It’s hot.   It’s really hot. It feels so stuffy and suffocating in here. Is it just me or does anyone else feel the sudden urge to open every bloody window and let in a cool breeze? I can see the leaves moving outside. I know there’s air…fresh air… it could be in here, if only we opened a window. I can’t take off any more layers. Why is everyone else so rugged up? Jumpers, scarves, shawls…WTF?! I’m so bloody hot! Maybe it’s just me? It is possible that it could just be me. Maybe it’s my blood sugar? Maybe it’s the increasing sugar in my over-caffeinated blood? Maybe it’s my pancreas. It’s my malfunctioning pancreas that’s to blame and not this room with it’s closed windows and thick air. Maybe the air is thin and fresh and it’s my blood that’s hot and thick and stuffy. It doesn’t really matter does it? We’ll be leaving this room soon and then I’ll know. Then I’ll know whether it’s me or this room. There’s so much heat here…in me….in the room…in other people. Oh god, who cares. Heat aside, temperature aside, there’s baggage in this room. Maybe it’s the baggage and all the shit inside that baggage that’s making me hot…. suffocating me…smothering me. Maybe that baggage is making other people in the room cold? It’s making other people wrap their shawls and pashminas and scarves more tightly around their bodies. A protective layer…a shield perhaps. Is this group therapy? It’s starting to feel like group therapy. Can you wade through life’s shit with a pen? Can I wade through death, grief, trauma, anger, guilt, and disease with a pen?

An intoxicating mix of nerves and excitement came over me as the doors opened. I walked up to the reception desk and said her name. The words sounded foreign coming out of my mouth and although I hadn’t known her for long, I only knew her as Nana. “Do you know where to find her?” asked the receptionist. I froze. After three years of not knowing where she was, I had only just found her, but I didn’t know which room she was in.

Beeping sounds overlapped each other as they came from the left, from the right, behind me and ahead. There was no mistaking this environment. This is the final home for many and those beeping sounds were calls for assistance. Tentatively I paced the corridor, watching for the room number, wondering what I would find and how I would react. Turning into the doorway of room 107 I saw her in the corner bathed in sunlight. Her figure was framed by the plants in the courtyard as she reclined in her chair, reading.

“Hello” I called cheerily. She looked up and squinted in my direction. “Hello Nana, it’s me, Karen”. She beamed back at me. “Karen, how wonderful to see you!” Those words were just the encouragement I needed. My visit would be good for both of us.

Smiling, I sidled alongside her, took her frail hand in mine, leant in and gently kissed her soft cheek. “Hello Nana.” We sat quietly for a moment, smiling and looking at each other. I was desperate to take everything in, to not miss a thing. We had already missed out on so much. I’m not sure what she saw in me, or what her 95 year old mind must have been thinking. I’d been assured her mind and wit remained sharp although her short term memory was deteriorating. Nana spent most of the hours in her day reading novels or listening to Radio National. Her long tender fingers looked like they belonged to an artist or a writer and I was impressed they managed to cradle weighty hard-backs. Her beautiful smile nourished me instantly and at once I felt selfish to seek comfort from a woman who had already given so much of herself to others. I was hopeful my visit would bring her some gladness.

Nana didn’t find out that I existed until I was thirty years old. I was the family secret. My birth-mother told one person in her family that she was pregnant, her father. ‘Old Jim’ made all of the arrangements for his daughter’s internment, the relinquishing of her baby and he sent her on a south pacific cruise to get over the event. He also chose to never mention it to his wife, and took the secret to his grave. The shock, sadness and betrayal felt by Nana when my presence was unleashed on the family three decades later added further pain to this unfolding series of stories.

Twenty years ago I arrived on a doorstep of a house in Port Melbourne to meet my first blood relative. The front gate was flung wide open. The front door was flung wide open. Awash with an intoxicating mix of nerves and excitement I made a few steps towards the entrance and was welcomed by a smiling woman running towards me, her arms outreaching. It is still to this day one of the best hugs of my life. Our bodies melded into one and we held on to each other for the longest time. This was my aunty. She was my people. After a while I lifted my head high enough to look over her shoulder and down the hall I saw someone standing there. “Who is this?” I asked. “This is your Nana” was the reply. Nana, at the time a small but spritely 75 year old, reached out for me and we embraced. As soon as she heard about my planned visit, she booked a flight from Newcastle to Melbourne. She couldn’t wait to meet me.

