Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was a young man christened with the unfortunate name of Handsome. He hated his name – of course he did – and his father loved to tease that Handsome was named so because his mother was high on Morphine when her youngest child came into the world. Throughout his schooling years, the other kids teased him mercilessly; but a name is what it is and Handsome was stuck with his. The biggest – or at least most obvious – issue that Handsome faced, was that he was the very definition of ‘unfortunate looking’. He was all awkward limbs and tufty hair; and the smattering of freckles on his cheeks just didn’t seem symmetrical.

Handsome was an introvert. He didn’t much like people, simply because they seemed so alien to him. While his father sat on the couch, reading the newspaper and cursing occasionally, Handsome’s two sisters sat at the kitchen table, absorbed in their homework and conversation about their mutual crush, Andrew, simultaneously.

Every day after school, Handsome took his bag up to his room, flung it into the near corner and forcibly removed his tired shoes. He would sit hugging his knees to his chest, his bony spine resting against the cold metal frame of his bed. Handsome lost count of the hours he had spent staring blankly through the rocking horse his father had brought home from a hard rubbish collection years earlier. His mother always lamented that the dynamics in the family had shifted once the ‘Oops Baby’ followed the twin girls. She said that all the time – particularly when she was shrill and slurring, with chardonnay in hand.

Handsome was supposed to be the man’s man – the brute – but he couldn’t be what he was expected to be. Lord knows how hard he tried. There was the junior football club experience. He really tried to be excited – for his father’s sake – but during the very first quarter of his very first game – smaller and more reticent than the others, he caught a heavy knock and his ear drum burst into pain. Handsome lost his confidence and all desire to play team sports, for fear of getting hurt, for fear of disappointing his seemingly always-disappointed father.

Being alone in his room gave Handsome the opportunity to recharge. His gaze shifted from the rugged rocking horse with the frayed bridle, to the model tractor his father had built with him on his twelfth birthday. That was the last time Handsome had spent deliberate time with his father. It was forced somehow – for both parties. His father just wanted to talk engine size and oil change and diesel. This was a foreign language to Handsome, however, and the allotted time together became punctuated by his father’s stilted sighs, until Handsome’s discomfort was palpable. At this point, his father would mutter something about tidying up his office and he would leave the garage without a word.

Handsome felt as if no one really knew him; he was exhausted by the bullying, the insincerity, his isolation. It was an ordinary Wednesday when he made the decision. He took a coil of rope from the garage, stuffed it in his school bag and smuggled it up to his room. Like every other afternoon, he slumped against the cold metal of his bed frame, staring through the rocking horse against the opposite wall. This Wednesday, however, Handsome wound the rope around his left hand. Two, three, four times around and then he pulled it tight. He felt the constriction, noticed the purpling of his fingers, felt the blood pulsing and pushing back against the ligature. It wouldn’t be any different to tie it around his throat, he thought. The abrasion might be a little tighter, the damage a little more severe – but he was doing them all a favour. Handsome was convinced that his presence was redundant.

‘You’re an introvert’, his mother would say.

Handsome interpreted this to mean, ‘You are invisible’.

He fondled the rope, held it up to his throat and sighed deeply. It was time.

Unexpectedly, the twins were suddenly at the door. They pushed it open without knocking, as they were prone to do.

‘Mum says she’s sick of calling you for dinner. Hurry up, would you?’

 

You can read more of my writing via my blog, ‘Complikated’. The web address is: www.kateginnivan.com.

 

 

 

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

There was a witch in the wardrobe and when we tried to see her, there was a sign saying ‘Hello bitches’.  After that we walked into the street, a cobblestone track about 4 feet wide.  There were 3 old men sitting on the sidewalk at a cast iron and glass table smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee.  They were talking about the races, who was going to win, when they were going tomorrow, what the bookies odds were, chess board on the table.  Were they ever likely to go places? Definitely no, but it didn’t matter anyway.

If I stepped into this picture, I saw myself walking by the men wearing a pair of red slide shoes, and a dress.  Light cotton with flowers on it.  Pretty, which is unusual for me because I’m not a pretty dress wearer.  I would have a handbag across one shoulder.  In my handbag would be a notebook, a pair of sunglasses, a wallet and a phone.  And I would walk for hours.  And I would want to know what all the people were doing behind all those doors.  What did they so for a living?  How old were they?  Did they still have sex?  Did they drive cars or did they walk everywhere?  Are they religious.  Do they go to church on Sundays?

