Far South Writings

He/she was the only one not vanquished

2009-01-20T20:47:00.001-08:00

I am aware that it's a little strangely phrased... ^_^

Be warned, this is very very bleak. It's inspired by the recent events in Gaza.

The world was red. No, it was gone. So was he.

He stumbled over the ruins of his village, walking blindly wherever his feet would take him. He was surprised he could walk at all.

Smoke from nearby fires eddied and swirled around him, he couldn't see, could barely breath for coughing. His throat was raw and scratchy, like a demon of discomfort had crawled within and nestled there, rubbing against him with hide of sandpaper.

He was reddened with dust and blood; his own or his families he could not tell. It mingled on his skin, as if he had been covered in clay that had since dried and cracked in the sun. The sun. He looked up and searched the heavens, but all he could see was dust and smoke. The sun seemed the only thing that had been constant in his life, and now he couldn't see it. It had deserted him: Gone. He felt betrayed.

He walked, he walked, he walked until he fell, and he could not tell whether he lay face up or face down. There seemed a quiet peace, a sensation of floating, that came from not knowing in which direction lay the ground and which the sky. He forgot, for a moment, his pain, and drifted as though a child rocked in his cradle. A child, his child. He remembered the birth of his son, the day he took his first step, his first day of school. He was broken from his memories and snatched back to the present wen he realized that the school would no longer be there. It was gone. So was his son.

His body convulsed, racked with dry, coughing sobs. No tears would come, his chest ached, he felt that he was being crushed by the weight of the dead. His pain seemed to stretch eternally, and he though, "My world is gone." And so was he.

A blush of pink

2008-11-29T20:19:00.000-08:00

My story for next week. I'm quite happy with the first sentence. I think I did a good first sentence. ^_^ But the topic was hard. Susan, why do you always give hard topics?

Christopher was too sick to go to school that day, and while his throat may have been stinging and raw, and his nose clogged, and his ears filled with chirping crickets and that horrible itching sensation that you have to click your tongue to try to get rid of, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of triumph over parents, teachers and school in general. What’s more, more had gotten sick on a Monday, which meant, he knew, that he could remain “sick” until Friday, even though he may in fact have gotten better several days earlier. On Thursday he would proclaim that he felt a little better, and then Friday he still wouldn’t go to school, because his mother would insist on at least one days recovery. On Saturday, lo and behold, he would be ready to go to Pete’s house, or maybe Shamus’s, depending on the availability of either. He could already envisage the games they would play, and Pete had said on Sunday that his dad was buying him a new toy after work, so he’d be able to play with that, as well. He had it all planned out.

He lay in bed, snuggled up beneath his Harry Potter duna, with his plastic pop-top bottle of water on his bedside table, which he emptied out the window every half-hour or so. After all, when you’re sick you should act as sick as possible in order to milk it for as much as you can, and if that means sacrificing your throat so that you can talk in a raspy, whispered croak, then so be it. Anyway, there was no way he could drink as much water as his mother was trying to pour down his throat- he often wondered why she didn’t give him something he’d actually drink, like lemonade- and this way he would remain in her good books by seeming to drink everything she gave him, and also her flowers were flourishing even in this hot weather- what with water restrictions she could hardly water them very often- so that kept her in quite a good mood, as well. He just hoped that she wouldn’t notice that it was only the flowers outside his window, but then, she might not be so mad. She’d probably think he was doing her a favor.

Christopher stared up at the ceiling, and shifted in his bed. There was, of course, one disadvantage to being sick, aside from the obvious unpleasantness of it all, and that was the boredom. He’d already watched his favourite movie, and done a puzzle, and now all that was left was staring, either out the window to the garden and his swingset, or up at the pale blue ceiling, patchy from moisture and cracked diagonally from the bottom right corner. He’d learnt his left and right from the ceiling, which, while it meant he’d learned them quickly, had caused him some embarrassment on his first day of school, when his teacher had asked him which side was the right side, and he had unthinkingly answered: “The one with the crack in.”

A soft blush crept up his face at the memory. It wasn’t just the teachers trying to teach him stuff he didn’t care about that made him dislike school, but the other kids. The slightest mistake, the smallest slip in your composure, could set you up for being called names the rest of the year. He’d been a prime candidate from day one, after his mother had cried and hugged him on the first time she’d taken him to class. He couldn’t possibly explain to her the torment she’d managed to set him up for, she wouldn’t understand. And as for his dad, he’d dismiss it as a “part of becoming a man”, a phrase he never ceased to use regarding Christopher. He always spoke regarding Christopher, if he spoke about him at all, never to him. Or if he did speak to him, it was either an order (“Christopher, go away, I’m busy”), or a half-hearted question (“How was school?”).

Not that Christopher particularly cared, of course. It just might be nice if his dad would do something with him some time. Or at least talk to him properly. But really, he didn’t care, and it was stupid to even think about it.

Christopher pulled his duna over the top of his head, and, lying in the cavernous warm darkness, he began to cry.

Green

2008-11-29T20:12:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this was a ten minute exercise. And all it has to do with green is the first sentence. ^_^ I don't know how I managed to get from "green" to what I ended up doing. But then again, the topic for that day was "wool", and a few members ended up in this huge contraversial conversation that came off from it. So I don't know, I guess it was just a weird day. ^_~

He glanced out his window at the greenery of his garden. It was a look of longing. How much more he’d prefer to be out there, rather than cooped up in here, trying to write an essay on humanity in inhuman conditions.

He sighed, and turned to his computer.

“June 1st 2007” He typed, “Stuffed if I can write essay.”

He shook himself, and deleted the rebellious sentence. Come on, he thought, just a sentence, a word, anything to jump off from.

