More brilliant work from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer. 

1. Untitled by Hils

I went to write a poem about you,
Not for you, but for me.
I thought if I could express how I was was feeling it would prove invaluable therapy.
But as I was shaking out my mental thesaurus waiting for the words to fall.
I realised that I could sum it up with just four. You. Are. A. Cunt.
That’s all.

2. Two Sides To Every Story – by Hils
Remind me not to go back to the north side of the river,
Those wankers need to put their latte fund towards a full length mirror.
Someone shoot the hairdresser who’s been styling in the dark,
Uncross your eyes and check your scissors ’cause something’s damn well missed the mark.
Since when did symmetry get too main stream and what’s with all the beards?
I feel like I’m surrounded by Ned Kelly’s, but I’m attracting glares like I’m the one who’s weird!
On the north side there’s never been a better time to own a shop that sells red lippy or specs,
But there’s never been a worse time to run a BP or Caltex
Because a vintage bicycle is the only way to get around the town
And there’s no chance you’ll get breathalised on your way home after throwing  several ciders down.
Us silly southsider’s in our motor cars listen to music on the charts
With no appreciation for hard rubbish or the arts.
Our bright new clothes hot off the Bangladesh iron press
Are no match for a salvos mustard coloured retro dress.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer. 

What if there were no mistakes?  What if everything was right?  What if I wrote his name upon this page?

Aiden.

“Are you writing about me?”

“How can I be?  I don’t know you.  You are just a name and some dark brown eyes.”

Silence.

I look into these dark brown eyes.  He doesn’t know what to make of me.  But I know what to make of him.  Anything I like.

He comes back for his coffee cup.

“You just wrote me name again, didn’t you?” he accuses.

“No.”  I’m lying in a way, because I know what he means.  I’m getting off on a technicality.

“You did, you wrote my name.  I can feel it.  I can see it across your face.”

“No, I wrote ‘He comes back for his coffee cup.’” I confess.  I’ve always been a terrible liar.

He looks down at the coffee cup in his hands and wonders what the hell is going on.

“Why are you here?” he says to me.

“Same reason as you.  Where are you going with your coffee cup?”

“If I tell you are you going to write it down?”

I look down at my page and back at him,

“Probably.”

He turns with his coffee cup and walks into the kitchen.  He doesn’t say anything.  But I write it down anyway.  He doesn’t like me writing about him.  He thinks it’s strange.  What could I possibly have to say about him.  I only know his first name and that he is here with me and twenty-three other people.  Court Ordered Anger Management, enforced for the verbal abuse of a Traffic Control Officer.

He deserved it.

I don’t normally yell and I don’t know where it came from, the power behind the rage.  But once I started I couldn’t stop.  I was too scared to stop.  Scared to think what might happen when the yelling and adrenaline subsided and I had to look at what I’d done.  Shaking.

The Traffic Control Officer burst into tears.

He was a rotund, blonde man of about forty-five, but with the simple face of someone much younger.  He hadn’t cried in twenty-three years, when his childhood dog died.  He had loved that dog when he was a boy, but neglected it now that he was having sex with actual girls.  The dog stayed in the family home with his parents and died of a broken heart, realising that his soul-mate had moved on without a backward glance.

I’ve no idea if any of this is true, but this is the story I told myself as I watched a grown man in an unflattering grey uniform look me in the eye and cry messy, trying-not-to-cry tears.  Tears oozed from his eyes as snot bubbled from his nose.  Saliva escaped out of the corners of his mouth as he sucked in and spluttered out.  Noisy.  Undignified.

I stood and watched.  Impassive.  Feeling the adrenaline drop from my head, through my throat, heart and guts down to my feet like a lift with it’s cables cut.

I watched this soggy, sodden mess of a man with fear in his eyes as my heart rate gradually slowed.  It wasn’t me he was afraid of.  It was himself and the messy despair pouring out of his face from a place so deep it can’t be named.

I watched.  I thought of him and his dog.  And I wanted to slap him.  I wanted to hit him with an open palm right across his puff-muddy cheek.  Instead I took my open palm and laid it gently across my seven and a half months pregnant belly.

Are you shocked?  Do you think a pregnant woman should be full of love and light and never angry?  Or is that my own projection?  Love and light.  And anger.  Sure.  Why not?  Aren’t we all a mess of contradictions like this.

Especially in the face of a stout blonde man issuing an infringement in the time it took me to wade to the metre and put my money in it.  I told him, as he taped the infringement to my windscreen.

“I’ve just paid for two hours.” I said ungraciously, knowing what was coming and resenting it like crazy.

