Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time, there was a couch, a skeleton and a naked woman. The skeleton and naked woman was posed at either end of the couch. The naked woman was surmising whether the skeleton would have so bony if he had eaten more cupcakes whilst alive.

Cupcakes taste good, but are not so nutritious. They can be naked or decorated. They can be iced.

Everyday could be a day for cupcakes. Making the cupcake mix is therapeutic for some. Creativity with the icing and decoration can be therapeutic for others. These days, cupcake decorating is a whole new artistic thing. Not sure why daggy old cupcakes made a comeback as a fashion thing. Was it Sex in the City?

One day maybe I should try my hand at making fancily decorated cupcakes. The muffins at my local Café are a bit of an inspiration with their decorative toppings shouting “buy me”. I’m more interested in the toppings than the actual muffin, Texas pan size, themselves. They look like half your daily calorie intake in one baked item.

Now let’s get back to the cupcakes. They now manufacture containers especially to carry your cupcakes in to travel. Even tiered cake plates to accommodate cup cakes.

Because of that, couples now have wedding cakes made up of tiers of cupcakes. I’m not sure how elaborate they’ll eventually become.

This activity has now carried over to other things until finally we are now getting ‘imitation’ cakes of cupcake like tiers made up of nappies like at the Baby Shower we had at the gym a couple of days ago.

That’s enough of cupcakes. Why is there a skeleton posed on a couch?

At the last minute, I did notice the naked woman at the other end of the couch gazing at the skeleton. I didn’t notice her face earlier as there was a paper fold across her eyes. Why is she gazing at the skeleton? What are they both doing posed on the couch? What connection do the cupcakes have?

I don’t know or would even venture to guess. This is part of a writing exercise in Catherine Deveny’s Gunnas Writing Master class and here is what I learned.

Just write! Don’t worry about where you are, what chapter it should be, that you are not sitting at a desk. That you don’t think anything will come to you.

This exercise started with a mangled photocopy of a picture of a vintage style couch with a rather tall looking skeleton at one end, a naked female posed not to show anything at the other end. And a separate piece of paper with only the word ‘cupcake’ typed on it. To get us started and help us along, we were given six prompts (in the bold type) at various intervals to incorporate wherever we were up to, starting with Once upon a time.

The Gunnas Writing Master class is not about how to write but how to get you motivated to write.

After spending decades of a professional life easily writing and editing specifications, manuals, business cases, project plans, internet content, presentations and speeches with words and writing coming easily to me to meet workplace deadlines, what did I discover on this class?

Much to my surprise, I wrote quickly and easily during the enforced writing exercises. I didn’t agonise or delay, the words easily tumbled out too quickly for my hand writing to keep up.

Self criticism is your worst enemy. Don’t worry about what anyone else will think, particularly you. Just write.

Initially attending today with non-fiction aims, I might think about some fiction writing and some social commentary too.

Maybe this is the start. Stop. Not maybe.

This is the start of something new for me.

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

When my uncle Mark died there were four of us in the room; the neighbour, Michael who happened to be a nurse, my aunt Jane who is also a nurse, my uncle Damian and me. Damian had always been the master of mix tapes and his selection of songs at Mark’s deathbed proved to be no exception. We had been talking quietly out on the deck when he had leaped up like a man possessed and made his way as quickly as possible to Mark’s bedroom. It was as though, in that moment, he had come to the full realisation that hearing is the last sense to go and he knew exactly what to do. My grandparents were sitting by Mark’s bedside, praying the rosary. Somehow, Damian’s entrance to the room shook them from their vigil and they left the room, suddenly desperate for a sandwich.

We played a number of songs in that twilight time. The Police “Walking on the Moon” and “Message in a Bottle” and songs by Bon Iver and Boy and Bear. Damian’s arthritic fingers were too stiff to navigate the iPad, so I served as his trusty assistant, plugging the songs into the Mog site as he thought of them with an ever increasing sense of urgency. Mark’s breathing was becoming more and more intermittent and it seemed as though every breath he drew could be his last. Damian sat facing him, looking lovingly at his baby brother while Jane and Michael were having an intense conversation about pain medication and weren’t really paying attention to what was going on by Mark’s bedside.