“What is humanity?” He typed. At least it was a start.

“The simple answer is this: We, as the human race, are.

But are we?”

And error popped up on screen.

Microsoft Word has encountered an error and has to close. Would you like to send a bug report?

He clicked the “No” button, and watched as the application closed.

“Stupid thing. Why’d you have to stuff up on me?” he muttered under his breath, and paused, a strange expression on his face.

Picking up pen and paper, he proceeded to rewrite what he had typed, and begin again.

“As our technology has progressed, we have integrated it into our lives. Society in the first world demands that everyone has access to the Internet, everyone has a mobile phone, everyone has a car. It is virtually inconceivable that anyone should go without.”

“We are the only race on the planet that has behaved so strangely. Apes will use sticks as tools, but they do not rely solely upon those sticks. Nor is it necessary to have a stick with them at any given time, as with mobile phones.”

“Technology has everything to do with how we perceive ourselves today. The progression of the human race is not really based on the progression of humans individually or as a whole, but on the progression of technology. In fact, in these times, humanity without technology really isn’t considered to be humanity at all.”

“Given this observation, can you strip a someone of all their technology and beliefs, and still call them human? Or has that technology, and those beliefs, become the humanity?”

“This is not such a ridiculous idea as it may seem. Not our habits of projecting our thoughts and feelings onto things that could not possibly consider them, and humanizing machines. A car is tired, a computer stubborn, our boats, and now, to a lesser extent perhaps, our cars, are referred to as “she”.”

“Perhaps this all seems harmless and irrelevant, but language is as much, perhaps even more, a part of humanity as technology, and thus it affects the way we perceive ourselves and the world around us. Think of how many feminists have change the spelling of the word ‘woman’, substituting the ‘a’ for a ‘y’.”

He paused, and chewed the end on his pen. Where was he going with this? What was he trying to say?

In order to avert the temporary writer’s block, he kept writing without bothering to think about it.

“So perhaps, for all our talk of artificial intelligence and robots that can think for themselves, we have already created artificial life- albeit on a different level- by projecting life onto our current technology?”

He smiled to himself, remembering how, only recently, a friend of his had told her ancient washing to “stop whining and get on with it”, and then shake her head and say “I swear that thing has a mind of it’s own.”

“It has been said,” He continued, “that when a loved one dies they live on in our hearts. Maybe our technology lives in our minds?"

He put down his pen and shivered. Not a nice prospect.

bananas

2008-11-29T20:04:00.001-08:00

Okay, so this is very light, and fun to write. You can't expect something dark and morose with "Bananas" as a topic. Or if you think you can, good luck writing it!

Maria had not talked to her flat-mate for three months, and she did not plan on doing so for a long time yet.

It began when he went into her studio without her permission, and ate one of her models, and from then onwards their friendship, such as it had ever been, had escalated into an outright war. If she had wanted to she could have seen it from his point of view: After all, you walk into a room, feel hungry, see a bowl of fruit... But, as is often the case when you are annoyed with someone, seeing it from his perspective was not something she wanted to do.

The bananas had been her favorite part. She had applied wash after wash of paint, building up the colours in a painstakingly slow fashion, towards a goal she was sure would have been so vibrant, so perfect, that it would have done that which she had been striving for years to achieve, that is, in her own words, to “put the ‘Life’ back into Still-Life.” She had the perfect title for the piece, too:

“Tropical fantasy held in a wooden bowl.”

None of that boring “bowl of fruit on a table” nonsense. That belonged to the age of the old masters. No, she was a new artist! New ways of going about the same idea! Modern art in an old form!

But now Pedro had eaten one of her precious bananas, and all her ambitions and desires had plunged down the drain. How could fate have been so heartless? She felt as if the fire of her artistic passions had been douse, and now all that remained were pitiful wisps of steam.

She would never speak to him again. Of that much, she was certain.

She sighed, and glanced over yet again at her beautiful, ruined painting. The voluptuous purple grapes, the dimple skinned oranges, the spiny golden pineapples, and. She could hardly bear to look, the pale, crescent-moon shapes of her never to be completed bananas. Why, Pedro may as well have bombed the Eiffel Tower, or trampled Van Goph’s Sunflowers, for all the desecration he had committed.

There was a tentative knock on the studio door.

“Maria?” came That Man’s voice through the wood, “Can I come in?”

She did not deign to reply. He was below her, and thus did not deserve the faintest grunt of acknowledgement.

The door creaked slowly open. Maria rounded on him. How she would berate him! Flood him with such a tide of anger and hatred that he would be left a quivering, emotional mess on the floor!

He grinned sheepishly, and held out a box wrapped in gift paper. How dare he try to placate her so obviously!

She snatched it away from him, and tore the paper off in such a way that showed she cared nothing for its contents. She would throw whatever it was in his face.

She opened the box, and paused, hand quivering. Inside lay a long, perfect banana, and a tube of yellow paint.

Maria looked up at Pedro, and down at the box, then at Pedro again. She took up the piece of fruit, and turned towards the bowl she had used as her model. She arranged the banana carefully within, and stood back to look at it. Perfection.

Pedro was watching her in the was you might look at a bomb after having cut a wire, unsure as to whether you’d defused it or simply shortened the time until explosion. He looked so comical that she began to laugh. He joined in, cautiously at first, and then they both lapsed into hysteria, tears- of laughter or sadness? - Running down their faces.

And so ended the Great Banana War, in tears and laughter. Wouldn’t it be nice if our bomb wars ended the same way?

A town, somewhere

2008-11-29T19:47:00.000-08:00

O_O I adored this topic. Absolutely adored it. And I sure had fun writing it.

