All posts by Princess Sparkle

If I was a writer – Courtney Louise

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

If I was a writer I would write my first book about my journey of the last decade of my life. I would write to anyone or no one. I would write because the crazy world makes a little more sense when it gets out of my head.

If I was a writer I would tell the world how I suffered a chronic eating disorder but in the years of confusion and mental illness I somehow still managed to finish a degree with honours, live and travel in a number of different countries, have beautiful intermittent relationships and still manage to function as a working professional. That’s my first book. Probably for anyone who can relate to living with chronic illness. Learning through identification. Having a book written that I wish was there available for me when I suffered through pain, heartache and felt close to death. Writing the book that I need to get out in order to find true health, true life and true creativity.
If I was a writer- I would then write a book on an expierence. About ‘FUCK OFF EXPECTATION’. About the stigma that age determines where we should all be in life. By 28 I am apparently meant to be engaged, putting a deposit down on my first house with a partner, thinking about having my first baby, accepting that work means Monday to Friday and that we only live for the weekends. I would include topics about the trust we put in others including health professionals and those with a title. How we constantly compare our already beautiful lives to those who have something different- the classic; ‘The grass is greener on the other side’. I would write again to relate to someone who may be burning inside (just like me) about the confusion of how to be happy with life just as it is right now and with ourselves just as we are right now. Gay, straight, exploring, feminist, creator, simple, traveler whatever. Topics that touch on movement through life- growth through experience- understanding through existence.
If I was a writer I would love to write a book on travelling Australia. I would go on the journey myself- possibly picking up work as a nurse in different states just so I could listen to what my head spits out next.
 The life of a girl who just brought a mini campervan and went around AUS. What happened? Who did she meet? Did she fall in love? Was she struck with danger? Was it just one big huge disaster? Was it uncomfortable? Would it have been better to do the normal thing and save for a house and do what society approves of? A journey she didn’t want to experience when she retired- a journey she didn’t want to wait for. A focus on self belief, courage and pure passion.
If I was a writer I would probably have to write a book of inspirational quotes. Inspirational quotes that lead to others being filled with inspiration to discover their passion. When we are children we get to try all these awesome things, we get the opportunities and allocated time to be creative and explore our own imaginations and then through adolescents-early 20’s and then by our late 20’s – bang- it’s just gone- See you later creativity- YOU ARE A GROWN UP NOW!! Welcome to your boring bullshit life of work, gym and dinners. Welcome to the life in which you constantly hear yourself saying ‘One day I will do that’ or ‘Oh I use to love doing that’ or ‘Oh I wish I had time to still do that’. A book in which opens up the opportunity for a creative space and time in adult life- A book that recognises creative minds as part of a healthy mind, body but most importantly a healthy spirit.
If I was a writer I think I would then write a book based on something another gunna mentioned today; ‘A life that needs no vacation’. A life based on ‘the dream’. I would write a book about the dream that feels out of reach-why it feels out of reach and if there is any possible way to actually reach it! Is it possible to put my 4 qualifications together (Nursing, personal training life coaching and massage)? What would be the dream? Imagine a business in which those recovering from any illness or trauma had a place they could go. A workshop maybe or retreat in which they can tap into imagination, creative mind and issues of identity. Using communication, education, light exercise, reflection, massage techniques and of course amazing nutrition in order to show others a brand new window that they haven’t tapped into before. Self belief, self motivation, empowering others by just explaining the tools of trust- that there’s no great wrong- there’s just wrong in not doing.
‘CRANK IT UP’ – This is awesome- I love it- Crank it up would be a ripper book based on taking chances, saying yes and turning up the volume. Taking it to the next level. Knowing that whatever you want in life is damn right achievable. Exploring what is right now!! How to get something done!! Before we wake up one day and something gets in the way- before we are diagnosed with a chronic illness, before we fall pregnant, before we forget, before years pass us by- Crank up your life and say yes- do what it is that is yelling inside because CLICK- There goes 5 more years and then CLICK there goes the next 10! That job will still be there Monday morning, those bills will still roll into the letter box- Crank it up before it’s gone!!
If I was a writer…
Now that would be awesome!
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Shafted – Hamish Riddell

