Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

The next day in between twisted ruin – scorched twigs and blackened trunks – a tiny green shoot began to sprout and the world began anew.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Beautiful writing on a subject of little or no importance.

 The hum of the train, still out of sight, lit up the station. Those huddling under the awning started to spread out across the long platform. Three minutes. The men with their briefcases and their three piece suits, armor that allows them to treat the rest of the world like dirt and walk straight as if nothing is in their path, forcing the rest of us, even the stationary people to the side.

The old Greek women sit on the bench together, three of them, this time every day. The train will stop and go and they’ll still be sitting there. There are no other routes on that line. The teens with their folders that seemingly look haphazardly decorated but I’m not so much older that I can’t remember the painstaking hours of work that went into making it look like that folder had been dragged through the bush backward stand in small groups, sometimes holding hands. Two young boys in Barker uniforms standing over the yellow line stare and snigger at a young girl in a Tempe High uniform. They make fun of her hair and start to act like monkeys. I’m tempted to bump into those boys, standing over the yellow line as the train pulls in.

The guys who look like they spend their weekends playing Dungeons and Dragons, with their long ponytails discussing which protein powder they used in their shake this morning and how they can bench press twice their weight in some odd dick measuring contest. Two minutes. The couple, who at first I thought were mother and son but if their morning tounging is anything to go by they aren’t stand in the middle of the walkway pashing. The old Greek ladies start to huff and I can only imagine what they’re whispering. The father with his baby in one of those weird looking baby carriers, one with a sun shade over the top stands near the old women talking on his phone, briefcase in hand while the baby eats his tie, possibly without his knowledge. The train pulls in and nobody gets off, not that they had a chance the crowds along the platform are huddled where the doors of the train land. I hustle onto the second last carriage, never the last, I’m convinced if there’s an accident the first and last carriages are the most dangerous although I have no idea why I think that, it’s just a superstition. The children sitting jump up to hurry to the middle of the train carriage to avoid being whacked by ‘accident’ with a bag attached to an angry adult who wants a seat, their seat. I sit in the first seat, the one that’s facing another seat, in theory it can seat six but really it’s three;

person, space, person,

space, person, space.

I pull out my book, it’ll stay in my lap while I flick back and forth between twitter and facebook, but it’s way too early only the mums will be on facebook with another photo of their kids eating breakfast in front of ABC for kids, in television merchandise pajamas. Bob the builder (is that guy still fixing shit?), Hoot, Peppa Pig (founder of the next wave of feminism), Ben Ten and the list of money makers goes on. There are only so many photos of a person I went to school with’s kid eating wheatbix I want to see and that would be none. I don’t want kids, I like them when they’ve come from other peoples bodies and they’ve been roused, dressed, fed by other people, people who will take them away after an hour or two to deal with tantrums and lolly induced rage. Children like the tie eater in the baby carrier whose dad is now busy typing on the phone tie dripping still unaware, children like the Barker boys’ gory pancakes in my head, the ones who spend hours painstakingly trashing their folders and not doing their maths homework, which they now do standing in the middle of the carriage in a circle calling out answers. The Tempe High girl with the enviable skill to ignore idiots. I don’t know these people but it seems like a ritual we do together every day on loop and with this realization the train pulls into St James and I merge with the crowd of suits up, up, up to daylight.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time, there was village called Lonely Town, situated in the middle of the Willow Woods, and surrounded by six other villages, located outside the woods.

The inhabitants of Lonely Town were largely women and girls, with some babies included, as with all the outlying villages. The menfolk had gone to war, and the younger men had gone in search of work in the large industrial city of the north, Bladecosh-Walkonen.

The womenfolk of Lonely Town were content enough with their cooking, cleaning, child-rearing and tending of domestic animals, including sheep, goats and chickens. Some women collected twigs and branches from the surrounding woods, and were even known to fell a tree, when it became necessary.