I was sitting at a table by myself, as close to the fire as I could get without sitting inside the hearth, when a gust of cold air announced the stranger. He pulled the oak door open with a dramatic gesture, and stood for a moment, silhouetted against the gray sky and snow covered ground.

His arrival alone caused a considerable stir, as it was a small pub, on the outskirts of town, and rarely saw any more than four or five people at a time, each of which knew one another.

Once he seemed to decide that his pause had been long enough, he stepped inside and slammed the door shut. His appearance was that of a hitchhiker. Upon his back he carried a dark green and blue pack, of the kind that professional hikers wear, which he slung down by the stool he had chosen for himself at the bar. His hair was shoulder-length, and dread locked, brown matted tangles that swung around his head as he moved. His clothes were crumpled, his boots scuffed. In fact, the only part of him that didn’t look the worse for wear were his eyes. They glinted in the light from the fire, darting from side to side as he took in his surroundings.

Such a man, I decided, could not possibly fail to be interesting. And so, being the inquisitive person that I am, I strode over to him and offered to buy him a drink.

He glanced at me for a moment, as if trying to figure out what manner of person I was, before giving me a quick smile and replying that yes, he’d like that, and his name was Kimberly. Jackson- Jack- Kimberly.

I, in turn, gave my name, before ordering our respective beverages from the barkeeper. Drink in hand, I questioned him as to where he was from, and he waved a hand in a vague direction.

“Oh, just a town, somewhere.” He said, “But that was a long time ago.”

He took a sip of his drink, and continued.

“Better to say that I’ve come from New York, and Hong Kong, and London, and Paris. I come from Iceland, and Africa, and India. I come from all the four corners of the world, and everything in between them.”

I thought on this, before inquiring whether he traveled a lot.

He laughed. “How could I travel if motion is impossible? How could I have been to any of those places is every time I looked up from the road I had halved the distance between myself and my destination? No,” He gave me another of his quick smiles, “I traveled between.”

I wondered if I had perhaps chosen a lunatic as a drinking companion. I tried to think of something to say, but he started to speak again.

“I mean, really.” He took another sip, “Where do any of us come from? Do we come from where we were born? From where we live? Is where we come from where we have our house? If so, then where do the homeless come from? I said I come from a town somewhere, but I might as well have said that I come from outside, or from the road, or even from the chair on which I sit now!”

He gave the stool a pat.

“For that matter, where do you come from? I’ll tell you where you come from.”

He grinned, and in those eyes I imagined I saw sparks of insanity.

“You come from that table over there.” He gestured at the table I had been sitting at before.

“Don’t you see? That is where you were before, that is where you come from! You don’t come from America, or England, you come,” he downed the rest of his drink and pointed yet again at the table, “from over there.”

He gave me another quick smile, stood, and slung his pack onto his shoulders. Thanking me for the drink, he walked over to the door, pulled it open, stepped outside and waited a moment so that we could all see his silhouette. Then he slammed it shut, and walked off into the snow.

His exit was every bit as dramatic as his entrance.

It couldn't possibly happen, could it?

2008-11-29T19:31:00.000-08:00

Well, once again it's been a while. However, I am finally updating again... So that's a good thing.

The topic was, as is always the case, very hard to write... Until I actually wrote about it. ^_^ I guess I'm one for procrastinating.

The prospect of Uncle’s death had been a ghostly presence at the back of their minds for the past year. It lingered, transparent, never specifically thought about but still most definitely there. It was only in the months leading up to his illness that it had started to become more substantial, and they began to realise it’s inevitability. They started noticing references to death everywhere, in newspapers, on television, even in the graffiti that coated the brick walls and concrete that they passed in the street. Though still they never broached the subject, not until the very end, when Uncle was hospitalized, and even then not really speaking of it, but rather circling around it, the meaning of their words being found not in what they said, but what they didn’t say. Even as he lay on his deathbed, it had a vague, it-couldn’t-possibly-happen feel to it,

The times when it became hard reality differed for each of them.

For the eldest, squinting through the rain as the coffin was lowered into the ground, and pondering the cliché of rain at a funeral, it was when his wife sighed, and said “Well, that’s it then”, and he thought with some surprise, “Yes, I suppose it is”, that he truly understood that the uncle was dead, and his mind turned immediately to thoughts of inheritance, money and property.

For the middle child, it was in bed the night after the funeral, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of the times she had spent with the Uncle, all those unpleasant family dinners and his snide, richer-than-thou mannerisms, and she whispered “Oh, thank God that’s over.”

For the youngest, sitting with his wife, wondering when to broach the subject of divorce, and her asking him about inheritance, and he hating her and hating her and hating her for thinking only of the money when she should be mourning, it was when he realised that he wasn’t mourning either, and how much he had hated the Uncle in life, and feeling glad that he wouldn’t have to enjoy his company any more, and hating and hating and hating himself for feeling glad about death.

Through each of their realizations of the Uncle’s death, they found themselves confronted with yet another ghostly presence, another niggling it-couldn’t-possibly-happen feeling in the back of their minds. They were confronted with the reality of their own deaths, and once again, they could not possibly comprehend it as being real until it was actually upon them.

In Flight

2008-10-07T23:33:00.000-07:00

My topic, chosen because I couldn't think of anything else and that's the name of a piece of music I composed. Unlike the usual fiction, I've done a ramble.

The ambition to fly has been inherent in the human race for as long as we have been able to dream. Mythology is full of it, whether it be little people that have wings or romanticizing those creatures that naturally do, as in the saying “As free as a bird.” Our obsession with flight is such that we have even projected it onto other animals, such as the winged horse, Pegasus.

The dream of flying seems to contradict our vertigo and fear of falling, and yet the longing grows.