That was the first of about six meetings over the following twenty years. There was a lot to learn about each but how do you catch up on a life-time of missed opportunities? I longed to connect with my heritage and the stories that had started to unfold about Nana were amazing. One of my prized possessions is a tiny jade Buddha which she gave me at our first meeting. What an awesome woman! A Buddha! We wrote to each other each Christmas although more recently her letters stopped arriving. I wasn’t sure if she had died, or if she had moved or if she had joined other members of her family in cutting communication with me.

After a series of heart-numbing events over the past few years I surprised myself in mustering the courage I needed to ask some more questions and three weeks ago I found that Nana had been relocated to a nursing home in a small coastal town in New South Wales. I managed to get a message to her about wanting to find out about my family history and I heard back that she was happy to help me where she could. After the longest time, it was these little nibbles that brought me to her bed-side one week ago and I was given a chance, possibly the last chance, to talk to my maternal grandmother.

Seeing her beautiful smile and hearing her say how wonderful it was to see me filled my heart in more ways that I can describe. I’d hurriedly written down some questions for her the night before but it’s hard to cram a lifetime of questions into one visit. I wanted to know the names of her siblings, of her parents, what did her father do, what did she like at school, what did she do when she left school, who were her pets, how did she meet ‘old Jim’, who was ‘old Jim’. On the surface the questions are quite banal, but when faced with the only source of the answers, it meant the world. How was I going to capture all of the answers and be present in the moment, and notice her expressions and mentally record and retain her voice, her tone, her laughter. As we sat together I felt the sands of that damn hourglass slipping away faster than ever.

We had quality time and enjoyed a conversation. We talked about the jobs that her great grand-children may have in the future, about storytelling and technology. We talked about cruelty of animals and the dreadful treatment of Indigenous Australians. It’s an issue so close to my heart and to know my grandmother unequivocally felt the same as me was wonderfully reassuring. She understood at a level I didn’t know existed for a woman of her generation. She felt that nursing homes are no place for children and we talked about the lack of exposure so many children have with people who are nearing the end of their life. She was excited to hear about my children and careful not to overwhelm her, I asked her if she would like to see them. They were marking time at the nearby beach with their dad. When Nana gave the all clear, I sent out the signal and they were there in a flash. Her face lit up, her eyes sparkled and her smile was beaming. I’m not sure what she saw in them, or what her 95 year old mind must have been thinking.

We had driven a long way to see Nana and it was time to say good-bye. I have so many more questions and I’m sure that was my last chance to ask them of her. I wanted our good-bye to be beautiful, but it in the end it was just sad. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see her again, but I took her frail hand in mine, leant in and gently kissed her soft cheek, “I’m so glad I came to visit Nana, we’ll see you soon”.

1. Don’t post photos of you next to hot women.
2. Don’t post photos of you next to hot men.
3. Don’t say shit like “I don’t like chocolate or coriander” because if that’s make or break for you, I’m guessing you’ve got commitment issues.
4. Do comment on how much you love your nieces and nephews.
5. Only have one picture of your dog.
6. Photos of your motorbike don’t make me want to love you.
7. Don’t put up pictures of you shitfaced in South East Asia.
8. Don’t post pictures of you standing somewhere tropical with a fuck off automatic rifle.
9. I am ashamed to say it, but if you’re bald, make your first photo one with a nice hat.
10. If you’re bald, don’t take flash photos from above.
11. Don’t say “if you tell me your age, I’ll just add GST, right ladies?”
12. Your six pack is unlikely to be the clincher. Make sure you include a picture of your head too.
13. Saying “I <3 pussy respect my appetite” makes me want to vomit a bit.
14. Cult death metal t-shirts draw a fairly exclusive class of suitors. Be mindful of this.
15. If you have salt and pepper hair, feel free to grow a beard. That way you’ll look like the dad from Family ties, and I might want to meet you.
16. There are a lot of single men out there who really love cars. Just sayin’.