One day, Bethel Hand, a senior girl, attended the weekly community gathering, where news could be shared and disputes resolved. Bethel, on advice from her mother, sought leave to propose an Art Competition to be held, and include contestants from the six surrounding villages.

Lonely Town’s committee agreed, and the next few days were set aside to plan and prepare for the event. Bethel, and her friend Kandi, agreed to produce posters, advertising the event to be held in a fortnight at Lonely Town. Bethel designed the first poster and coloured it magnificently. Kandi was happy with the result, and diligently copied the design for her three posters. When the two girls had finished making the posters, they drew up an itinerary, and set off the next day.

Unbeknown to the girls, a nasty troll had gotten wind of their plan, and following behind, intended to wreck the Art Competition. As Bethel and Candi arrived early at the first village, Huffney-Moor, the troll kept out of sight, while the girls pinned the first poster to the Village Noticeboard. As soon as they were out of sight, on their way to the next village, Rumble Town, the troll rushed to the poster they had left, and gobbled it down, before anyone in Huffney-Moor could read its inviting message.

The troll did the same thing in Rumble Town, indeed the same thing happened in each of the other villages, Fleamoth Village, Hassard-Lees, Liggins Town and Belltune-Hardly. And, it was because of that unseemly act, that none of the six surrounding villages got to hear about the Art Competition in Lonely Town.

Back in their own village, and unaware of the troll’s deception, the villagers continued their preparations for the Art Competition Day, some of them painting more than one canvas to enter. Bethel had produced an abstract painting that had Kandi bemused. She was more of a traditionalist, and had done a portrait of her mother.

Unbeknown to everyone, the troll had taken up residence in the local church, which had been abandoned for many years. He had a mattress on the floor for sleeping at night, and used a chair to look out through frosted windows during daylight. Aware that preparations were continuing in Lonely Town, only served to enrage the troll, who hated anything to do with Art.

Late one afternoon, a stranger rode into town, and greeted the womenfolk of Lonely Town, declaring that he was the new vicar, and that he would be taking up residence in the old church. Bethel and her mother insisted that he stay for dinner, which he was happy to accept, imagining little in the way of food to be in the old church.

The three ate a hearty meal and drank the last of the summer wine, before the new vicar led his old horse onto the grass outside the church, and entered his new abode through the back door. On closing the door behind him, he became aware of a loud snoring coming from the Nave of the church. As moved closer to the source of snoring, he recoiled at the sight of a filthy-looking troll. However, he did not panic, since, in an earlier part of his life, he had been a celebrated troll-hunter.

He returned to the altar, securing a solid brass statue of the divinity as a weapon, and tiptoed back to his adversary. The troll continued snoring, as the Christ figure was held on high, above the troll’s head. As the statue came forcefully down towards the target, the troll snorted awake, just as his head was cracked open. The troll was dead, and the mattress he had been sleeping on soaked up his blood.

The vicar wasted no time in cleaning the troll’s carcass away, placing the body into large box, until morning, when he intended to burn it. The mattress though would remain a reminder of his deed.

When it had dried, he decided to enter the mattress in the Art Competition, calling the work “Turin Shroud 2”. The women of the village looked askance. It was lost in translation.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Dear little one inside my tummy,

We are exactly half way there now – five months down, five to go. There are so many people who are excited to meet you. No one more so than me and your Daddy. I often wonder what you will be like. Will you have your Daddy’s courage? Or my eyes, which are the colour of leaves? Either way, one thing’s for sure, there will be no one else quite like you.

But before you make your grand, screaming entrance into this world, I feel the need to tell you something; I feel the need to explain to you how confusing life can be.

You see, little one, from the moment you enter this world there will be expectations of you. In less than a year from now, people will be asking me if you have started to crawl. I want you to know, it’s ok if you haven’t. Because, little one, people’s expectations will only limit your happiness.

So take the time to learn how to crawl, learn how to walk and learn how to talk. I have never met an adult who hasn’t mastered these basic skills, so rest assured, you’ll figure it out in your own good time.