Given that we have fulfilled our dream, with airplanes and hot air balloons, it is rather strange that so many people who dream of white feathered wings and clear blue skies, have a profound hatred of flight in the conventional sense: airplanes. Perhaps it is not the vehicle in itself, but the tedious wait in the departure lounge beforehand. Or maybe it is the fact that so much weight is being propelled off the ground that it seems liable to crash, as they so often do. A Boeing 747 weighs around 400 tons at take off, including cargo and passengers. Such a prospect is enough to scare anyone.

Either way, it is rather a pity that our romanticizing of flight has manifested itself in such a dreary form of technology.

Notice also the amount of figures of speech that have to do with flight. Feelings soar, you feel uplifted, to soar on wings of love.

Could it be that our love of flying comes from a longing to be closer to Heaven, our eventual goal? The need to be closer to the Divine? It seems logical that it should be so, given that religions of all kinds see divinity in the stars, and religions make up a considerable part of our past and present.

But why does it take up so much of our life? Why does it dominate so? I don’t think there is anyone on this earth who has not wished they could fly. Perhaps it is human nature to long for the unattainable, and destroy that which they’ve got in order to try to achieve it.

Flirting

2008-09-07T20:01:00.000-07:00

Well, I have to say that I certainly enjoyed this topic, once I got around to writing it. It was chosen from a fantastic new book I've got called "The Writers Block": A tiny, cube shaped book full of inspirations and tidbits about writing.

Also, I think my style of writing (in the beginning at least) was slightly influenced and changed by a combination of Francine Prose's book "Read Like A Writer", yet another new and brilliant addition to my bookshelf, and Anton Chekhov. Not that I think this is anywhere near either writer's abilities, but it changed the way I wrote nonetheless.

Please note that all place names are just made up on the spot, so don't try to look them up on a map. If there are any places with those names (And they are fairly generic, so I wouldn't be surprised) They have absolutely nothing to do with the story.

Statistics had been Jonathan Harrier's greatest pleasure in life for as long as he could remember. He hoarded them, collected them with the same fervour as a musician might collect his repetoir, the same obsessive fervour as a teenage girl might collect photos of her favorite celebrities. He loved the harsh truths of the numbers, the way you could calculate your life according to them.

Given his obsession, it is not surprising that his greatest ambition as a child was to become an insurance salesman, and indeed, later on in life he had applied. But, unfortunately, he had been fund wanting in perhaps the most vital aspect of the job. That is, that ability to smooth-talk. Or, in fact, communicate in any shape or form. He was the kind of man that, when confronted with the nessecity to actually converse with someone, has an urge to hide under the table until they go away.

This had never posed him much trouble, however, aside from his regretful job application, as he didn't care much for social gatherings and prefered to stay in the company of his precious statistics. Never posed him much trouble at all, that is, until he met Marie-Louise Appleby.

He had become a bank teller in the Commonwealth Bank, a job he enjoyed well enough, as all that was asked of him was to do as the customer asked, and mabe make a comment about the weather or the traffic should the need arise.

Every year there would be a mandatory Christmas Party for the employees of the bank. Mandatory, that is, for those who wiished to remain in favour with their boss. During these gatherings Jonathan would stand in the corner, sip a glass of cheap wine, and mournfully wait until he would be able to leave, which would usually be early morning sometime.

This time, though he noticed Miss Appleby dancing in the centre of the room. She was laughing, flicking her short brown hair back as she moved. She was wearing a Santa hat, as was everyone else in the room, but unlike the rest of the employees, she wore it with style. When she wore it, you somehow forgot that it was meant to symbolise a fat red-cheeked man, and instead noticed the way it brought out the blue in her eyes. Or at least, that was how it seemed to Jonathan.

Eventually she stopped dancing, and swayed over to his side of the room. Just as he was wondering whether he should attempt the impossible and try to talk to her, she introduced herself.

He really couldn't bear to remember the details of the conversation, such as it was, but he did know that he had managed to stutter, mumble, and, heaven forbid, whisper something about the weather.

Which was why, on the bus home the next day, he hoped beyond all hope that he would never have to see her again.

But destiny can be rather obstinate when it comes to such matters. And so, twelve or so stops before he reached the safety of his home, Marie-Louise got on the bus. She glanced around for an empty seat, sat down opposite the mortifed Jonathan, and started to flick though a book titled The Gambler.

She hadn't even glanced at him.

Jonathan's mind whirled. What to do? What to say? Finally he came to a descision. He would take the risk. He would say hello.

He squeaked at her, and she glanced up in surprise. He could feel the blush marching steadily up his face. he waited for her to ignore him and keep reading- after all, she probably didn't remember him, and who could blame her?- but instead she grinned, and put her book down.

"Oh, hello Jonathan. Sorry I didn't notice you there."

Jonathan grinned back, hoping that he didn't look like a twit.

"Hi." He croaked.

"What did you think of the party? It's a bit of fun, isn't it?"

He nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth it would somehow betray him.

"Music's a little off, though."

"Yeah."

"Kind of like something you'd hear in Chickenfeed, eh?"

He grunted an affirmative.

There was a blissful moment of sileence, during which the bus stopped and several passengers got off, but it didn't last.

"So, where are you going?"

"Uh, Maryvale." He muttered. "Live there."

"Oh yeah. I'm at Brookton. Maryvale's a pretty nice place to live."

"S' Okay."

She seemed to struggle for something else to say. Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. He knew he wasn't helping much.

In a leap of intuition, he spoke.

"What are you reading?"

She smiled, relieved that he was actually talking.

"The Gambler, by Dostoevsky. You read his stuff?"

"Uh, no." He replied.