He said it was too late, the infringement had been issued and now it was on me to write a letter to appeal.  And that just seemed ridiculous and time consuming and unjust and can’t you see I’m fucking pregnant.

I wanted to shout at him, so I did.  And he dissolved into his own unspoken grief leaving just a murky puddle that I stepped over.  I wasn’t sorry.

I don’t know how anyone found out about it.  Perhaps witnesses reported it.  Or perhaps the puddle filed a report.  In any case I was ordered to attend an Anger Management program and there was Aiden.

“Did you just write my name again?” he said, peering over my shoulder.

“I did.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” his dark brown eyes pleading, but also a touch angry.

“Why are you here Aiden? And why are you wearing shorts with bare feet?  It’s freezing and the heating’s inadequate.  Is it that boy thing where, like preschoolers you just don’t feel the cold?

“It is.  And I like to feel the grass between my toes.”

We were standing face to face, so close my giant belly skimmed at his.  The room was fluorescent-lit with linoleum floors and plastic chairs.  Aiden was mad and I was in love.

“Why are you here?  What did you do?” I asked again with a conspiratorial tone.

I wanted to hear his story, to see his eyes sparkle as he told it.  To watch his toes tangled in the grass that wasn’t there.

“Nothing.” he said and sipped his coffee, the cup cradled between both hands warming them, his toes silently seeking grass in the linoleum.  He looked at me and sipped and swallowed.  And I looked at him

“Nothing?” I challenged.

“Nothing.” he glinted, “I like to come here and drink the coffee.”

The class resumed, the instructor returned, AGGRESSION he wrote on the white board and swiped an underline.  I took my seat behind Aiden and watched the back of his neck.  He turned and asked,

“Did you just write my name?”

I wasn’t sorry about the puddle and I wasn’t sorry about the father of the baby inside me.  Both had to disappear because with Aiden it was love.  The bare legged-boy and me with my giant soon-to-be-a-baby belly.

No fear, no doubt only this perfect, essential moment and a lifetime in which to write Aiden.

“Are you sure about this?  About having someone else’s baby?” I asked as I gripped his hand

A month and a half had passed since we had met at Anger Management.

The labour had started slowly, euphorically a few hours before.  I didn’t wake him.  This part of the journey was just between me and my baby.  In fact the entire birth-journey was.  Aiden would just be a spectator, thought he didn’t know that yet.  I mean, what can a partner do?  Watch, encourage, support and be confident in the knowledge that this is not about you.

I gripped his hand, squishing knuckles together, contracting and breathing and being transported.

“This child belongs to no-one.” he said by way of reply.

“But you’ll be the one she calls Dad?  And raise her to always be barefoot?”

“I will.”

It was as close to a vow as we ever got, non-traditionalists at heart

You can’t tie down man who is permanently barefoot.  And who would want to?

I took comfort in those dark brown eyes as the labour intensified.  I worked hard and enjoyed a knowing that I had found love and it had found me.

***

Kate McTernan writes weekly at onesmalllifeblog.blogspot.com.au and tweets @onesmalllife

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer. 

A young girl sits on a grassy hill, feeling the sun on her skin.

There are scabs on her knees, and her hair is in pigtails.

Beside her is a round, tin.  Empty of chocolates, full of dollar notes.

There is a train in the distance, the whistle blows.

She tenses, knowing what is to come.

“Don’t tell”, he whispers.

His fingers hurt.

The train roars by, her head pounds.

They walk back to the house together; he’s carrying the chocolate tin.

Her fingers are wrapped around a crumpled dollar note.

Don’t tell, he whispered.

The rest, she made up on her own.

“Don’t tell, or your mum will hate you”.

“Don’t tell, or something terrible will happen”.

The nightmares come later.

A train whistle blows, the danger is close.

All the children, hiding in the kitchen cupboard.

She can’t stay quiet, a whimper escapes.

Danger comes, and kills her mum and dad, then sends parcels filled with pieces of them wrapped up in brown paper; ears and noses and fingers, bloody and terrifying.

She wakes, night after night, crying, terrified, and alone.

“Don’t tell”.  He whispered.

The rest she made up herself.

The words did more damage than his fingers.

She told, eventually, of that.

But the words stayed, and they stole her voice.

Now that girl is all grown up (apparently).

And she wants to be able to tell.

Simple things, about how she feels, and who she is.

She’ll start with a whisper, and keep whispering.

Until she learns to trust her voice again.

And then she will roar.

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer. 

I once lived in a very old flat in London. There was nothing charming or historical about this place. This building was of the pigeon infested decaying slum by the railway line variety. My tenure started with great hope and ended awkwardly with a horror week involving a shit volcano, a broken heart, angry acrobats and firemen, among other things.

