never seen. Wars she had never been in. Magic she had never used. And she remembered things that had yet to pass. Deaths she had never thought she'd see, the fall of her village to men with strange swords that spat hard fire, the destruction of forests by creatures with great, grasping maws.
This is what we are cursed with. Came the dead woman's voice in her mind. Knowledge of the future is no gift, but a burden. You must learn to bear it.
The new Oracle screamed, gasping for breath. It was far too much for her. The memories that were not hers played over and over in her mind, scaring her; maddening her.


The villagers searched the surrounding desert for their lost child, but after two days, despairing, left her for dead.
And still the memory of the Oracle faded, until there was nobody left to remember her.

Familiar Strangeness

Kerry sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding and chest heaving, though she didn't know why. She hadn't had a nightmare as far as she could remember. Sweat trickled down her forehead, and her head swam.
Unnerved, she got out of bed and pulled open the curtains, the bright, golden sun of early morning bathed the room with light, a sight that usually lifted her spirits... But today, for some unexplained reason, heightened her anxiety.
Throwing on some old work clothes, she went down the hallway and out into the garden, something she usually did when she was feeling nervy.
But neither the sweet aroma of the roses, nor the fresh air, did anything to clear her mind.
She found herself pacing around the flower bed.
Back inside, she began to make breakfast. Filling her bowl with cornflakes, she wondered what exactly the source of her anxiety was. She picked up the milk carton and began to pour. She thought back to yesterday, then the day before. Had anything happened to her within the past week that had disturbed her?
Kerry stared down at the bowl, unseeing. It took her a moment to realise that she was still pouring the milk, and it had got all over the table.
Frustrated with herself, she grabbed the cloth from the sink and wiped up the mess. "Snap out of it, girl!' She thought angrily. 'It's all in your head!'
Giving up on breakfast, she sat on the sofa and began to flick through the channels on TV. But the colours and sounds grated fiercely on her ears and eyes, so she turned it off with a sigh.
What was wrong with her?
She attempted to read, but her eyes refused to focus on the page.
She made herself a cup of herbal tea, but she forgot about it and it went cold.
She tried everything that she could think of... But nothing seemed to work.
Eventually, restless, she got up and went for a jog around the block.
She was thoroughly exhausted when she got back to her house, having thought that she could exercise the stress away, and went to her room for a lie down. 'I'll just close my eyes for a moment.' she thought, but before she knew it she was asleep.


*

The first thing she was conscious of was the prickly sensation of the ground. Next came the scent of Death and Decay. Then the sound of rushing water. And, finally, her sight came into focus.
She was lying on the ground, the prickling sensation was that of dead grass. Above was a grey sky that swirled like a tornado, yet there was no wind. Not far to her left a large river flowed, pure and clear, the only beautiful thing in this dead landscape. Slowly, she stood. This place seemed so familiar, as if she'd been here before, but so strange.
"You have not much time." Came a deep, melodious voice from behind. She spun around to see a tall old man, with a long white beard and hair, smiling at her. In his hand he held a large hourglass, and he turned it over so that the sand began to fall. 'Hurry, now!' He said, and he disappeared, to reveal a pathway leading into a dead forest.
Obediently, she sprinted down the path, and into the woods.
She felt as if she was being watched. Every so often a twig would snap from behind and she would whirl around, expecting to see a monster of some sort crashing through the underbrush towards her. A yellowy mist curled around the roots of trees that seemed to want to grasp at her with their claw-like branches.
She turned a bend, then skidded to a halt. A crossroad, with two paths running left and right, lay before her. She stared at them, despairing. Which way? She knew she had to make a choice, and so continued down the left fork, hoping beyond hope that this was the right way. "The right way to what?" She wondered.
Eventually, just when she thought that this path would go on forever, she crossed over a bridge, that spanned the river. There stood a ramshackle old hut, situated in a small open clearing. Relieved, she sped up, until she was standing in front of the building, panting slightly. It looked like it hadn't been lived in for years. Wrenching open the cobwebbed door, she peered into the gloom.
It was a dark, musty, one roomed hut. The wood was rotting and the floorboards sagged as she walked. The only thing that didn't look old and worn stood in the center of the room, like a beacon of light in the night. A gleaming, round Mahogany table that seemed to emit a faint golden glow, beckoning to her, drawing her further inside. On top of it sat a large ebony box, covered with mysterious carvings. She gently lifted the lid, and gazed inside. Within there was a simple pewter goblet filled with stagnant water, and immediately she knew what to do.
She lifted the goblet from it's box, and poured the water on the ground. Then she ran outside to the rivers edge. She filled the cup with pure, clear water, and strode back to the hut, being careful not to spill any.
Upon placing the cup back into the box and closing the lid, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She exited the hut again, to see a forest full of life and beauty. A single bird flitted down from a tree, and landed on her shoulder, it's azure feathers slightly ruffled. It chirruped in her ear, and she woke up.