"Really? Wow. You should look him up in the dictionary. He's a genius."

"Okay." He agreed, though he kknew he wouldn't be able to remember the name, let alone spell it.

D-O-S-T-O-Y-E-F...

"So, what do you read?"

He started, and felt the telltale urge to sink under his chair. This was a question that would reply an explanation he was not entirely willing to give.

"I, uh, don't. Not really."

She nodded, and when she spoke her voice had a hint of disdain.

"You more of a movie person?"

"No. I don't watch movies."

She frowned, bemused.

"Do you write, then?"

He shook his head, conscious that he must seeem like an idiot.

"Well, what do you do?"

His blush deepened.

"Statistics." He murmured.

"What?"

"I... Collect statistics."

"Oh. Really?" She was obviously struggling to sound interested.

The bus stopped again. Jonathan quickly calculated that, statistically, according to his life experience so far, if he stayed in the same space as her for much longer he was liable to make an even worse ass of himself than he already has. Therefore, with a hurried "Gotta go. My stop," he left the bus before she had a chance to say "But this isn't Maryvale!", and proceeded to walk the rest of the way home.

Haunting Sounds

2008-09-03T02:13:00.000-07:00

This one is my first written piece for a while, because the group was too busy organising an event for living writers week that was held in Dover, on the 24th of August. It went very well, I'm happy to say, and because of it we have received a new member with a great talent!
Welcome, Robyn!
Anyway, I enjoyed this topic very much, but I am slightly put out to find that no spell check accepts the word "Busks". For these that know as much as the spell check, that means to play music in a market or on a corner, or wherever, so long as it's legal, with a hat or case out to collect money. Well, even if it's illegal, really.
No, that doesn't mean that you can just play your Walkman really loud on portable speakers and hope.
Anyway, on with the story.

There is a blind man who sits at the corner, day after day. He is old, hands worn and face weatherbeaten. And he just sits, and listens to the rest of the world go by.

There is a boy that busks in the market every Saturday, fingers caressing melodies from wooden flutes. Time slows, and the sound of coins falling into his case is like the ringing of chimes to accompany his music.

There is a bird in a cage that never sings. It sits on its' perch by the window, and stares with dazed eyes. So close to the sky, never to spread its wings.

There is a song with no notes sung by a girl who cannot hear. A wordless, raw, tuneless chant which haunts you long after you walk away.

There is the sound of piano music that echoes from a house with windows flung wide, no matter the weather. A composers gift to the world.

There is a world within a snow-globe, a tiny village full of life. And when you shake it, the snow falls in chaotic swirls that spiral downwards, and you feel as if you are spiraling as well, down into new land. A world filled with music and laughter. Until the sounds of screaming pull you away, and you are flung back into reality.

And, like the snow, these sounds and moments spiral onwards, until they fall back to where they dwelled before, to be shaken again by the hand of time. And I wonder, can a sound come back to haunt you?

The World Is Now Open For Business

2008-07-30T16:53:00.000-07:00

This was my topic, as well as the one below "When the Winds change". I have a habit of offering up several topics at once. But I am proud to say that from it sprung my very first working poem that actually rhymes!

The world is now open for business,
It will do quite well, I'm sure,
Fast food, real estate and stock markets,
All that, oh yes, and much more.

The world is now open for business,
Dope, cocaine and all the rest
Illegal or not, we don't particularly care,
So long as the coppers stay off of our chest.

The world is now open for business,
Neon lights and corporate ads
Now we've started, none can resist us,
Look out for all the new fads.

The world is now open for business
We're scooping the cash up real fast,
But oil has peaked,
And the havoc we've wreaked,
Has ensured that it could never last.

.

When The Winds Change

2008-07-30T16:49:00.000-07:00

A poem based on an excercise that one of the members of my group set. She brought in a photocopied sheet from a book about the convicts who came to Dover and Southport. The sheet listed all the convicts who came, their ages, crimes and marital status. We were instructed to choose one of these convicts, and write their story.

The subject of my story, a seventeen year old boy whose crime was stealing money for clothes, dwelled in my mind for some time afterwards. And so I wrote this.

Seven years are my sentence
But my lifetime I shall serve
For though the jury may say otherwise
'Tis a death sentence I have earned.

And when the winds change
When they whisper of home
I think only of you
My sister.

My mother, she is dead,
My father disappeared,
It was only you and I, my sister
And now, for you I fear.

And when the winds change
When they whisper of home
I think only of you
My sister.

Two men and a child have died,
The others have taken their clothes
Their deaths are kept quiet, the bodies unmoved,
So their food ration keeps coming round.

And when the winds change
When they whisper of home
I think only of you
My sister.

I'm bound for a new world,
The Southern Land, Australia,
So far from our life, together
And yet so near to our deaths, apart.

And when the winds change
When they whisper of home
I think only of you
My sister.

When the winds change,
I can hear your sweet voice,
uplifted in song
Despite all misery.

When the winds change,
I think only of you,
When the winds change,
my sister.

From the Ashes 2

2008-07-30T16:48:00.000-07:00

There are two pieces for this topic, prose and poem.

A fire

Caged by human hands
dances and frolics to unearthly music
Ever unheard by mortal ears
The circle of stones
That mark its boundaries
flickering in the orange light
Sparks fly
A blade of grass joins the dance
A tree, a forest
leap and prance to the song of the flames
The harsh cry of human sirens
Slice the song in two
killing the flames
destroying the dance
Leaving only ashes and charcoal
Silence prevails
Ages pass
Until, from the ashes
The green forest returns.

Just Don't Make It too Complicated

2008-07-30T16:44:00.000-07:00

A writers block story. I'm only glad that Calliope eventually got around to me, otherwise I'd have been staring at that blank screen for a very long time.