Write like you’re on fire, like it’s the very last time you’ll be able to write. I’ll write and attempt to fail only to succeed triumphantly, with success inevitable as writing being what I was born to do. My perfect platform to express the creativeness existing with in me. I’m brave enough to endure the endless nights with out sleep typing away, my imperfect spelt words, sentences and paragraphs spewing out of my brain via my key board. I’m Brave enough to rise above the critics and haters that have nothing better to do in their own worlds than to have negative and strong opinions on my unconventional take on life, love and what ever topic spring to my mind that triggers a passion in me. I’m brave enough to be true to my inner self, ignoring any external expectations that may attempt to prevent me from succeeding. I’m brave enough to drive my true passion, my words scrambling, frantic in my mind, racing against each other to leave my brain in a sequence destined to make a difference in the world, destined to be read. But more importantly creating the outlet I personally seek as an escape. I write not for money or fame or even recognition, but because of the gift I have been blessed to with. The gift of creativity and strength to write what others may only ever think. Should my words make others stop and think, question, see another side or re look at their own beliefs momentarily I have succeeded. For my word to connect bring hope or inspire others I have more than succeeded.   Living your passion takes bravery, it takes you to break away from convention and often the comfort and safety you may already have, take a leap of faith. Jump without looking and believe in your self and that the universe will support you by providing the safety net to catch you. I believe if you are being truly true to yourself and your passion failure is not an option. Shedding the fear of being misunderstood, criticised, pleasing anyone other than your self, not conforming to the mould of society or religion takes courage, but the choice to simply not give a fuck is the very best option for me to rise above all the potential road blocks one might encounter when striving to be a successful writer. Not longer to I seek approval or a confirmation from others to do what I do best.

So hello my name is Ali and I am the next big thing in the world of writing.

Published as BYali

Wendy’s new man was skinny, red headed,  awkward and had a comical, lopsided smile.

It was like he had written his own comedy sketch, and type cast himself into the leading role.

Bridget couldn’t help but  like him, she liked the way he had taken ownership of his awkward geekiness.

She was envious of Wendy, but not jealous. That was just not her style.

Remarkably, Beam only side stepped him, a man as vulnerable as a Geisha in Kabul.

Once upon a time there was a girl. She was small for her age, with skin the colour of pastry dough and frail limbs, which hung from her tiny frame. She had always been a sickly girl, although nobody really knew why. She spent most of her time in her rickety wooden single bed in the downstairs bedroom of her family home, wearing a cotton nightgown that her Aunt Beatrice had sewn by hand. She would sigh at all the appropriate times, and flutter her eyelids as her sister re-arranged her pillows or fetched her books to read.

The family members would take turns to attend to the girl, bringing her bowls of broth or taking her by her feeble elbow to guide her along the cold narrow hallway to the washroom so that she could relieve herself. Nobody was permitted to be too loudly-spoken or jovial inside the house for fear that it would upset the unfortunate bed-ridden girl.

Every day a tiny brown sparrow would land of the ledge outside the girl’s bedroom window, and nestle himself amongst the delicate purple violets that grew in the planter box. The girl’s father told the girl that the bird came just for her, to sing to her and brighten her spirits, and to check on her well being. The girl would smile warmly when her father told her this, feeling so special that a bird would come just for her, and she would ask her father every day, “Why is the bird here father?” just to hear him say the words.

Because of that the family were filled with hope that one day the girl would recover from her mystery ailment and be able to go outside and play with the other children, to hear all the birds of the nearby forest singing their melodic songs. They were a family of unwavering faith and they truly believed that the bird was an angel of God, sent to watch over their girl and bring her back to health. Her doctor, however, would have nothing of such notions. He was a man of science and found it preposterous to suggest that a bird could possibly be anything but a bird.

And because of that the family ordered the doctor to leave the house immediately. His services were no longer required, they said, as he had failed to diagnose the girl in all the years that he had been attending to her. It was true that he had never been able to find anything medically amiss with the girl, but the doctor knew that a man of no faith would not be tolerated under that roof and therein lie the precise reason for his abrupt dismissal.

The family were overcome with sadness. It spread through them all with a ferocious malignancy. What was making this poor girl so sick? Was she long for this world? And what would happen if the sparrow on the windowsill ceased coming to visit??

Until finally the father could stand it no more. One morning, just as the sun was beginning to peer over the hills in the east, the father secreted himself in the garden outside the girl’s bedroom window and waited.

A short time later the swallow landed in the planter box beneath the window and commenced his sweet tune. The father leaped swiftly from behind a nearby rose bush, capturing the bird with a net made of spidery, white string. The bird shrieked and fought against the net, his wings in a fluster and panic flooding his small black eyes.