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Larry was nervous. He was about to step into what could be a career defining moment – a big meeting with the board.  He had been angling for this over the last six months although the time and topic was not of his choosing. Yet again he was in a world of pain created by the randomness of his manager.  “You’ll be right mate” Trevor had said when mentioning casually yesterday he wanted him to pop in to present his thoughts on the project.
Larry laid his forehead down on the table. The mass produced melamine surface felt reassuringly cool. All he had ever wanted was get a basic job, go home each day moderately happy and have an occasional fling with a sexy co-worker. When had it all become so fucking serious.
“Deep breath champ” he said to himself. He reviewed his notes again. He had scrawled some frantic thoughts on the bottom of the PowerPoint pack which had been printed out. “Fuck me sideways” he said in a soft whisper under his breath as he started to feel the rising tide of adrenalin and butterflies. His irritable bowel was seriously grumpy.
He pushed his chair back from the desk and started to log off the computer. Better get to the meeting he thought planning it out: 10 minutes walk; have a quick piss on the way; chant a mantra from Seinfeld “serenity now”…it will all be ok.
Gathering his notes he started walking across the open plan office. To distract himself he made quick glances at people’s computer screens. LinkedIn, Linkedin, Linkedin, Facebook, Excel, Power Point, Outlook, eBay. No wonder the company was tanking.
As he neared the internal stairway a shadow appeared in his peripheral vision…Barry. “Jesus not him, not now” Larry thought.
Larry girded his loins…
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THE DOGGY STYLE CAFE AT ROOF ROOF ST. BARKTOWN – Onur Kurt

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Once upon a time there was a barista called Kahve. He had a dark complexion and a cute face that looked like a Pug. In fact , he was a Pug!
A pug that could make coffee. The Doggy Style cafe was on Roof Roof St. in Barktown. Everyday he would make at least fifty coffees for the paw. It’s something he did for free to give back to his community. The paw community enjoyed his coffee topped with kebab sprinkles.
One day, two of the chums were barking and literally behaving like dogs.
Kahve was annoyed and barked, “Stop being pigs!”
And just then, along came a pig!
She was pretty in pink and as pink as marshmallows. Smooth, and had lips crimson red that resembled rabbit’s blood .
Because of that, Kahve dropped the jug of milk frother and slipped, falling at the feet of the purple polished pigs feet.
Gee she smelt good. Like a good sausage scented with cinnamon and hot as crackling! Kahve composed himself and got on all fours.
And because of that, he could see she had a diamond on her snout. A sparkling diamente. This piece of work sure had class and bling.
She looked him in the eyes and snorted at him.
Until finally Kahve got up the courage and decided to give a crack at her. He offered her some mudcake. He introduced himself and found her name was Pinky.
Kahve was smitten with Pinky and gave her a pinky promise to take her on a date.

 

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The Tale of Potato and Carrot – Megan Fleming

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Once upon a time there was a potato in a cottage. The potato was really a cat whose name was Potato. Potato lived in the cellar and ate the mice who came to steal the food that was stored there. The mice made the cellar smell, they left little see-shaped droppings on the shelves and little puddles of mouse-widdle in the corners where the sacks were stored. They ate holes in the sacks to get inside to eat the contents, they used shreds of sack to line their nests.

Every day, Potato caught two mice and ate them. He didn’t want to get fat, also, he didn’t like the taste of mouse so he only ate just enough to not be actually hungry. The problem with this was the mice bred faster than he could eat them. He needed another few cats to help him, either that or the mice needed contraceptives. He was a trim figure of a cat, with fine long whiskers and an alert countenance. He was always alert because he never over-ate.

Upstairs was a fat lazy cat. One day, Potato went to recruit her. The problem was she was always so sleepy and lazy. All she cared about was food and cuddles and sleep. Her name was Carrots. She wasn’t orange, but her tail was feathery like carrot-tops (although not green). Potato tried to wake her up, but she was not interested. He had no food for her, and no cuddles either, because he did not really like her. She knew this so she pretended to be more asleep than she was. Potato sat and thought, then he pounced on her as if she was a mouse.