The songs continued. “There’s a song”, Damian said, “It’s by Lou Reed…I’m so free?” I dutifully played “I’m so free”. We could feel we were close but hadn’t quite got there. Then Damian remembered, “The Velvet Underground, I’m Set Free”. I tapped the song into Mog. The music wafted out from the electronic device. The words “I’m set free to find a new illusion” hitting us with all of their power and resonance. At the exact conclusion of the song Mark breathed his final breath, a private moment shared between him and his big brother, and died.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

“I’ve done it! Yippee!” Charley’s shout came from the kitchen, barely two seconds before the sound of glass shattering on the tiled floor. A deep, fruity, noisy belch splurted out through the open kitchen door. It oozled around the corner and into the laundry. A baked-beansy, last-night’s-lentilsy sort of smell drifted in its wake.

“Far out!” Dad’s shocked voice floated back to where Charley stood in the kitchen, surrounded by shards of glass. “What on EARTH was that?”

He appeared around the corner like a human clothes horse, wet washing hanging from his shoulders and each hand.

Charley beamed from the stool by the kitchen sink. “Well,” she said, “I reckon that would have rated at least 8.5 overall.”

“Overall what?” asked her dad, his eyes scanning the floor to see just how far the broken glass had spread.

“Overall on a burp-meister-meter, of course,” she replied. “I reckon that one would have scored a 9.5 for sound, maybe 8.5 for strength and stinkiness. Maybe 9 for speed?” She sighed. “It would probably only have rated a 7.5 for staying power, though. It didn’t last very long.”

Her dad shook his head. “It seemed long enough to me,” he remarked drily, then eyed Charley curiously. “What I can’t figure out though, is how a noise so big comes out of someone so small!” He looked again at his grinning daughter. A bird’s nest of bed hair hanging over twinkling eyes, which shone above her Milo-moustachioed mouth, PJs covered with… Well, better not to think about that.

“So what’s with all the glass?” asked her dad. “What did you break? And anyway, just what is it that you’ve done? Apart from the obvious, that is.”

Charley held up what looked like an empty jam jar, with its lid firmly screwed on and a label written in large, uneven letters. “I’ve worked out how to bottle and store my burps!” she announced proudly.

Dad stared, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You’ve what?” he asked, astonished.

“Worked out a way to store my burps!” she repeated. “You know, keep ‘em. Bottle ‘em. Whatever you want to call it. The one that you heard was pretty powerful. That’s why the jar slipped out of my hand when I took the lid off. Cool, eh?”

Dad walked over to the kitchen table. Draping the wet washing over the back of a chair, he sat down and looked at his excited daughter. “Well, I must say, that’s a first. Pretty clever. Good job. I’ve never heard of anyone ever bottling burps before.” He paused. Then asked suspiciously, “And just why are you bottling your burps?”

“Well, that way, I can add to them, bit by bit. Then, when I really need to let one go, I’ll have a ripper all stored up. All I need to do is take the lid off, and…” Her eyes closed in anticipation of what would happen next. “It’ll be sooo sweet, dad!”

“So stinky, more like it,” he retorted, rolling his eyes.

“No,” Charley assured him. “It’ll be like, totally amazing. AND I’ll be in with a chance to win the Great Big Stinky Burp Competition!”

At that moment, Charley’s two older brothers came in from the back yard.

“Is that even a thing?” scoffed Ed, her oldest brother. “Sounds pretty stoopid, doofus!”

“Sounds pretty cool to me,” said Angus. “But, is it a thing?”

“’Course it’s a thing,” said Charley, hurt.

“How about this as an entry,” said Angus. He belched loudly.

Dad stood up and gathered the washing once more. “I’ll be somewhere far, far away if you need me,” he said. “Better get that glass cleaned up quickly, Charley, before someone gets hurt. Or before Mum gets home.”

Charley got the dustpan and brush from under the sink. She began sweeping up the broken glass. Angus held out the rubbish bin for her.

“How in the world do you win a burping competition?” he asked.

“Who cares,” muttered Ed, as he multitasked texting his friends while insulting his sister.

“Oh, just leave her alone,” said Angus. “So, how do you win? Is it based on the loudest burp?”

Charley took a deep breath. “No, there are five different categories, then you get an overall mark on a burp-meister-meter.”

“That makes sense,” said her brother. “What are the categories then?”

“Strength. That’s a bit like wind strength. It’s measured by a burpometer. A bit like one of those thingys that people use to measure wind. You know – an anemoneometer?”