*

Kerry opened her eyes and smiled. She felt so very happy. The anxiety of before was completely gone, and she had no idea why. After all, she had only dozed off for a moment.

Renovation.

Dear diary,

Yet another day in the life of me. You know, I was once really happy with my life, but now I feel... discontent. Which is weird, because there are a million reasons why I should be happy. Here they are:

The lounge room is full of the latest luxuries, for instance; the $3000 electric blue designer chair, expertly curved for the ultimate comfort, the Prussian Blue leather lounge suite, chosen especially so that it would co-ordinate with the sky-blue walls, and the fantastic cream coffee table, that swivels on its base so that you will never have to go to all the trouble of reaching for the milk when it's on the other side again. The television is a wide screen plasma for ultra high definition, and a vast array of speakers gives the very best quality audio.

The kitchen is huge, and fashionably white, with a stove that, when you press a button, doubles as a bench top, expensively tiled floors, and capacious drawers that guarantee never to get cluttered.

The opulent bathroom has a marine tank embedded in one wall, full of a new, scientifically engineered fish that glow in neon colours. There is a large spa bath, complete with sound system and wine bar, for relaxation after a strenuous day at work, or so the ad says, anyway.

My bedroom is colour co-ordinated with various shades of red and gold, and a king size bed that is so soft it feels as if you are going to sink through it.

I have loads of money in the bank.

I have an extra flash dark green convertible, and a silver four wheel drive.

I have a designer garden, with a 'yin and yang' couch that turns so that you can see all of it without having to move.

My house looks better than the neighbour's. I'm big on maximum wow factor.


...

Why I am not happy:

I continually have this nagging feeling that something is not quite right, that there is something important I have missed. Nothing I buy seems to help. my life is falling into a deep dark chasm, and I don't feel satisfied anymore.
hey, I know! I know what it is that I have missed, that will make me happy again! How could I have been so stupid?!
Why didn't I think of this in the first place? Honestly, I really thought that buying more furniture, more TVs more cars would seriously help!
I know what I need!
Its time for a renovation, and this time I'm going Shabby Chic!

One thing I hate is...

This one I wrote practically straight away. It is written from experience, but fortunately all that has changed for the better.

She smiles,
Her face a perfect vision of happiness.

But inside she seethes
with all the rage of a newly caged tiger

She laughs,
the sound is like millions of tiny bells
Yet inwardly she screams
with the intensity of a trapped Eagle.
She speaks,
some teasing retort, or
a statement of indifference.
And still she wonders,
Why she is misunderstood.

One thing I hate is when people think that I am a rock. That no matter what they throw at me, I will not break.
But they are wrong.

I do break, cracks run through my self esteem every time they insult me, or tease, though they may not be able to see it. And because they don't see it, they continue, thinking that I am a plaything that they can practice their insults on, without actually offending it. And I hate it.
It's time that they stopped... It's time I stopped them.

She lets out the tiger,
It runs free, and the tormentors feel it's rage.
She lets out the eagle,
it flies, and the tormentors hear it's scream.

their eyes widen,

and the tormentors run.

The Answer Lies in The Soil

Well, I know that this isn't one of my best... I did this while I was away and emailed it to the group. But, no matter, I'll post it anyway... The subject came from some TV show.... Can't remember it's name...