Because of that she became annoyed and woke up. He got to explain about the mice. Hmm, these mice, they can be eaten you say? I never tasted mouse before, are they nice? Potato didn’t want to lie. Mice were crunchy and tasted of guts and fur and spintery little bones, but the way they wriggled when he bit them brought a rush of enjoyment to him, also the liver was good. He was truthful and said that she would never know if she never tried, and he was prepared to share the experience, if she was game to try.

And because of that, the two cats went hunting together. Potato was excited to have company, and he showed off his hunting skills. The mice used their pointy noses to tell that there were twice as many cats hunting them. They got into a panic and froze in fear, and Carrot was able to catch one herself. It was the first time she had ever tasted fresh warm blood and it unleashed her killer instinct.

Until finally, she became a crazed mouse-hunting maniac, and chased and killed them all. She was like a conquering vandal and laid waste to the entire mouse population in one afternoon. How could she ever eat them all?

Eat them all she had to, as the mice had widdled on all the cat tucker and spoilt it, and there was nothing else for her to eat. She ate so many she spoilt her appetite and got tummy ache, it quite put her off being lazy. She was like a horse with colic and had to move about to get comfortable.

Potato went with her and they went for a long walk through the forest. During the walk each confided that they had been lonely and bored, and from then on they were a pair.

 

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Vacuum – Adrian Negri

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

#1 Once upon a time there was…
I sat at the beach on my own as usual, looking out at the boats, listening to the seagulls, the kids, the parents, the goofy guys trawling the sands and feeling the sun on my face and sand in my feet. I saw, out of the corner of my eye a couple. A young man of about 13 and his girlfriend.
#2 Every day…
They sat at an awkward adjacency, looking around them before eventually settling next to each other, leaning on each other, legs crossing over, rib cages intertwining. Romeo and Juliet, #Once upon a time there was…
“What a wonderful sight.” I thought from the corner of my mind. To think that every day this little scenario is being played out all across this magnificently round world of ours.
#3 One day
With an ear pricked to one side I watched a seagull hover beneath a cloud and above, who knows, maybe a small fish or just atop a draft for fun, for sport. The young man leaned back and uttered these words #”One day…” before leaning closer to her and whispering something in her ear which made her giggle and laugh and smile.
Had he made a promise to her?
#4Because of that
They resumed their quiet little tender play of wordless love, straightening hair and scratching each others itchy bites. Then they both, in no time at all, had stood up and proceeded hand in hand towards the shore for a nice stroll along the edge of the tide.
#Because of that seagull and its incessant harping, all of those tender thoughts about my own youth
#And because of that
and what little romance there was to be had in it were drowned out. #And because of that I was prompted, perhaps from some sense of futility to get up and make for the fish and chip shop and see if I could find a nice piece of fish to gobble up.
#6Until finally
So there I stood, fifteen minutes later with a piece of fried fish in one hand and a small carton of chips in the other and observed the traffic as it slid past. I gazed past the sun and soft breeze #until finally I decided that it might be a good time to call it a day and go home and do the cleaning like I said I would. This always necessitates the dragging out of the #vacuum.

 

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A Goodbye – Amanda D

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Three faces, two olive-skinned and tanned from the summer past, the
other pale and drawn, stared glumly at each other.  At the age of
sixteen, they had barely been apart for more than a few days since the
age of six.  Closer than sisters, these friends could almost read each
other’s’ minds.

“We can write” said Bibi.  “And maybe visit one day?  My mother says
Uncle Fred and Auntie Til are going to Australia too.  Maybe I can
come too?”  “They’ll never let you” said Laila with a grin.  “You’re
much too wild to be let loose without a husband”.  Yasmeen laughed
along, happy to have a brief pause from the sadness.  “Excuse me
girls, you both know perfectly well that I’ll be the first one
married… Danny has already asked papa… so I’ll be the one to visit
first!”