“I think you mean an anemometer,” laughed Angus. “What are the other things?”

Charley held up her fingers. “Speed – that’s measured by a speedometer – obviously.”

“”Obviously,”agreed her brother, thinking that it wasn’t at all obvious, but letting it pass. “And…?

“Stinkiness – that’s measured by a sniffinator. Sound – measured by a decibel meter. And then staying power. How long the burp lasts. They just use a stop watch to measure that.”

“Cool,” said Angus. “So, why all the broken glass?”

Charley explained what had happened with the previous bottled burp. The one that got away. “But,” she said, “if I can bottle my burps, they’ll get stronger and stronger. Like when Grandma leaves her tea bag in for too long. And that way, I’m bound to win the Great Big Stinky Burp Competition.”

“Yeah, sure,” commented Ed. “Probably more like the Doofus Prize for Chemistry. I’m out of here. See you later. Not.”

“Let me know if you need any extra burps to add to your collection,” said Angus. “I’m happy to help.” Squeezing his eyes tight shut, he managed to produce a very small burp.

“You’ll have to do better than that!” laughed his sister. “But thanks for the offer.”

 

High Fliers – Jennie Irving

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Ethel. She had no fear of heights, she loved the idea of flying and it was her dream to become a fighter pilot. Sadly, she lived in the 1940s, when that wasn’t an option for her. Women were kept busy building the planes that only men were allowed to fly. There were no Amelia Earharts in World War II.

Instead, she indulged her passion for heights and flying by taking to diving. She became rather good at it, and was awarded all sorts of trophies in different diving competition. Meanwhile, her brother went and joined the US Air Force, becoming a fighter pilot.

She complained to him about the unjustness of this. All he said in response was, “You’ll need to compromise.”

Every day, as she worked in the aircraft factory, she thought about that compromise, and what an empty thing it was. Compromise involves a choice, she thought bitterly, and she had none. Nothing she could do would ever enable her to join the airforce as a pilot, let alone a fighter pilot. So while her brother continued his riveting job in the air, she continued hers on the ground.

By night, she flew from the high diving platforms, sloughing off her dark thoughts as she plunged into the cool, clear water again and again. Of course, she recognised that she was one of the lucky ones. A major advantage of this type of flying was that there was no possibility of being killed by enemy fire.

One day, in early August 1945, she was invited to perform at an aquatic benefit to raise funds for disabled airmen. All participants in the acrobatic diving display were awarded points. Needless to say, Ethel earned the most points, winning easily. She was crowned Queen of the High Fliers by a group of admiring airmen. Her coronet was surmounted by that ultimate symbol of power over everything – the mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion.

Ethel looked at the camera with a smile that was almost a grimace. She would much rather have received a year’s pass to the pool. She reminded herself, “You’ll need to compromise. You don’t need to wear this forever.”

And because of that, she kew that she would be able to sleep more easily that night. She might have helped to build the planes that delivered the weapons of mass destruction, but she didn’t need to live with the horror that was to haunt her brother for the rest of his life. He had piloted the Enola Gay. Such a beautiful name. Their mother’s name. But one that would sadly live in infamy.

At the last minute, Ethel looked at the young airmen around her and realised that, in a way, they had to compromise too. They needed to compromise their desire for peace now with their peace of mind in the future. They were, in a sense, just as powerless as she was. High fliers, all of them. But with clipped wings.

Why Guinea Pigs Don’t Need Trousers – Jennie Irving

Why don’t guinea pigs need trousers?

Well, it’s plain for us to see that they don’t need any pockets for a wallet – or a key.

Do you think they might need trousers? Just to put a hanky in?

All my guinea pigs use tissues. After use, they’re in the bin.

I find trouser pockets are quite good to warm my hands up,

And for storing bits and pieces, like those little packs of ketchup.

But guinea pigs are sensible (though they might get high on grass).

They’ve no need to gather rubbish in a pocket on their…

Moving right along… can you imagine when they’re going to the loo?

It’s easy for a person, ‘cos you know just what to do.

But a guinea pig would fumble with the buttons or the clips.

And black jelly beans would overflow from stuck, unopened zips.

Why don’t guinea pigs need trousers?

Well, they really don’t need clothes.

They’re neatly clad in softest hair from rear end to nose.

They have no need of modesty.

They really couldn’t care if they show their bottoms to the world for anyone to stare.