Just don't make it too complicated.

Just don't make it too complicated.

The phrase circled round and round in Eliza's head as she glared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. She gripped her pen tighter, fingers whitening and threatening to give herself writers cramp before she even written a single word.
Three times she'd touched the pen to the paper, and three times she'd lifted it up again, shaking her head in frustration.
How could she possibly write in conditions like this?
She sank her head down onto the wood of the desk at which she sat, and shut her eyes, hoping for some kind of inspiration that would get her writing with her usual vigor. None came.

She sat in her studio, technically the attic, of her house in Newford. It was a small room, and brightly lit from the enormous window in the far wall. Through it she could see the branches of the oak tree that grew in her front garden, and, in the distance, the bay, glinting in the midday sun, and the numerous yachts and fishing boats that bobbed gently on the waves.

Unnoticed by the frustrated writer, the muse Calliope tapped frantically on the window. She sat in a fork in the oak tree, glaring into the house through the pane of glass that separated them. Her long blond hair was unkempt, the Greek robe which her superiors insisted that she wore, despite the changing of the times, tattered and grass-stained.
'Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid!' She hissed under her breath as she banged on the glass. 'Stupid stupid woman!'
Then she amended herself, for she knew that it wasn't completely Eliza's fault. Eliza had been Limited, and that was a horrible thing to have to deal with, especially for someone who expressed herself with words like she did.
'Stupid publisher. Stupid stupid publisher.'
Normally a muse can pass through any barrier, thick or thin, to get to their designated writer. But when a writer has been limited, frustrated and annoyed, there is a kind of mental box that is put up around them, that the muse can't get into, and the writer can't get out of.

Eliza was the best writer of all Calliope's clients, she wrote such beautiful prose, and such amazing plots that it astounded even Calliope, who'd seen so many great writers.
Edgar Allan Poe was her work, and she was rather proud of it.
But Eliza had her manuscript sent back to her, with a short note saying 'Nice, but try again, and just don't make it too complicated this time.'

The problem with that bit of advice is this response: "What on earth is that supposed to mean? What is complicated? I don't see any complications. Should I strip down the prose? Drop all my adjectives? Pull out some characters? Put them in? Change the end, the beginning, the middle?"

And this was precisely the pit that Eliza had fallen into.

Eventually Calliope gave up, and continued down to her next client, who had, to the muse's amusement, been staring at a blank computer screen, trying to think of something to write about the topic "Just don't make it too complicated."

The Secret To Happiness.

2008-07-30T16:38:00.000-07:00

It really didn't take me long to write this one. I really loved the topic. After all, it practically begged for one of my weird, fragmented, present-tense stories.

Today she decides to write a list. On the right of the page she will write all the things that make her happy, and on the left everything that makes her unhappy.
She thinks for a moment, then writes “Sunny Days” on the right of the paper. And stops.
Tears roll down her cheeks as the left side fills up, spilling over into the right column and onto the other side of the page.

Today he turns on the television, and stares dumbly at the screen. He flicks through the channels, not really paying any attention to anything.
He stays there the whole day.

Today she doesn't get out of bed, just listens to the sounds of her parents shouting at each other downstairs. Reaching for the knife on her bedside table, she cuts into the skin on her arm. A silent symbol of rebellion.

Today he ties off the upper part of his arm, needle in hand. With a faint sigh, he injects himself with the drug. Then everything's great again, and he laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

Today she wanders through the mall again, looking for the next fantastic bargain. The next item that will soon end up in the closet, with all the others. All those shiny new things that she knows she doesn't need.

Today he reaches for yet another box of chocolates, throwing the wrapper of the last one into the overflowing bin. Shovelling them into his mouth three at a time, he gazes into nothing.

Today she sits in the park, in her fashionable clothing, and her hair done just so. And for no particular reason, she starts to sob into her hands. It begins to rain, and she just sits there, clothes soaked and hair completely ruined, crying.

Today he buys the lotto ticket that he is so sure will win this time. He sits hunched before the telly, ticket held tight in his fists.

Today she thinks.“I don't know what the secret to happiness is,” she writes “But I know what it is not. It is not what this culture is turning us into. It is not this way of life. It is not the next drug fix, it is not the next fantastic buy, it is not the next box of chocolates. If there is indeed a secret, we forgot it long ago.”

From The Ashes

2008-07-30T16:33:00.000-07:00

When I found this story on my computer, it took a long time for me to remember what the topic for it actually was. I guess that's just evidence of how long it's been since I've done anything to this blog...

It was a loud silence, the kind that makes every second seem to last an age. It was broken only by the slow 'tick... tick...' of the clock on the wall, which only accentuated how awkward we had become in one another's company.

It had been so long since we'd been able to talk together properly. Not since the funeral...
"So..." He was the one who spoke first, tapping his fingers self consciously on the kitchen table at which we sat. "How have you been?"
"You asked me that already, Dad."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
I spooned some more soup into my mouth, trying not to grimace at the foul taste. His cooking still hadn't improved.
"Dad..." I began, unsure how to frame this question. He glanced up from his bowl, glad that I had taken the initiative.
"Yes?"
"Dad, what did you do with..." I took a deep breath, and steadied myself.
"What did you do with her ashes?"
He actually flinched. It was the first time we'd mentioned her in three years. But I had to ask.
"Wh... Why do you ask?"
I found myself hating him.
"Goddammit, Dad!" I yelled. "We haven't spoken about her for years! Why do you insist on forgetting about her? I'm her son, just as I'm yours, and I want to know what you did with her ashes! Is that too much to ask?"
My onslaught trailed off as I saw the tears spilling down his cheeks and into his soup.
"I've still got them." He whispered. "I couldn't bear to throw them away."