Laila sighed.  It was all right for them.  They still had each other.
She looked over at her parents, nervously checking and rechecking
their papers.  Ever since her sister Rafi and her husband had
resettled in Melbourne, Australia, the plans had been in motion to
follow them.  Now Laila was to miss her final year of school just so
her mother could be near her precious first born.  The boys didn’t
care… five brothers and all of them useless, in Laila’s opinion
anyway.  But she had plans.  Sister Aggie had already written to three
universities, and she had been sure to get in to study law.  If only
they could have waited… just a few more months!  But no.  They were
all on their way to Australia, and she simply could not find a way out
of it.  Australia!  Nobody knew anything about Australia.  Stupid John
and his stupid plans.  If he and Rafi had gone to America like she’d
suggested, well, things could have really been exciting.  Imagine,
Harvard Law School! But no.

She’d even considered accepting Ahmet’s proposal – not that it was
much of an offer.  That wouldn’t have gotten her any closer to law
school, she knew that.  Still, mother had promised she could finish
school once they got there.  She knew she’d be fine… her English was
perfect, Sister Aggie said so.  She looked around… ah, there she
was.  Deep in conversation with her mother.  Well, if she would listen
to anyone, it would be Sister Aggie, and Laila knew she’d be doing her
best to see her favourite pupil in university.  She sat back, suddenly
relieved again.  Maybe it would be fine… it might not be America,
but it was still far away from here.

She looked around at the rest of the farewell party… her entire
class had come to wish them well, but the truth was they mostly hated
her.  Except for Yasmeen and Bibi that is. Her best friends in the
whole world, and the only ones she felt at ease with.  Everyone else
was either beneath her or a competitor.  Jealous of her pale skin and
blonde hair, Laila knew she not only looked different, she thought
differently too.  Not content to giggle and pout, Laila knew she was
prickly, and a little too proud.  She didn’t care though, if truth be
told.  She had a plan.  University, then law school.  Maybe she would
marry, but not till she was at least 35.  After accepting her first
diplomatic posting of course.  Despite herself, she laughed out loud.
She wasn’t sure what would shock her father more… but that was all
right, her mother (and Sister Aggie) were on her side.

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The Devil Loves Secrets – Almitra McQuade

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Hard boots scrape across gravel and she hears them in her sleep. Every day. Sometimes in the background and mostly peripheral but they are always there. They were there in the throbbing old broken bone in her foot that was never seen to and healed incorrectly, even after in middle age she has major surgery to correct the congenital bunions that compound the broken toe. The toe that he broke. With his boot. In the gravel.  A hot day in Adelaide, summer 1972.
Every day, even though she wakes up and cuddles her little dog, breathing in the fresh green air of the rainforest.
One day, she knows, it will all eventually fall away but today she wakes and it is there. Hard and vicious in the morning light like a drunk when the ugly lights come on. No flaw, no detail left unexposed, lurching up close and demanding to be faced. On this day all the green serenity of the forest cannot flay its oily hide. Because of that she will hold it at bay by hunkering down, let it be an elephant, a raging snarling rabid dog that she puts on a chain. But the chain is always long enough for her to feel it’s breath on her ankles as it stretches on it’s tether, encroaching on her personal space, to where she can always see and feel it’s glaring starkness.
Because of this she fled. And because of that so many things began and were and are, that would never have otherwise been.
I am one of those things, and as such so is the rest. My daughter, her grand daughter. The cycle of life continues. We are a babushka, one inside the other inside and another but we keep on growing and producing and changing and there is always a story. A reason. Until finally we reach a moment, a space in time where we are weightless and able to consider the long line of mothers and ancestors that have come before us, who still exist in our stories and in our bones. Fragments of stars that sun and water and some kind of energy created by life’s longing for itself transforms into the next generation.
But today she will hunker down. Today is not the day to feed that dog. Another day will come and the sharp edges of secrecy will recede. The devil he loves secrets but she’ll not let him win.

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 I Love Mondays – Xavier P. Nowicki

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Prologue

The outsiders probably reckon we’re a ragged bunch, a bit rough around the edges.