No MYKIs, car keys, hankies, mints,

And no alarms for houses.

A guinea pig’s life is simple.

And that’s why they don’t need trousers.

 

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time, there was an awkward teenager, who lived in a small and weird country town.  You know the kind, with packs of stray dogs running around and somebody growing pot up the back in the bush.  He liked to collect rocks and he liked to play his Nintendo.  And he like-liked boys.  Now it’s hard enough being an awkward teenager – what with the shame of making love to yourself and not being sure how much is normal, being really bad at doing your hair and your parents falling out of love with you – but it’s even harder when you like-like people who are the same sex as you.  Especially in a small and weird country town.

Most days, when he wasn’t playing Nintendo or looking for good rocks, Simon would walk down the hill from his home, to the general store, where he would hang about in the hope of meeting people from out of town (because small towns are boring when you’re a teenager).  The store had a wide verandah, vestigial petrol pumps and importantly, sold Calippos.  Now and then, out-of-towners would swing into the angle parks at the front of the store, in their city-clean cars, to step out stiffly, stretch and stare about them absent-mindedly.  They were always disappointed by what was for sale at the general store.  Whenever somebody new showed up, Simon would try to act casual, as though he was just passing by too, while secretly hoping that the out-of-towners would recognise something special in him and whisk him away from that place, to become a celebrity.  He hadn’t decided yet for what reasons he would be a celebrity, he only knew that he wanted to be able to get annoyed by being recognised on the street (because he knew it would make him feel super important).

For the most part, Simon’s efforts were fruitless and he would slouch, disappointed back up the hill to his home, to wash his hands that were sticky from Calippo juice (being careful to avoid packs of dogs).  On one occasion, he got talking to a fancy looking couple in a Land Rover.  They said that they were opera singers from the city and they were utterly charmed by the small town, and Simon.  They chatted to him in animated, clear voices and used their hands to emphasise their words.  They also smelled really nice.  But although he thought they’d hit if off, the couple did not offer to whisk Simon away.  They just drove off gaily, and so it was back to avoiding mean little jack russells and getting callouses from his Nintendo controller, for Simon.

One spring day, when the smell of grass seeds was on the air, a new car pulled in at the general store and out sprang a sprightly old woman (she may not have been that old, maybe only 50, but remember that Simon was a teenager and it’s all relative).  The woman was wearing tiny white shorts, a white polo shirt buttoned all the way up, white socks and all-white sneakers.  The effect was blinding.  She had tanned, strong-looking legs, with folds of skin around the knees, and she moved quickly.  Her hair was permed tightly and was the colour of snow stained with pee.  Atop of her head, she wore a sun visor with a green shade, like a poker player or an accountant.  She was carrying a sports bag in one hand and when she saw Simon eyeing-off her bag curiously, she shouted (because she was a bit deaf) “Hello love!  Like the look of my bag do ya?!”

Simon looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring, but it was too late.  He had met Dot.  And because of that meeting, he would go on to play in her mixed doubles ping pong team, The Swifts; a most glorious rag-tag team.

Although Simon was not passionate about ping pong, playing on Dot’s team gave him the chance to do something other than think and play Nintendo, and that was good for him.  He showed up in the cold town hall for practice, week-after-week, clutching a packet of Mint Slices for afterwards.  Before long, with a lot of practice, Simon became quite good.  Because Dot and the other players were actually very good, they made it to the Grand Final.  It was there, in a cold town hall, on a windy and moonless night, that Simon met Danny, the love of his life.  What a stroke of luck for a gay teenager living in a small town!

Danny and Simon might never have met, except that Danny was filling in at the last moment for his brother Adam, who played on the opposing ping pong team.  Adam was having an existential crisis after losing his licence for drink driving, and it caused him to question the need for ping pong in his life.  That’s why Danny was there.  The Swifts won the Grand Final, as it happens, and although Simon ended up being awarded a trophy with a person on top who had breasts, he did not mind (because really, who cares?).

It was love at first sight for Danny and Simon.  Their eyes twinkled and their mouths grinned when they looked at each other, in a way that they couldn’t hide from other people.  They held conversations and played their ping pong games that night, hardly knowing what they were doing.  Their minds were bent towards each other and in a very brave move, just before Simon left with Dot (because he didn’t have his licence yet), Danny slipped a piece of paper into Simon’s hand with his phone number written on it.