It was a long drive to the bush from Dad's house. We were silent the whole way, and I cradled the box in my arms as we sat.
He kept on casting me nervous glances, as though afraid I would explode again. I detested him for it. He was such a coward.
Finally we arrived. I opened the door and got out of the car, starting the walk through the bush without waiting for him. I heard him running after me, and when he reached my side he was panting slightly. I didn't even look at him.
Then we were out of the bush, and into our clearing. Our clearing: funny how I called it that. Even though technically we never owned the place, it was our secret. Our camping spot.
Her favourite place. It had changed a bit since we had last come here. it was more overgrown; bracken and shrubs had taken over the otherwise clear ground, and it seemed smaller.
But it was still ours, still full of memories. All three of us would sit around the fire, laughing and talking, telling stories... It seemed so long ago.
There were the ashes and stones where we used to have the fire, there was that tree that I always used to climb when I was younger. I could see where I carved my name into it with my pocket knife.
Dad looked at me, and I found I wasn't angry any more.
"Here." I said decisively, and opened the box. Together, we scattered her ashes to the wind.

Gathering Storm

2008-07-30T16:30:00.000-07:00

This topic was chosen as a tribute to Rosie Dubb's book, Gathering Storm. As I haven't read it, this story bears absolutely no relation to it.

Rain has not fallen on these plains for many years now. Where once there was grass and lush green gardens, dust and brittle twigs give evidence of the starvation of the land.
For, like a man deprived of food, the earth, without the sustenance given by water, withers and dies until only her bare bones are visible, bleached white by the harsh light of the sun.
A single man walks barefoot through this once-fertile desert, though he knows not that it was ever green. He has wandered this land for twenty-three years now, as did his father and grandfather before him, and even within three generations not one of them has seen rain fall on this parched soil.
His name is Nantill, and today he hunts a lizard.
He had seen its' footprints two days previously- huge, three toed marks bigger than his hand with a stride longer than his arm- and had been tracking it ever since.
After living on moths and sand-snake eggs for over three weeks, lizard will make a welcome change.
And now it is close. Very close.
Nantill pulls the spear from its' holder on his back, and takes one of the leather pouches from his belt. Opening the pouch, a strong scent of rotten meat wafts into the air, and he places it on the ground.
He crouches in the scrub, spear at the ready, and waits.
He does not know how long he sits there, but soon there is a crunching of dry twigs and a snorting of breath, and the lizard comes into view.
It is enormous, far bigger than anything he could possibly kill or eat on his own, and he is only too aware that he does not pose the same problem for it.

The lizards' scaled flanks heave as it sniffs at the bait, snorting in frustration when it finds nothing that would make a half-decent meal.
Then it turns it head, slowly, to where Nantill sits.
The lizard is a sandy color, its' back covered in large spikes that stick out at odd angles.
Though all creatures of its kind look slow and plodding, they are capable of bursts of speed that no human could ever hope to outrun.

Nantill knows this, as he slowly rises to his feet so that his head is now level with the lizards.
He knows it even as he points his spear at the things snout.
And he knows that he is going to die as it begins to charge.

He throws the spear as hard as he can, hoping to buy some time, though it could not possibly pass through the scaly hide, before turning and, without even checking to see if it hits or not, he runs.
He runs like he has never ran before, feet pounding against the dry dust, sweat pouring from his face, not looking where he's going, not caring where he's going, as long as it is far away.

And now he's falling, tumbling almost vertically downwards, sand entering his nose and mouth as he struggles for breath even as it is knocked from his body.

Finally it stops, and he lies face down in the sand, waiting for those crushing jaws to snatch his life away.

Nothing happens.
He staggers to his feet, and stares.
He fell from the top of a steep hill into a basin, of sorts, surrounded on all sides by similar sand-dunes.

The lizard is nowhere in sight.

It is like he's fallen into another world.
Before him is a gigantic structure rising out of the sand, of a material he has never seen before. It is not rock, nor is it bone, but something that glints in the sun like stars that have fallen from the sky. Scattered around it is debris of the same luster.
The place stinks of death.
Nantill walks cautiously over to the structure, and, when it makes no move to hurt him, he gingerly touches it. It is smooth, and so hot that he snatches his hand away with a yelp.
And he knows, suddenly and without doubt, that people lived here once, long ago. He can feel it. Though how they died, he does not know.
He hears a rumbling sound from somewhere far away, and glances up, startled. The hairs rise on the back of his neck as he gazes at the horizon.
Clouds, huge, swirling black clouds roll across the sky, swallowing up the light of day as they do so.
Nantill shivers as a cold wind strikes up, bringing with it an unfamiliar scent that no living creature has smelled for an age.

And while Nantill does not know what this means, I do. And I will tell you.
Just as the storm came to take away the lives and homes of the people who destroyed the land so many years ago, it comes again.

But this time, it gives life back.

Something Strange

2008-07-30T16:17:00.000-07:00

This topic I was one I couldn't help but take as an order, rather than an actual subject

The door of the tavern swung open, letting in a gust of freezing air. A figure stood at the entrance, silhouetted against the bright neon lights from outside, and the warm firelight inside.
The tavern was the exact image of one of those cliched inns that you read about in every fantasy or historical novel. The wooden crudely painted sign hanging from the bar out the front creaked ominously, the stone walls were grimy and stained, and the thatched roof looked as if it would fall in at any moment. Inside, the firelight cast eerie shadows across the faces of shady looking men.
And these shady men were all watching the newcomer with hostility in their gaze. It was rare that anyone new came in, and even rarer that they came from the city.
The stranger stepped into the room, and shut the door to the modern sounds of the city outside. He glanced over to the bartender, a portly man in an apron, and spoke in a voice that carried throughout the room.
"They say that if a man looks hard enough, and long enough, he shall find whatsoever he searches for."
The bartender nodded to himself, and gestured for the man to come closer. The other men returned to their drinks and their pipes, some smirking slightly.
The stranger strode over to the bar, and the bartender leaned closer.
"They also say to be careful what you wish for," he said, "It might just come true. The same applies to looking for things that have nothing to do with you, Searcher."
The man addressed as Searcher shook his head.
"What I am searching for has everything to do with me, as it also has everything to do with everything. You cannot deny me, I know you cannot."