Chris shoved his way through the crowded streets, wishing fervently
that he wasn't there. The city bustled with all the cacophony that came
along with peak hour; traffic jams, crowds, and noise. Lots of noise.
Oh, to be back home in the bush, where the only sounds are those of the
birds, wind and water, the air cool and clear.
But instead he was stuck in the polluted, overpopulated, hell-on-earth
that was the Big City.
Lost in thought, and staring at the ground, Chris didn't see the tree
until he almost banged into it.
It stood there, a half dead, bedraggled hint of green in this otherwise
plastic and metal world. It's branches reached out feebly in search of
sunlight that just wasn't there, the sky being smog filled and grey.
He could practically hear it's last rattling, gasping breaths.
He wanted to help it, and his mind flicked to the scene in 'Harold and
Maude' where the two protagonists are digging up one such tree from the
poisoned ground of a city, drive it into the forest, and plant it
there.
But he knew that he could not do that, even if he did have a shovel.
Sighing in defeat, he continued on his way, leaving the dying tree
behind him.
Back home, Chris sat beneath the old gum tree that marked the border
between his block and the state forest.
Mentally comparing this huge, healthy tree to the stunted, sick one in
the city, he wondered how the human race could do such a thing. How
could they possibly plant a tree in such a poisonous, unsuitable
environment, and walk away without any twinges of guilt whatsoever?
He shook his head, and almost laughed as he remembered a line from a TV
show he used to watch, when he still had a Television:
'The answer lies in the Soil'
But whether this was even relevant to it all, he had no idea.

Aaron's Past.

This is one about a character that's been haunting me for some time, I just never had the opportunity to write about him until the topic of Time Travel came up in our Writers group.... Could you let me know if you think I should write more about him? :-) Thanx.

Blank mind, blank face. Teacher droning, eyelids drooping. History assignment, great. Write about your choice event in history. How about a time when there were no teachers?

Aaron! Be quiet back there!

Yes miss, no miss, whatever you say, miss.

Classroom laughing.

Aaron!

Whatever.

School bus. Loud, raucous, like being stuck in a cage of parrots. Peter talking about Napoleon, trying to get everyone debating. Might as well be trying to stop a stampeding herd of elephants by standing in front of it and waving a white flag.

Bus stop, my house. Get off seat, leg muscles protest. Been a long day.

Hey Aaron! Wanna come over after tea?

Nah, thanks anyway Mike, got stuff to do.

A’right, seeya tomorrow, eh?

Raise hand, wave, get off bus. Open gate, walk up path, open door.

Mum! I’m home!

Probably didn’t hear me. Probably drunk.

Walk down hall, go upstairs.

Enter room. Kurt Cobain glaring down from poster covered wall. Hi, Kurt.

No answer, didn’t expect one.

Flop onto bed, reach for remote, turn on the telly. Freeze in horror at the scene depicted.

A kid gets off the school bus. He looks happy, waving at his mates. He’s about nine. A voice over, his voice: “ The new school was great, I’d made some friends, and I felt sure, so sure, that this time would be different to the others.”

Then there’s shouting from inside, sounds bad. Sounds real bad. The kid vaults the wall, and runs up the path. He pulls open the door to see his parents screaming at each other, his father waving a kitchen knife under his mothers nose.

The kid pushes his father, trying to separate them, begging them to stop. And then his face twists in agony as the kitchen knife enters his shoulder, just below the collarbone.

Turn off TV, tears running freely. Rub shoulder; it’s hurting again.

Open drawer, take out photo. Mum and Dad, smiling blissfully at the cameraman, arms encircling each other.

Throw photo frame at wall, watch it shatter.

Get pen, get paper. I’ve got my event in history; it’s been smoldering too long. Time to let it out. Time to write about it.

A fish out of water

This took me ages to write about, as it's such a diverse topic...