Sadly, the phone number became smudged beyond recognition by Simon’s sweaty hand on the way home.  And when he wanted to peer at it in wonderment, while his heart pounded like a cliche in his chest, instead he had to listen to Dot talking about lavender bushes, which he thought were nice but was not passionate about.  Thankfully though, this was the age of Facebook, and so with some clever stalking, Simon was able to find Danny’s profile and add him as a friend.

From that time on love bloomed and blossomed and Danny and Simon found great happiness with each other.  They lived for fleeting moments at the bus exchange in the city where they went to high school, and spent time at each other’s houses, playing Nintendo and making-out.

Danny and Simon loved each other’s company so much that when they left school they both got jobs with the power company in the city, because they liked the idea of working outdoors.  By this time they lived together in a rental apartment that smelled weird, no matter how much sandalwood incense they burned.  They would head off to work each morning together in their rust-sprayed ute, with their lunchboxes sliding around at their feet.  They liked to order an expensive coffee on the way to work, because they had acquired a taste for a certain type of bean.  And on Fridays, they would also order an almond croissant (because they’re delicious).

One day, even though it wasn’t legal yet, Simon decided to propose marriage to Danny.  Unbeknownst to Danny, he bought a beautiful engagement ring with a big fat cubic zirconia on it (because they didn’t have that much money and real love isn’t about diamonds anyway).

On the day that he planned to propose, Simon felt nervous (because he was terrible at keeping secrets and he didn’t want to blurt out the proposal just any old place).  He hid the box with the ring in it in the pocket of his cargo pants and tried to act cool.  Danny could tell that something was up, but he assumed that Simon was feeling anxious after eating nachos the night before (because anxiety is linked to your gut).

That day at work, they were called out to fix a power outage in the suburbs and it was then, as they hung from a power pole in their harnesses and hard hats, that Simon decided to go for it.  In a flagrant contravention of occupational health and safety guidelines, he gripped on to the rope that was attached to his harness at the waist, and walked his feet up the pole until he was hanging upside down above Danny.  Before Danny could say “What the fuck are you doing?  You’re going to get hurt” Simon had ripped open the velcro of his pocket and holding out the box to Danny (upside down) he asked, “Will you?!”.

Danny wasn’t as surprised as you might think by this situation, because people being proposed to usually expect it (at least a little bit) so he got his head around the box and the question quite quickly.  He shouted “Yes Please!” with gusto (and love) and while Simon hung upside down and Danny was hanging the right side up from the power pole, they kissed passionately (just like in that scene in Spiderman).  It was super romantic.

Hurry the fuck up politicians.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time there was an incredibly talented Panda called Shiu Shiu. She was brilliant at most things and especially at soccer. For hours she would practice her latest shots with her favourite human, Tommy. Her specialty was shooting the ball to Tommy then defending Tommy’s shot on goal by lying on her back and flicking the ball aside with her tail.

Every day she would shoot the ball back at Tommy. In time Tommy became quite skilful in his shooting at goal, but he could never get it to go past the line at the front of the posts.

One day Shiu Shiu noticed a piece in the local paper about a trash and treasure stall to be held that afternoon. She alerted Tommy to it by dropping it at his feet. Tommy took it to his father who read it out to him. Tommy thought what a great idea. So he and Shiu Shiu went to the stall. Here Shiu Shiu had her brilliant notion. She hoisted Tommy onto one of the stall tables so Tommy could see better.

Because of that, a passerby saw Tommy and thought what a cute kid; how much was he. The stall owner, seeing an unexpected sale, said $45. And because of that, Tommy was sold and was handed over to the bidder. Meanwhile Tommy’s parents searched everywhere for him; all afternoon; without success until finally they had to go home without him. When they arrived home they were amazed to see Tommy trying to escape a leash around his neck. He tried and tried without success, until at the last minute Shiu Shiu arrived and slipped the leash off.

Tommy’s parents were so thankful to Shiu Shiu that they adopted her as a replacement for Tommy and ever afterward Tommy lived outside in Shiu Shiu’s pen while Shiu Shiu enjoyed the full advantage of living inside with her new parents.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

She ran out onto the road and got hit by car and broke her leg.

That was how it ended one time, after the crisis assessment team came too late and she had run off in the night and gotten run over.