The barkeeper looked steadily into the determined eyes of the Searcher.
"How long have you been looking?" He asked.

"10 years, thirty days, and 12 hours." Came the prompt answer.

"How long have you known?"

"The same."

"They say that curiosity killed the cat, you know." The bartender warned.

The Searcher laughed.
"But I am not a cat."

"No-one has ever returned, what makes you think you are any different?"

"I don't."

The portly man bowed his head, whether in mourning or in acknowledgment that the other man had won it was unsure.

"Very well. Continue."
He swung open a gate in the side of the bar, allowing the searcher to step through and revealing a set of stairs that continued downwards into darkness.

The inhabitants of the tavern watched as one as the Searcher descended. When he had disappeared from view, the barkeeper returned to polishing a dirty glass with an equally dirty rag, and it was as if nothing had happened.

Meanwhile underneath the inn- though underneath was not perhaps the right word, as it was under the inn, and yet so far above the earth that it was incomprehensible- The Searcher strode steadily downward, or upward, if you prefer.
It was dark, pitch black, but this hardly impeded him, as he was traveling in an exact straight line. Eventually, perhaps a couple of seconds, a century, or forever, later, the darkness became light, and he knew.
He didn't know anything in particular, he just knew. He could see Them. The ones that say. The ones that Are.

They say You found us.

They say- for he can no longer tell where he begins and They end- Yes.

They say Why?

They say Because we had to.

They say We understand.

And then They are silent.

They are God, They are Allah, They are women, they are men.
They are demons, They are angels, they are us, and they are Them.

Resolution

2008-01-06T15:00:00.001-08:00

Resolution.

You're dreaming. You know that from the blurriness of your surroundings, like a camera that just won't focus. You're in a park, deserted but for a man asleep on a wooden bench nearby. You try to walk, but realise that you aren't there. At least, not in a body. You are the park. You are the trees, the grass, the sky. The man awakens, and you see his eyes, the only things in focus, a glittering blue. You feel yourself being drawn into them, until they are all you can see, they fill your vision, so bright as to be unbearable.
And the dream ends. You awaken with a start, and try to recall what the dream had been about. But the images fade into the dark recesses of your mind before you can grasp them.
The golden light of early morning struggles to reach through the slit of your drawn curtains, the thin sliver that manages to pass crossing over your bed, a golden line through the centre of your room.
You get up, and draw the curtains apart, the light floods the room, the sheer strength of it sending flashes of colour across your eyes. The sun is rising over the tips of buildings, the cars on the street below glinting brightly from its radiance. Across the road your neighbours are getting ready for work, a car door slams, and they're gone.
You turn away from the window, and pull on the clothing you left on the floor last night.
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... Getting in the car, going to work, talking to your boss, blue eyes.
Now you're in the park. You come to it every night, after work. It helps you to relax. It is deserted, but for a man asleep on the park bench. Somehow it all seems familiar, but you can't figure out why. A plane roars overhead, and the man awakens...
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... Getting in the plane, flying out from Sydney, stopping at Fiji, Canton Island and Honolulu, blue eyes...
Now you're in the plane. Something is nagging at you, something not quite right. You're on flight 304, on the Douglas DC-6 aircraft called “Resolution.” You're headed for San Francisco, a work trip. A man sits beside you, bright blue eyes looking into yours with such intensity that you immediately look away.
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... The park, the man on the bench, a fortune teller, blue eyes...
You are back in the park. The man is awake, and calls you over. You step forwards, as if in a dream. He smiles gently at you.
“You will die soon. Your flight is doomed. Do not board the Resolution.”
You stagger back. You do not believe in the psychic. The man is mad, insane.
Then everything comes into focus... The crash, pain, darkness.
The blue-eyed man stands before you.
“I warned you.”
Then you are falling backwards, everything is rushing away from you. The blue-eyed man raises his hand in farewell.

Drifting

2008-01-06T14:59:00.001-08:00

I observe the passing of the ages
I see you
I hear you
I smell you
I watch you from the shadowed places
I'm not dead
Not yet
Just drifting
I can feel your anger
Your hope
Your love
Your sorrow
I watch you from the shadowed places
I'm not dead
I gaze on as your life unfolds
Each beat of your heart
Each breath you take
I watch you from the shadowed places
Just drifting
Every time you dream I'm there
Calling
Pleading
Screaming
I'm not dead
Not yet
Just drifting
I loved you, you destroyed me
You hurt me
You shunned me
You tore me away
I watch you from the shadowed places
Just drifting
Just dreaming
Just waiting
I watch you

The day after tomorrow

2007-11-28T00:43:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-28T00:39:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-28T00:37:00.000-08:00

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?

2007-10-30T20:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-27T15:30:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-27T15:27:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-07-30T17:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-07-08T18:08:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-27T23:34:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-21T21:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-06-14T18:35:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-06-11T23:04:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-11T21:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-06-11T18:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-11T18:39:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-06-11T18:28:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-06-11T18:23:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-11T17:38:00.000-07:00

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.