The Melbourne aquarium echoed with all the sounds of a school ground: Hysterical girls shrieking, obnoxious boys laughing and jeering, and frantic teachers attempting to put everyone in there places with ' Don't touch this!' And don't do that!'s. The field trip was certainly not going to the teachers plans, though it was exactly how Melanie had expected it to be.
She sighed, half listening to the tour guide droning on about the feeding of the fish and the cleaning of the aquarium, while watching the tropical fish swim listlessly back and forth in their over-sized goldfish bowls. How they could truly be called tropical in the Melbourne Aquarium is anyones guess.
Gazing at the turmoil around her, Melanie couldn't hold off the feelings that she really didn't belong. She didn't shriek and giggle with the girls or tap the glass with the boys. She wasn't even listening to the tour guide or the teachers, like the more attentive students. Sighing again, she turned from the fish tank, only to come face-to-face with a Great White Shark that had just swum into the one opposite. The girls began screaming as, one by one, they spotted the newcomer, and the braver, or stupider, depending on your point of view, of the boys began tapping the glass in an attempt to anger it enough that it would attack.
The guide, who seemed rather tired, finally noticed where everyones attention was, and began a monologue on, in his words, 'The great Killing Machine of the oceans.'
But Melanie was not paying any attention to any of this, for her gaze was fixed on that of the sharks. He, for she knew that it was so, seemed to be trying to tell her something, his sorrowful eyes attempting to convey some message through the reinforced glass that was his prison.
'I can't help you.' She whispered to him. 'I'm sorry...'
He continued to stare, uncomprehending.
How could anyone call you a killing machine? She thought sadly. Why are you and your kind portrayed as so evil?
'I'm sorry.' She said again, begging him to understand. 'You shouldn't be here, but I can't help you.' She felt about to cry. 'You're like fish out of water here, aren't you? You don't belong. None of you do.' She added, addressing the entire aquarium. 'But I can't help...'
His gaze enveloped her, and she felt herself rushing downwards, into another world, another body...

The scent of blood in the water, the thrill of the hunt. Gliding swiftly, smoothly through the water, parting the silvery shoals of fish. The water filtering through her gills, cool and clear. An object rising from the gloom before her, somewhere in her mind she recognises it as an open cage. The scent comes from inside, she swims in. To late, her human mind thinks Trap! And she spins around, only to see the cage door swing shut.
A diver points something at her, and she feels a dart pierce her side. Then all is darkness as she is knocked cold.

'Melanie? Hello? Earth to Mel!'
Melanie shook herself, and opened her eyes to see the shark swimming away, tail swishing from side to side.
'Daydreaming, eh?' Said Rae, perhaps her only friend at school. 'C'mon, everyone else has moved off!'
'Oh, yeah... Sure.' She allowed herself to be guided away by the elbow, casting a glance over her shoulder to the sharks retreating back.
'Goodbye.' She whispered, and he turned.
She felt a presence touch her mind, and smiled as she felt him say; 'A fish out of water. Like you.'
'Yes.' She murmured. 'like me.'

Dark Places.

This one took a while... I thought of horror stories, chessboards.... Pretty much everything dark, and then I thought, Deathbed! of course!

Six years ago.

These woodlands are truly ancient, so much so that I feel young by comparison. But I know that this is not so. I am tired… so tired… This looks as good a place as any to leave my letter… it’s time for me to go to sleep now, and I don’t think I’ll ever wake up.

Slowly colours melt away, I release my hold on Life, and fall into Death.

Present day, England.

Dear friend,

I know that I don’t have that much longer to live. I am old now, though it only seems like yesterday that I was suckling at my mother’s breast. But the evidence of my age is clear in my arthritic limbs and creaking joints.

They say that when you are drowning, your life flashes before your eyes. I am drowning in the weight of my years, and the flood of memories never ceases.

I don’t know what to write here, I know it will be my last words but I don’t know what to say. It is pointless to write a will, or even to tell my relations that I love them, as I don’t have any material possessions save this pen and paper, and they will find it a blessing when I die.