They patched her up and put her in the psych ward.  I’d go to visit and sit opposite her in the chair while she berated me, flung accusations and recriminations.

If I didn’t go, she’d always ask me when she was well why I hadn’t come.  No matter how much she didn’t seem to be herself when she was in hospital she always remembered if I was there or not.  

                                    *                      *                                 *

She was the smartest and most talented girl: prefect, dux, tennis captain.  I looked up to her, my older sister.

When she first heard the voices we were not surprised – we had grown up Catholic, taught by nuns, and they had told us about ‘The Call’. They had been called by God to their vocation and one day we might be too.

How will we know?  We asked.   God will call you, they said.

We had learned to pray but those prayers were in the ether.  We listened carefully but all we heard was the murmur of own thoughts humming  inside our heads.

The idea of hearing the voice of God in return was intriguing.

Behind closed doors my sister confided to the nuns about the voices she was hearing.

The nuns said – No – it was not the voice of God.

I am not sure how they knew.

These voices were not vocational or beautific– they were violent and harassing and scary.

The internal dialogue soon took over my sister’s life.  She dropped tennis, forgot school-work, and prayer.

 

*                                  *                      *

My parents took her to a psychiatrist.  She got a diagnosis –schizophrenia.

The psychiatrist sat me down in his office.

He said you have to help her; you have to look after her.

No, I said, let Mum and Dad do it.

No – They’ll get old and sick and she is going to need somebody to be her friend.  And no matter how hard you think it is for you to do this and no matter what you think you have to give up, it’s nothing compared to what she will go through.

*                                  *                                *

She’s been a good patient, ‘compliant’.  She’s taken her meds and obeyed instructions -sometimes she is well for months, sometimes its years – but the voices still return.

As for me, I long ago gave up on God but still I wish that now it was his voice that she was hearing.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
She looks down at the baby sucking eagerly at her plump, blue-veined boob, his frantic action lengthening out at last into a steady rhythm that he barely keeps time with, like an awkward dancer who knows the moves but struggles to keep up with the music. Suck, swallow, breathe, suck, swallow, breathe, suck, swallow, suck, shit, didn’t breathe, suck, breathe, shit, squirm, kick. Shhh. Shhhhh. Shhhhiiiiiittttt. He’s off. He’s crying. A stream of milk beads land over his face, over the floor, the sheer curtains, the window.
She looks past the milk dripping down the glass and out to the plane lights flashing in the distant sky.
Where is that plane going, she wonders. Somewhere warm maybe? Somewhere far from here. Somewhere far from these four fucking walls that she spends so long staring at in the past two months. Is this life now? Isn’t this supposed to be fucking beautiful and natural? Where is the beautiful and natural? Why is it all screaming and squirting and squirming and shitting? Isn’t this is what these breast things were made for? Isn’t this what her whole body was made for? Making, growing and feeding tiny versions of herself and/or her lover, snoring loudly, blissfully unaware of the duct tape his wife is visualising being applied tightly over his mouth?
Her body was made for this, she tells herself, and it sucks at it. Well, at least someone is sucking here, she tells herself in a feeble attempt at humour or something. Here we go again baby, latch on, latch on, suck, swallow, breathe, latch off. Just keep sucking.

She looks down at the baby sucking eagerly at her flat, withered breast. There’s nothing much there any more, a few drops maybe. Hopefully something. Hopefully enough to keep him going until she can get some more food for herself and stop stressing about what has happened to her husband. They were separated when they ran as the bombs fell and the dust rose, sticking to their clothes and skin and invading their nostrils and eyes. The baby stayed strapped snugly to her chest, beneath her clothes and she ran, piss running down her legs as she hadn’t heeled properly in the weeks after a long labour and difficult birth. She couldn’t run for long, then she walked. And walked. And walked, the baby always sucking, sleeping, crying, sucking, sleeping, crying. He didn’t need his nappy changed often and she had just two cloth nappies with her. One doing it’s job while the other dried out hanging from her waist. The dehydrated babe had constipation. A lifesaver, she’d thought, as she’d shaken out his little stony poos and tucked the nappy into her skirt waistband to dry while they walked. They had made it to a camp. It was not home – that was gone. It was not safe. But at least it was warm there. This is what her body was made to do. It would keep her baby comfortable and loved and hopefully alive. Just keep sucking little baby, just keep sucking.t?’

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