If I dropped out tomorrow and got off the proverbial train in this town, and got an apartment in this street, and sat at the glass table with those old men and talked about the races, would anyone actually give a shit?  What would I do all day?  Would there be an opportunity to sign, to fall in love?  Would anyone understand me anyway?  I only speak English.  How awfully limiting.

Imagine being able to communicate in another language.  There would be entire philosophies that are unknown to me, that would unfold, purely because there is no concept for this in English.  One of my dreams is to be able to read Balzac in french, but that’s a ridiculous concept.  You only have what you have.

Anyway, in the street where I would move to, would I cook every day or would I go to the lady at the end of the street.  She makes such delicious treats, baklava and the like, so I would have to watch it or my arse would end up being the side of a house.  But I wouldn’t have to cook right??

What is the attraction then to being an anonymous person, in a place unknown to anyone you profess to love?  What is the lure of no one knowing you, understanding where you are coming from, knowing your history, your family, your friends?  I feel that this is almost a getting away from oneself.  Mostly stories of this type are of a finding oneself, of understanding yourself through the anonymity of others.  But is it possible to understand oneself without looking through the eyes of those that have known you forever?

Really it presents a particularly myopic perspective if you ask me my opinion.  Yes, it’s wonderful to be able to navel gaze and delve into the recesses of one’s psyche to understand what makes us tick.  But to only view yourself through a single lens is in itself limiting, and probably polarising and stretching to say that one has ‘found themselves’!  I think this is the definition of self-absorption (not selfishness per se, which is a different thing all together).  It just reeks of insularity and wishy washy introspection.

Anyway, this is the rant of my day.  I still want to go to that street, and play chess with the gentlemen and eat the lady’s food – but not because I want to ‘discover’ myself.  It’s because I am curious and I want to know what that guy eats for breakfast, what his politics are and why.  What does he think of dogs?  Is he a vegetarian, does he have a vegetable garden?  It’s the people that I am interested in.

Which brings me to the next point.  I can meet people anywhere.  Why on earth do I need to be on that street?  I could be in Bacchus March and undertake the same exercise.  Can I fuck!?!  What an awful fucking thought.  Thus, the place is also important – let that be a lesson to you, young grasshopper.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was a girl named Alice.  She lived in her own world so she was known as Alice in Wonderland. Alice never wanted to grow up so when she did she was so sad and when she started menstruating she cried for days and days. She didn’t stop crying until the blood stopped. Alice cried every month. When all dressed up for her school graduation the curse arrived and blood leaked through onto her dress. She was so distraught that she cried and cried for days. Alice believes it is so unfair that only women bleed.  Alice is 50 now and is going through menopause. She no longer bleeds. Every day she is scared that it will come back!. Alice is now in her 60’s and she rejoices that she no longer gets her period. Alice crys now because her boobs are sagging and her skin has lost it’s elasticity. Because of this sadness she takes medication to try and make her happy. The meds work but it is sad that she has to take them, she should be happy now she no longer bleeds. Alice is now 80 she is incontinent and has to wear pads. Because of this she cries most days. Alice turns 90 and no longer cries. She is in her own little world. Alice has gone back to her wonderland. Finally Alice dies aged ninety nine. This story is sad but true. It is not about a girl called Sue. It is about Alice. Alice Alice who the fuck is Alice anyway. For thirty four years I’ve been living next door to Alice. But now Alice has gone and I am still here!

The end!

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Fatimah

She sat on the corner, adjusting the baby on her back in the batik wrap. It was going to be a hot day, the steam of the monsoon season rising above the dilapidated row of shop fronts already. Her knife is poised, waiting for the first of her morning customers to buy her freshly sliced bread. The baby whimpers, wanting her attention as the first customer arrives. Her focus is on Mrs. Ban and making sure her bread is cut just the way she likes it.
Catherine

