Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time there was a little boy who wanted a pair of leather shoes. He wanted them because his mother said they could not afford them.

‘They’re too expensive,’ she said, ‘and you don’t need them. Sand shoes are just fine for you.’

But the little boy was not happy about that. He wanted leather shoes because they showed that he was special and important. He wanted to be special and important because he felt that he was neither. He was small and ignored by his older brothers and all the boys and girls at school. He had no looks, no skills, couldn’t do anything particularly well, couldn’t make people laugh or like him or anything like that.

Every day he would pray to be someone different. Someone better, someone better looking, better at his work, better at talking, better at making people like him. He didn’t know how to go about it. He would look at the other boys and girls he thought were better than him and imitate them. They would try to talk like them, walk like them, smile like them. He even tried to dress like them. It was kind of hard with no money.

One day he got up and had an idea. ‘I know what,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll imagine I’m like them. I’ll pretend I’m like them. I’ll dream I’m like them.’

So he started to walk as if he were them, talk as if he were them and did everything as if he was just them in every way. But a thing still bothered him. It was the shoes. He had trouble imaging he had leather shoes. For some reason, to be this better person, he had to have these leather shoes.

Every night he tried to imagine had a pair of leather shoes. He even clasped his hands together and prayed for them. Prayed that they would appear, pray they would arrive by his bed one morning or at the front door in a box.

And because of that he started looking forward to these leather shoes arriving. They had to arrive because he had asked for them ever so earnestly and persistently. They must arrive. He did everything he could to make them come. He helped his mother with every chore, helped his grandmother with her garden, helped his blind neighbour write his letters and was kind to every cat and every dog.

Until, finally, one day he woke up one morning and found a large box at the front door tied with a bow. He opened it and, to his astonishment, there was a pair of the most beautiful brown leather shoes. They shone with gloss and wonder. They were the most blessed things he had seen. Perfect in every way.

At the last minute when he was tying up his shoelaces and about to walk out of the house, he heard a voice behind him say, ‘Hey, Tom. Stop. Serving suggestion only.”

The little boy turned around, stunned.

‘What?’

‘I said, serving suggestion only.’

‘You mean?’

‘God can serve you anything, if you believe. You wanted the leather shoes and you got them. Whatever you want you can have, if you really believe. So what do you really want?’

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

I found my first grey pubic hair today while I was coincidentally admiring how youthful my vagina looked after getting out of the shower. Yes, that’s right – youthful? What other adjective were you expecting from that angle?

I was a tad taken aback as there was the paradox at how youthful my vagina looked to the reality bite that I had one solitary grey fucking pube growing out of the top of it. Since when is that a thing?

It jolted my rather narcissistic perception that I look waaaaay younger than my other 52 year old counterparts to which the little voice in my head said ” Who the fuck you gonna show this to prove otherwise, ya wanker?

I had only just recently become aware that pubic hair gives into the process of ageing which I found alarming at the time. Who first looked down there? When did that happen? Was it during oral sex? Because if it was? BOOYA to the 50 something year old still going down on another person….. Unless you were going down on yourself, which would be a far more interesting topic to write about than the fact that I have discovered my first grey pubic hair.

Like The Velveteen Rabbit, does my vagina now become more loveable because it is a little worn around the edges, showing the signs of wear and tear? Does it need to be thrown into the washing machine to see if we can spruce it up under the delusion of suddenly looking plumper, cleaner and – dare I say it – younger.

Is there Botox for vaginas? Is the plural for vaginas….vaginae? WHY would anyone have more than one vagina? Is there a politically correct term for a person with two vagina and how can we decrease the marginalisation of these people in society. What IS the collective noun for a group of vaginae? I digress…..

Should I pluck it out and save it like a newborn’s baby hair in a baby album?

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful and harmonious street called ‘Golden Street’. The inhabitants were wonderful people and they all shared a real sense of community. When one of their number was found to be in need of something, they only had to ask their neighbour for a helping hand.

Every day the inhabitants would breakfast together and they would share their plans for the day and what might help they might need to accomplish their project, however big or small. Then, as a street community, they would work out a means by which each person could achieve their project by the time the sun was setting.

One day, a newcomer moved into the street. He was different to the other neighbours. He was tall and thin. He had long hair and a beard. He dressed in white kaftans and loose white trousers. He wasn’t particularly confident participating in the breakfast meetings because he was still trying to learn their strange language.