I suppose that I should tell you a little about myself, as you are doing me the honor of reading this letter. My name is Marcus. Full stop. I have not had a surname for many, many years, and I am not about to start now. I have disgraced my family by breaking out of the superficial shell that they all inhabit, and they hate me for it. I believe that it was my proudest achievement. I have no money, and, like I said, have very few possessions the way you would view them. The things I own are far subtler than that which you buy in a shop. During the first five years of my life I was as free and as happy as you can be. I was truly alive. I died in my sixth year, when I was introduced to the all-destructive system you call school. I lived again on my sixtieth birthday, and I have been so ever since. I am eighty-four years old.

I wonder if you expect me to tell you whether I want to be buried or cremated. But I will not. I do not wish to be placed in a graveyard, amongst numerous other dead people I have never met. Nor do I want to be burnt; I had enough of that in life. No, I am where I have always wanted to be, with creatures I know and trust, that have given me shelter, food and love. And now that it is time for me to die, I will repay them in turn.

Oh, no, I am not going to die in bed.

I am ready to go now, though not so long ago I feared this day more than you can know. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m sure it will be as good as my life has been.

I hope that I have inspired you to break free, as I did, so many years ago.

Thank you for reading this, if, indeed, you have.

Farewell, I depart for the places dark.

So reads the letter that I found in the woods one Wednesday afternoon, five years ago. Sealed in a metal tube, it lay beside the skeleton of a human man. I know who he was, despite his refusal to reveal his surname. His name was Marcus Latham, and he was my great grandfather. I had been told that he went crazy, and left for the forest, burning all his money and worldly possessions. And I believed it, fool that I was. I believed it without question. But he was not insane. In fact, he was one hell of a lot saner than the rest of us. He saw through the deception we have all fallen into, and escaped it.

And now, thanks to him, so have I.

Where are you on your first day of a well-deserved holiday?

This was the second one I ever did for the group... I decided that I wanted a twist to it, and this fit the bill!

I wake up slowly, luxuriously. It is this that tells me that I am on holiday, the fact that I am not being jolted awake by the persistent screech of the dreaded Alarm Clock, the worst invention ever to reach mainstream consumerism. I open my eyes, and gaze up at the sky-blue ceiling, feeling relaxed for the first time in what seems like centuries.

The sheets of the bed are like silk against my skin, cool, refreshing, reviving, like a summer breeze. I stretch, enjoying the sensation of moving my fingers without the usual aches and pains that one acquires from sitting at a desk typing all day long. It feels like heaven.

I sit up, and glance at the digital clock on the bedside table. 10:00. I haven’t woken up at ten since I was seventeen! I laugh, and swing myself around so that my legs are dangling over the edge of the bed.

It’s too good to be true. Says the pessimistic side of my brain. You wait and see.

Shaking off any stray feelings of doubt, I stand and walk over to my huge leather suitcase, intent on getting dressed. I unclip it, and heave the lid up, a feat that is somewhat harder than one might imagine.

Dumbstruck, I stare into the depths. It is empty, save for a tiny spiral bound notebook, the sort one might pick up from a two-dollar shop. Hand shaking slightly, I take it, and flip over the cover. Inside is written:

Where are you?

I blink, considering, and realize that I have no idea. I cannot remember anything! Fear begins to creep its way up my spine, and I flick frantically through the pages, trying to find some clue to my whereabouts, and why I can’t recall. Nothing.

I look back in the suitcase, and see that I was wrong. There is something else in there. A pen. Lifting it, I notice the word ‘Memory’ is scrawled across the lid in permanent ink.

This is insane! I think, and stride over to the door. I turn the handle, and attempt to open it, but it refuses to budge any more than a centimeter. Pressing my eye to the crack I see white walls, and what looks like a bed. I’m really scared now.

I turn, and grab the phone on the table near the wall. I dial… Who? I can’t remember anyone!

I slump onto the bed, shaking.

What am I going to do? ‘Help!’ I scream. ‘Help!’

And a voice from inside me says, ‘Memory’.

I glance down at the notebook and pen. With my teeth I pull off the pen lid. Opening the book to a blank page, I begin to write.

The pen dances across the paper with no conscious thought on my part, but there is no ink. It does not matter, though, I can feel the writing; I don’t have to see it.