The children wait patiently across the road for the bus. “I’ll be late for my tennis lesson at this rate” the perfectly manicured mother is thinking impatiently. “Next time our Help should do this so I can make a quick exit in the morning.” Her daughter, Verity, and son Max are getting hot and irritated. It’s too long between leaving the air conditioned apartment, waiting for the air conditioned bus to take them to their air conditioned school. Conditioned. The children are conditioned to sit still, waiting soundlessly so as not to annoy their mother. These precious moments with her a gift until they are ushered to the next location. Catherine is distracted, picking absently at a chip in her nail. “I’ll have to make a quick appointment with Bu Tuti this afternoon to fix it up. We have a function at the Club tonight. One must look her best at the Club.” Verity has been holding her other hand as they wait, which begins to lose grip as their sweat melts them apart. She clings desperately to her mother’s hand as Catherine, disgusted by bodily contact and any sign of weakness, swats her away. The bus eventually arrives, the driver flustered and frustrated at the withering look from Catherine for this misdemeanor. Catherine waves absently at the bus as it departs, excited to be finally free for tennis and the day which awaits her.

 

David

He has set up the classroom today just the way he likes it. Readers are in perfect formation, maths exercises poised at the ready and the cultural assignment in its place. A new student is starting today, a girl from Sydney. She is a serial expat who is about to start at her third school in as many years. These children seem wise beyond their years, chameleons who change to fit their surroundings, a dull wariness in their eyes as they stand to introduce themselves to their new audience. He wonders about their family. Dad – is he a diplomat? Pilot? Executive? The expat mothers all eventually become a carbon copy of each other as they find nails done by Bu Tuti and tennis lessons at the Club are how they must spend their days. Bitterly he thinks of his own wife, unable to afford such luxuries as they know their place in this expat society. Although they are expats here themselves, they understand their role in the expat hierarchy. Luxuries of the upper echelons such as membership at the Club including tennis lessons with the Davis Cup pro are not afforded to mere teachers at the school.

 

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was a small boy, named Norman. Norman had a party trick, which was to climb inside a boot as tall as he was. No one was really sure why, or even how it got started. For sure, no one knew where Norman, a small boy of indeterminate age, had even gotten a boot that large.

But those that did not know Norman would meet this charming young man, with boots of his own, and succumb to his big eyes and curly blonde hair. Entranced by his charms, he would shyly say to those he had met – “Want to see a trick?”

Sincerity, and the sweet face would follow, until his audience would shout, “Yes!”
At that point, they would already give him anything. Everyday he plied this at new parties. The thing was. No one really knew how he got in. Or travelled.

Impishly, he would appear at a gathering. Beguiling in his cherubic nature.

“Want to see a trick?”

Enthralled.

“Yes!”

It would be followed. “Bet you I can climb inside my own boot!”, he would say.
The audacity of it! Because of that, they would follow along. The mouth of the grifter, at odds with the eyes of a child and the sweet tones of the voice, would gently lead them to a conclusion.

“Bet you can’t!”

Friendly! A laugh! It’s suddenly their idea! So what’s a few coins to them? He’s a child! And so adorable.

And because of that, they were hooked. Quite where the giant boot came from, no one ever knew. Like a picture suddenly coming in to focus, it had always been there once it was. Rosy cheeked Norman would turn, shyly. Sheepish almost, but like a magician letting you in on a trick.

Seeing how it’s done, the audience didn’t even mind the money they had laid down. They got to see how it was done! Until finally, he would climb the giant laces, and tilt head forward into the boot.

Later, once the spell was over, the curtains drawn, and the evening returned – no one could really say they saw Norman leave. Certainly they remembered … something. Cherubic smile and … a giant boot?

The next day, when going to pay for breakfast or a coffee, they would find that all of their money had gone, but that they couldn’t for the life of them recall where or how. Just a blonde curl peaking out from a floppy hat.

And a giant boot.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

fig. 1

Foetal position, cocooned in a blanket,

Too tired to sleep.

fig. 2

Mug cradled in hands, head bowed,

Too tired to eat.

fig. 3

Bag in a white knuckled grip, eyes closed against the sunlight,

Too tired to work.

33 bones stacked high, reinforced with titanium bolts,

The wall of the bus shelter the only thing holding me up.

The guilt of obligation forces me to move,

One foot in front of the other.

I cannot outrun my exhaustion.

 

***

Fear is being set adrift,

Anchor lost to rust covered memory.

There are no strings on me, just

A No Standing Zone ignored by crowds.