Because of that, the neighbours began to discuss his ‘strangeness’ amongst themselves. They started to imagine reasons why he seemed so unconnected to them. Soon, they began to stare at him as he wheeled his bike along the street. Given his natural timidity, he began to stay inside and eat his breakfast alone. The neighbours were convinced that he was scheming something quite dreadful behind those curtains. ‘Perhaps he is a spy’, whispered one. ‘I think we should start protecting ourselves and our properties from this weirdo’, added another. ‘I am convinced that he is the vandal who pulled up my carrots last week’. Suspicions grew as to the behaviour and motives of the newcomer.

And because of that intensifying fear about him, the friendly neighbours of Golden Street decided that the most advisable course of action was to get rid of him. Their breakfast meetings now revolved around ways to make him feel so uncomfortable that he would have no option but to leave. They began to menace him: leaving dirt on his doorstep; putting rubbish in his letterbox; even puncturing the tyres of his bike and daubing it in thick yellow paint.

Until finally, they succeeded in their attempts to ostracize him. The newcomer became weary of living in Golden Street. So he humbly took his few possessions and his bike and moved to another street where his quiet, gentle nature and his wonderful, healing hands were greatly appreciated. Forever.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

What on earth is this. Oh god what will I do, I’ll have to tell mum, can I wait until she yells at me to clean my room and then back at her that this thing has come? My stomach is cramping, put on a smile, tell her later.  How much will come out of me? Surely this is it. Tell Mum, worried everyone at school know will know. This feels like a nappy can they see a pad through my pants? What if it leaks through? No surely that won’t happen. Don’t know how to get rid of the pad when it’s finished. Mum says “there is no bin in the bathroom so put the used one in the kitchen bin” but I’m embarrassed I don’t want anyone to know. Do I just walk around with this thing? Put a used pad in my bag at my friend’s house and forget about it. Realise my bag stinks. Year 8 swimming class, a few of us girls sit out coz we are on “monthly” teacher says that’s no excuse, use a tampon get in the pool. Mum goes berserk “don’t tell my daughter to do that” but I don’t want to swim in front of the boys anyway, it’s a good excuse. At my boyfriend’s house in year 10, get my period. Fuck will he still want me to sleep over on “shark week”? So dizzy coz I’m barely eating anyway unbearable cramps at school. “Stop whinging” says male math teacher, I push through. Get up in music class there is blood on the chair wipe it with my hand before anyone sees. Always helping the other girls “Can you check me” stand up and turn around, the unspoken blood code. First year uni, sleep with someone I really like, period comes during sex, blood everywhere. Mortified. Trying on bathers in Myer, wasn’t wearing undies, bleed into bathers I don’t even want to buy. Crumple them up and hide them from the shop assistant.  Just moved out of home, paid rent and bond. Broke and cramping. On my way to work stop to buy pads. Backpacking in Spain, 12 bed dorm, bleed in the sheets. Looks like someone has been stabbed. Take the sheets to the front desk. Charge me extra for cleaning. At work, cramping feel like I stink. Want to cry, can’t leave coz casually employed and need to pay rent. Working in Kuala Lumpur, its 40 degrees, first time being on my own, anxious as hell, get my period, search every store for tampons. Find out no tampons in Malaysia. It’s so hot pads give me a rash. On the plane get my period, long haul flight, ask the hostess for a tampon. “We don’t have any madam it’s the passenger’s responsibility” use a refresher towel that comes with the meal. Partner and I get a new bed, expensive as fuck, bleed on to it. Stain the mattress. Sleep in two pairs and undies and a towel.  Attend a hippie festival, get my period. Fuck it, bleed into my pants. Saturate my tent. Belly so swollen looks like I’m pregnant. Cant fit into anything, bleed through my pad during job interview. Only have $10 tillTuesday. Take the tampons to the counter, $4.50 with a $10 minimum on EFTPOS the shop assistant says, I don’t have cash. Plead with her she won’t budge, have to buy jellybeans to make the goddam difference. Blame menstruation entirely on the shop assistant, yell at her “Where is the fucking justice?” feel awful about it. Sit in a lane and only eat my favourite jellybeans from the packet, the red ones.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.