But I’m pretty sure our teacher thinks otherwise. Because he always says with a smile, that he’d take a bag of rough diamonds over smooth pebbles any day! I’m not really sure what he means – but I guess pebbles will always be pebbles, but a polished diamond could be worth a million bucks….and that’s a-whole-lot-a-money!!!

We might be loud, we might challenge authority from time to time, but we care for one another, we’re creative, we’re readers and thinkers, and most of all WE’RE FUN!!!

So kick back, slip your shoes off, get yourself a milo and get comfy. Throw your dog a bone to keep it occupied, and step inside the class of 2N, 2016 for a day. TBC

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Time matters – susan romyn

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Time that we have..It is so much and so little
We have no time
We have happy time
Sad time
Times
We fill our time
We seek time

We are jealous of people who have time
Or
We have so much time we are jealous of a perceived importance of someone else’s time
I want you to spend time with me…I want to spend time with you
Who is TOO BUSY

Time can fall to history…time spent to be shared later….

I dropped in for a coffee with my father today for half an hour…a short period of time…but a moment in time where many important things were said…happened…expressed

More than has been said for years…
“…I am like you…laugh
…She makes me happy
…It really upset her
….She bought me this
….I can do that
….I love your space
….I am so like you
….Apples don’t fall far from the tree
….I am proud of my kids
….I have made me secure for them…
….Moving now will be good for me
….Can we meet
….To go there…it looks amazing
….I will be tired but it is worth it
….She would really appreciate it
….I can do that
….Remind me……”

Time may be little but nevertheless full of importance

We don’t notice it any more …

I WANT TO NOTICE

I want it to matter…those small amounts of time… Time spent with another in your head….in your heart.

Time is important…used well by the wise. ….sometimes for all.

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DOGS IN SUITS – Dumb Poetry

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Once upon a time in Victoria an old man decided he had no need for his clothes.  He started a nudist colony in his home so he put his old clothes in a pile on his front verandah and left them out for others to take.

That night, a few of the neighbourhood dogs came sniffing around the house, drawn to the stench of the old clothes.

One of the leading hounds, who felt the cold, decided it would be better if he wore the clothes rather than steal them, so he carefully worked out a way to put on the old suit and asked the other dogs to help dress him. Finally, just before daybreak, he was dressed in a shirt, tie and suit.

Everyday the dogs marvelled at the sight of their leader dressed like a human.  Soon, word got around the humans of the neighbourhood that one of the dogs wore clothes.  The dogs decided to move to the local dump, where they could hide, but people gathered around, first by foot, then as the dog’s fame grew, they drove by and children stared and pointed at the clothes dog.

Meanwhile, the old man tired of being a nudist. He was cold and alone.  Nobody joined his colony so he went looking for his clothes. He looked high and low but was perplexed.  Where were they?

One day, while walking around the neighbourhood, he encountered the local Brothel Madam, who noticed he was completely naked, so invited him up for free sex.  It was on the house because she was so impressed by his audacity.  They had sex, but because she had such a shit box, he ran away.

Because of that, he was more determined to find his clothes.  He continued walking and noticed the crowds outside the dump and saw his clothes on a dog.

The man yelled “that’s mine, you varmit” and the troupe of dogs snarled and bared their fangs at him, eyeing off his naked skin.

He had to think quickly and yelled “hey dogs, how would you like to make some money?” The dogs wagged their tails.  He found an old chair, some gumboots and a hat.  He persuaded the dogs to come back to his house.

And because of that, he set the leading dog on the chair fully clothed and charged the crowd admission to come to his yard see the amazing clothed dog.

Soon he made enough money to buy himself some clothes and employed the Brothel Madame as his assistant.  He fed all of the dogs very well and they lived a great life, until one day, the old man died of pneumonia and syphillis, no doubt caught when he was nude and after his encounter with the Madame and her shit box.

The dogs mourned the old man and removed all the clothes from the leader.  They ran down the road, ready to start new adventures.

They say if you ever drive around any Victorian country town at night, look out for the ghosts of an old naked man, a brothel Madame and several dogs, one of whom is completely clothed, sitting on a chair and staring at you.

 

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