But let this serve as a lesson for the rest of your life, too. As the years pass by and people’s expectations of you increase – remember what I have told you today.

You see, little one, I do not care if you do not fit the mould. I do not care if you do not go to university and seek out a career in the big bad corporate world. I only care that you discover your passion, you live life for your next adventure, and you like the person you see when you catch your own reflection in a shop window. This sounds so simple, yet, little one, in a world full of expectations, where so many people will tell you how you should be living your life, it’s so easy to forget the most simple things.

If you only remember one thing that I tell you today – make it this: money will never buy you happiness; happiness comes from deep within, from living life the way you want, and career success does not reflect life’s success.

In fact, it is the priceless things in life, like family, good health and good times, which you will come to value the most. So, little one, I want you to make me a promise. I want you to promise me you will live life for just one person – for only you. Because life is a gift and a gift comes with no expectations. Use it wisely, little one.

As for me and your Daddy, we promise to teach you the most important of things. We’ll teach you how to love, how to forgive, how to be brave and how to pursue true happiness.  And we’ll teach you how to appreciate; Appreciate what you have, appreciate those you love, and to not ask for more than you need.

But for now, little one, rest up and continue to grow. We already love you all the way to the moon and back. The thought of you makes our hearts beat faster, our smile stretch further, and our future seem more exciting. Five months and counting, little one. We can’t wait to meet you.

Love always,

Your Mummy

Xxx

Nicole Thomson-Pride is a freelance writer and mum-to-be who blogs at Splash of Pink.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Our car was hurtling down the highway. A monotonous memory of strung-together telegraph poles clues me in that sitting down, I probably still wasn’t much taller than the car window’s edge. A hint of peppermint lingers in the air, jolting a memory of my Mother’s tendency to pass them backward to combat my childhood tendency for car-based sickness. It’s something that, as an adult, has never reoccurred.

I am sitting on the passenger side because my sister is younger, and my father’s fully reclined car seat doesn’t yet jam into her legs, inviting slaps for kicking it if she changes position or fidgets as I am want to do. We’re buried in a nest of pillows, doonas and toys, all measures to make the long, boring car-trip back from our annual Port Macquarie family vacation less of an endurance test.

Looking forward, I can see my Mother’s white knuckles clenched around her seatbelt. She doesn’t say anything, but I can see from the tension in her neck that she’s afraid. My father’s stares straight ahead, fixated upon the competition. To him the highway is a race, and every car in front needs to be overtaken.

Suddenly, it strikes me: I can’t find Leo. Not being reticent about coming forward, a shriek leaves my lips, and I declare in horror that my favourite companion is missing, presumed dead. My hands desperately grapple through the myriad of fabrics for his familiar, well-worn fur. Half-turned from the front seat in our still-speeding car, my Mother tries her best to help locate him.

While we’re both engaged in a somewhat frantic search, my sister smiles and quietly declares: “I threw Leo out the window.” My sobs escalate to a wail, and I demand we turn around immediately. The car’s now filled with raised voices as we argue back and forth, my Father angrily snaps: “There’s no way in hell I’m turning around on the highway for a bloody stuffed toy!” Eventually, he was at least convinced to pull over to the shoulder, and with the benefit of stillness, Leo was finally found, wedged under the front seat. Clutching him to my chest, my sobs finally started to ease.

Just as we get underway, my Mother looks around with a curiously bright smile: “Sheona made her first joke!” Somehow this sucks away all my happiness at having my much-loved toy back safely in my arms. I can’t understand why my sister isn’t in trouble for lying, as I would have been, if I’d done the same thing? When I angrily voice this, my Mother looks at me as if I am the most ungrateful child in the world, and my Father smirks as if I’m too stupid to understand something everybody else knows. Silent hot tears flow down my hurt and angry face. You see, this is how I remember my childhood and my relationship with my disabled sister – in fragments that feel very black and white. While the others in my family are laughing, I’m there crying into Leo’s well-loved ears.