The only sound is the buzzing;

Phantom noise in my ears.

 

Girl with a yoyo heart;

It jumps, lodges itself in my throat.

It won’t choke me though.

Gravity’s not so kind –

Soon it’s plummeting again.

***

Shed the chrysalis girl. Open those blinds.

Stretch and roll, one thing at a time.

 

If I can’t be a back straight, look ‘em in the eye girl

I can write her instead.

Confidence is just a character after all.

 

Shoulders back,

Stand up tall.

 

Breathe deep,

Wake up,

 

Stand tall.

Madeleine Glenister

You can find Madeleine ranting about politics and shaking my fist at the sky on Twitter @maddielouclare

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Inside the cosy, little house it was almost bedtime. Sam sat on the sofa, snuggled next to his mum and his little sister, Elsie. In the warm glow of the lamp they were finishing their bedtime story.

Outside the rain was pouring down.

“Right. Time for bed,” said mum, closing up the book.

She turned to look at her children and saw that Elsie had toothpaste generously smeared all over her chin and cheeks.

“Oh! Look at the state of your chops!” mum said.

She turned to Sam. “Please can you go down to the bathroom cupboard and get a washer to wipe your sister’s face?”

Sam nodded, wriggled off the sofa and padded across the living room floor.

He had only walked five steps when suddenly an enormous lightning-flash filled the room and a booming rumble of thunder rattled the windows, reverberating right through Sam’s bones.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, his eyeballs wide with shock, as his brain tried to process what was happening. And then he ran back to the sofa, diving into his mum’s arms, yelping in fear.

“Don’t worry,” said Mum, “It’s only a storm – we’re all safe in here.”

Sam nuzzled closer into Mum’s armpit, whimpering, and she wrapped her arm around him and squeezed him in tightly.

“Come on Sam, you’re all OK,” said mum after a minute, “Now be brave and go and get that washer.”

Sam looked pained and scared. “But Mum! I can’t go into the bathroom when there’s a storm like this. Sometimes I think there’s a witch hiding in the bathroom cupboard.”

Mum pulled him in close, and stroked his hair, smiling kindly. “Of course there’s not a witch in the cupboard….you’ll be fine….now come on….we need to stop your sister from looking like she’s been dipped in a tub of yoghurt.”

Sam giggled and, summoning all of his courage, he slid off the sofa and slowly started walking towards the corridor that led to the bathroom.

As he padded down the corridor a distant rumble of thunder echoed through the house and the lights flickered. Sam jumped…pausing in his tracks for a moment. And then slowly, tentatively he kept moving forwards.

In front of him he could now see the bathroom doorway and beyond it the dimly lit bathroom cupboard. He gulped.

Ever since the day that his Dad had casually told him that there was a portal to another world hidden at the back of the bathroom cupboard, Sam had worried about what might come out of it.

He had often imagined that there might be wolves in there, or witches, or creatures with pincers and long, feathery legs. But all he’d ever seen in the cupboard was a pile of washers, countless bottles of mysterious lady-potions and some aged and slightly mouldy dental floss.

Sam walked on, slowly, tentatively – his eyes transfixed on the cupboard door handle – focused on his target – all he needed to do was get that washer.

He could hear his own heart beating and the sound of the rain pounding on the tin roof. One slow step at a time he moved closer to his target. “There is no witch,” he told himself, “There is no witch.”

He was close to the cupboard door now and he reached out his right hand – two more steps and he would be touching the handle and opening the cupboard.

A sudden lightning flash illuminated the bathroom and in that bright burst of light Sam thought he saw the cupboard door wobble ever so slightly.

He hesitated. His eyes widened – riveted on the cupboard. Perhaps he had just imagined it. His heart was beating fast now. “There is no witch. There is no witch.”

His fingers reached out and touched the door handle.

At that very moment he felt the door wobble and he gaped in horror-filled disbelief as a gnarled, bony, green hand crept out from around the edge of the cupboard door.

As Sam stood there, frozen in terror, he saw those wretched, warty fingers feeling their way around the cupboard door, searching for something. Or someone.

With a massive crack of thunder, the lights went out and everything went dark.

The last thing Sam heard was his own high pitched screams and the cackling screech of witch-laughter, echoing into the darkness of the night.

THE END.

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