Be still, the father commanded, I’m not going to hurt you. The bird became limp in an attempt to fool the father into thinking it was dead. The father raised his hand slowly and deliberately, bringing the bird within inches of his own face, looking straight into the beady eye, which was framed perfectly in the centre of a hole in the net.

Who are you?! The father demanded, fully aware of how ridiculous it was to attempt to converse with a bird. Despite his own commonsense he continued on, the questions spilling uncontrollably out of his mouth in desperation. Have you been sent from the heavens above to watch over our girl? What is it that makes her so unwell? Is she to live or die??

The sparrow looked deep into the father’s eyes. He saw the pleading, the fear, the sadness, swirling uncontrollably in the father’s dark gaze. He could feel the father’s pain, which had infected every part of his body, from those grief stricken eyes to the trembling of his hand as it clasped the bird’s fragile and feathered body.

At that moment the bird began to sing and the father could somehow understand him. Your girl is not sick. She is as well as you and I. Relief surged through the father and his grip on the bird loosened a little. The words repeated in his mind. Your girl is not sick.

The bird continued, and the father listened in amazement. I see how well you have cared for her, you and your family, but I see her when there is nobody with her. The bird paused and the father stood very still, fearful that any movement would break the spell and that the ability to understand the bird would be stripped from him at any moment.

Your girl is not sick but she is suffering.

The father slowly lifted the netting from around the bird with his free hand, discarding it in a heap on the grass beneath them and opening his hand wide so that the bird could perch on the flat his palm.

This doesn’t make any sense, the father whispered to the bird, she is barely able to get out of bed.

She is suffering with an insatiable desire for attention, a need to be loved, to be cared for, the bird watched the father’s eyes narrow slightly, become colder, as he listened to the words. When you leave the room she gets up and dances to my song, she cart-wheels across the floorboards, she climbs out the window and races over the lawn in her bare feet, picking berries from the bushes which line the neighbouring forest. And then she returns to her sick bed and closes her eyes before you enter the room. Your girl is not sick. Your girl is a fraud.

The father clasped his hand violently shut, suffocating the bird in his massive claw-like grip and crushing the small creature to his death. He marched inside the house and discarded the bird’s lifeless body into the open fireplace and stood watching it burn whilst staring into the flames and shaking his head at the absurdity of what had just transpired.

Then the father washed his hands, and made his way down the hallway towards the closed bedroom door, to perform his fatherly duty, to care for his poor sickly girl.

Once upon a time there was a girl. She could best be described as crumpled, which she didn’t mind. It was easier and more fun than being, (and being described as), neat, ironed, pressed. Who had time for that crap?!

Her favourite hobby was going to state fairs and having a ride on the flying fox zip lines that were always featured. She met some great people, and had such interesting conversations. But at the end of the ride they always worried about how they looked, which totally spoilt their enjoyment of the ride. But not her – she started crumpled and ended crumpled.

Every day she knew that one day she would meet someone who enjoyed these rides as much as her, who didn’t mind the crumpled effect at the end. She didn’t want happily ever after, didn’t believe in that fairytale crap. Her wish was to find someone to be with crumpled ever after – to have fun with, laugh with, cry with and be with.

Because of that she kept going to the state fairs. She knew this was her best way to find her Crumpled Charming, plus the fair food was to die for. And as she was eating outside she could make a mess, (as she usually did) and no-one, including her, had to clean it up. Basically her deal meal.

And because of that, the day she met her Crumpled Charming she had jam down her front, (not in a sexy way, more in a doughnut exploded way) and her mouth was crammed full of nougat (she’d had to cram the whole bar in to her mouth to free her hands for the flying fox). The over presence of nougat severely hampered her talking ability, (note to self, eat small bits of nougat in private, not massive bits of nougat in public). So many life lessons learned at the fair!

Until finally she managed to finish eating the nougat and started talking – he was too busy laughing at her nougat eating display to talk. He asked how the doughnut was, (so he’d noticed the jam down her front), and whether its flavour had clashed with the nougat? She was about to spit out a clever retort, (why couldn’t she think of one?) when the ride finished. And, joy of joys, he didn’t complain about how crumpled he was, but instead asked her to accompany him to the doughnut stand. That doughnut, and the resultant jam explosion, was the first of many in their crumpled ever after life together.