The phone call, I remember now. Julianne booked me a room at the Twilight Hotel. Good old Julie, she knew I needed a holiday.

And then…the truck…the noise…the crash…

I look up from the notebook. The door swings open, and pure white light shines into the room, almost blinding me. I get up, and step through…

Falling…

My eyes flutter open. I blink and begin to focus. White walls, white ceiling, hard white bed. Julianne asleep in visitors chair.

Oh, yes. I remember now. I wonder if the truck driver was hurt?

There is a calendar on the wall. So, I’ve been in a coma for three days.

Some holiday.

The end.

The human factor: a faerie tale

Now, this one is a little full on and confronting... I'm not saying that this is necessary or anything, I just want to show you how hopeless it is, and the only thing that will go anywhere near helping the problem... So don't think that I want you to go out and do this, OK?

If you walk along this beach with me, over the rocks, and around the point, and if you follow me through the bushes, we will come upon an opening in the base of the cliff, just large enough to crawl into.

And if you enter this hole behind me, and follow all the way, you will find yourself in a large cavern, lit with the flames of our magic.

If you indeed do all of this, I will turn to you, and I will speak. I will say: ‘Welcome, friend. Welcome to the last home of the fae.’

You gaze around this great cavern, and cannot help but notice how few they are.

Five Elves, tall and beautiful, practice archery on the ledge above. Three Sprites, winged and delicate, flit amongst the flames. And one faerie, arms spread wide to encompass your surroundings, says, ‘look ye well, human. Look at what you have done to us.’

You bristle, indignant. ‘Not me,’ you say, ‘I did not do this.’

The Faerie smiles at you, not unkindly. She is young, a mere child, but her eyes are ageless, speaking of the grief and sorrow she has seen, and still has yet to see. ‘Yes. You. You own a car. You own a house. You own these things and more, but still you say no. No, not me. I have done nothing. Nothing. Follow me.’

Switch

A forest. A tribe of Native Americans, talking, laughing, playing.

Switch

The bush. Two Australian Aborigines spearing fish in the ocean.

Switch

The faerie, standing beside you. ‘Look at how you were. Now look at how you’ve become.’

Switch

A factory, pouring pollution into the air.

Switch

A highway, full of cars pumping exhaust fumes.

Switch

Fish, dying in oceans, rivers, lakes.

Switch

A school

Switch

A city, a plane, a child malformed and diseased, drugs, alcohol…

The scenes whir by so fast that they blur, then come together again into the face of the faerie. ‘Hear how you’ve become.’

Switch

Screams cars chainsaws gunshots screams factories radio TV pop music screams.

‘Feel how you’ve become.’

Horror Misery Despair NoMoreNoPleaseNoMORE!

Switch

The Cavern, the Faerie standing before you.

‘Why did you show me that!?’ You scream. ‘I didn’t want to know! What has it got to do with you?’

She steps closer. ‘We and the Earth, we are linked.’ She says. ‘As she is poisoned, we are poisoned.’ An Elf collapses, retching and gasping for air. His comrades help him up, murmuring in a foreign tongue. He clutches his throat, coughing and shaking.

‘As she is scarred, we are scarred.’ She holds out her hands for you to inspect. They are covered in wounds, some half healed, some open and bleeding.

‘As she dies… We die.’ A sprite drops down from the above, falling at your feet. You fall to your knees, and cradle the green tinged body in your arms. ‘What can I do?’ You howl above the coughing of the elf and the keening cries of the sprites. ‘I’ll join Greenpeace, I’ll protest, I…’

The faerie places a hand on your shoulder, stopping you. ‘Now what,’ she says, ‘on earth do you suppose that will achieve?’

You stare up at her, and suddenly it all disappears, the cavern, the faerie, everything.

You are sitting by a roadside, somewhere in the country. Beside you is an axe and a bottle of spray paint. Before you is an electric pole. You stand, and pick up the axe, weighing it in your hands.

‘Timber…’ You murmur as you hack into the dead wood.

You know exactly what to do.

End.