I’ve had him since the day I was born, and if you delved deep enough into the collection of oddments on top of my current wardrobe, you’d find him there still. Strange I suppose, as I’m nearing forty; but he’s my sole yet perpetually mute believer, and even from his hidden perch he quietly encourages me to write the bloody book.

Twitter Handle:  @missdissenteats

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was a good fairy. Her name was Fairy Compromise. She could give babies a special gift when they were born. She gave them the gift of perpetually compromising. Baby Lucky was one who received her gift at his birth.

This turned out to be a bit of a curse, really. The recipient could never demand, want, long for …… They always  had to settle on a compromise.

So, when Lucky set out to find a mate, he had to … Compromise. Not the one he adored, not the one he hated, just the one he could tolerate,

And so it went for the rest of his life. He was the sort-of proud father of several children and he kept the family more or less comfortable, neither rich nor poor.

The family compromised at his funeral and buried half of him and cremated the other half.

One day his children got together to celebrate his life.

“What can we say,” they said.” Not much really. He never did anything of interest at all”.

So they went down to the pub and drank a shandy toast to their dad.

Because of that .. I guess the beer was stronger than the lemonade … the kids decided to seek out Fairy Compromise to see if they could change things. Or maybe not. Did they really want to?

A life of mediocrity was better than no life at all.

And because of that, they were after all his children, they compromised.  They gave up. Congratulated each other on no decision at all and went their separate ways.

Until finally, they all died. Had the half burial, half cremation funerals and their memorial plaques all read:

We lived … sort of.

No we didn’t … yes we did….

The end.

@tussnelda

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

On, off. On, off. On, off. My mother hangs at the doorway to my bedroom, flicking the light switch as I, four years old, shrink underneath the mismatched covers of my single bed. On, off. On, off. On, off. Eyes black, shaking with anger now. She seems so tall. ‘You couldn’t just say one thing for me, could you? I’m so fucked now, because of you.’ On, off. On, off. On, off. My eyes are stinging and I shudder from crying hard all night. ‘Get out of bed, you little traitor!’ I’m so far beyond tired, it’s 12.30am. On, off. On, off. On, off. ‘Do you know what this means? We’re going to have to disappear.’

WHACK WHACK WHACK on the door. It’s him. Mum and I both freeze in the hallway, looking at oneanother. He is shouting and furious. I hear him kick the door really hard and it buckles a bit. Like an animal, I run for mum’s closet, open the glass sliding door, and slam it behind me. In the darkness I wait and listen. I can hear my father shouting ‘OPEN THE DOOR.’ I picture his red face and red ears on the other side of the thin door, veins on his reddened neck as he yells and slams his body and kicks and swears. Suddenly it stops. We hear the sound of his old, worn runners on the stairs, echoing in the stairwell. Several moments pass and we hear the wheels of his car screech away from the kerb and down the street. He’s gone, but he’ll be back any minute.

Suddenly the glass door of my sanctuary opens. ‘Get out, get out quickly. Put your shoes on. NOW.’ She scoops me up and carries me down the echoing stairs in high heels. In the street jumps into the car and shovels me onto the front seat beside her. There is no time to buckle up. She starts the engine and I spot his car at the end of the road, coming very fast in our direction. ‘LOOK Mumma.’ She sees him too. It’s too late to hope that he hasn’t seen us. She floors the accelerator up the hill. In seconds, he pulls out in front of us, but Mum swerves, very narrowly missing a head-on collision. I tumble to the floor of the car. We climb the hill as fast as we can out of Clovelly and he follows us. We continue to duck and weave through suburban streets. I can see his car in the rear view mirror and I dare to look back at his face, which is glowing red and sweaty and terrifying. I can see the whites of his eyes like he has turned savage. He is literally chasing us out of town.

After he has run out of petrol, we keep driving for several hours just to make sure he is gone. We pull into a motel and get into the double bed together and lie there, hearts hammering in the morning light. I didn’t know it then but I would never go back to my house and I wouldn’t see my family again for fourteen years.