Number 2 Bedford St was so decrepit that it didn’t have the plumbing to accommodate an upstairs toilet. Instead, it contained an electrical device which manually munched up all solids before sending them on their way down the water pipes. Every time I flushed the toilet, it emitted an unholy moan followed by the sort of metallic screech which evoked the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. Nevertheless I was naively untroubled by this faecal processing setup and happy to simply get on with my life as a sassy and sophisticated lady of London.

How was I to know I was soon to be beset by a series escalating series of disasters in that dilapidated abode.

One evening I was settling back into the bath, ready to enjoy a can of Strongbow and a few fags when I heard a terrible wheezing moan. Next, three loud bangs. The source of these sounds was unmistakeable. This was a tiny bathroom and the toilet was extremely close to the bath, but before I could find the ashtray or drop my can, the contents of the bog burst forth like a Vesuvius of minced shit. I didn’t stand a chance…

I will gloss over the horrors of that night and move on to the part where my landlord refused to see the urgency of repairing the pooh muncher OR the bathroom carpet (which still bore the damp scars and smells of ‘the incident’). He felt that given there was a perfectly good toilet standing outside the front door of another tenant’s flat on the floor below, there was no need to rush me a new loo. Instead, I was to use this loo on the downstairs landing, shielded only by a piece of string and a frankly inadequate curtain. Without going into too much detail about the hot Austrian dude who lived in the flat I was expected to crap outside, I can proudly say I learned bladder and bowel control skills during that period which have stood me in good stead until this very day.

During this happy time, I had a neighbour in the flat next door. He was very cute, very young and very short. Imagine the small cute one in any boy band then shrink him to half his size again. That was Kris. Anyway, Kris and had been sleeping together. To be honest it just seemed handy to me at the time, but he was very keen. He was 20 I was about 40. Surprisingly I even felt comfortable being seen with him in public, because contrary to my embarrassment about our height difference, nobody looked twice at us. They seemed to accept us as a couple and I thanked Londoners yet again for their cosmopolitan inclusive acceptance.

The day after the shit shower one of the cleaners at work seemed more excited than usual to see me. He beckoned me over and said:

“I saw you and your young lad at the video shop on the weekend!”

“My young lad?”

“Yes, your boy, your little lad, your SON!”

The realisation hit me hard. Everyone in London assumes Kris is my bloody SON?  They don’t stare because they think he is a tiny child and I am his mother? They don’t imagine for a minute we are a couple? Goddammit why can’t a sexy older lady take a tiny young lover? Stereotyping  intolerant London bastards!

I decided it was time to act like an adult and end it with Kris. I didn’t do this. Instead, that night I slipped a note under his door saying this had to end. He did not take it well. When he got home he banged and banged on my door. I decided to hide and resolved to avoid him forever. Sadly this avoidance situation made the timing of toilet trips downstairs even more difficult to manage. Soon his love turned to hate and he demonstrated this daily by banging his tiny fists on my wall and shouting at me if I turned the TV on, or opened a window, or even opened a door or a can of Strongbow.  Kris and I were not in a good place. Literally or emotionally.

Days passed and life seemed to be getting less crazy, when one evening, the electricity in my flat went down. This wasn’t unusual and I was confident that as soon as the dripping electrical wire in the hall dried out, all would be back to normal. I just needed to get on with life until everything sorted itself out, so I decided to prepare a lovely hot bath, ignore the shit smell and enjoy a relaxing candlelit evening. I had a gas stove, so I put every pot and every pan on to boil water. I even put a casserole dish full of water in the oven.  I had constructed a system of duckboards over the crappy carpet and was systematically going back and forth filling the bath and refilling the pots.

All this water carrying was busy work and it took me a while to realise the smoke alarm in the hall was beeping. At the time, I had never lived in a house with a smoke alarm, so I didn’t know what to do. I ran out to the hall and was relieved to see some people running up from downstairs. Oddly, they, like Kris, were extremely small people.  There were three of them and they were dressed in what appeared to be acrobatic attire. This explained the loud bumps and grunts and maybe even the pan pipes I’d been hearing for months. I was living above the Peruvian acrobatic squad!

“Oh my god!!” I babbled excitedly as they came up the stairs towards me.

“I’m so glad you came up. It’s the smoke alarm! Do you think it’s a fire? Are the electrical wires on fire? What should we do? Can you smell smoke? I think I can smell smoke? Should we call the fire brigade?”

“Smoke” replied the Lead Acrobat, gesturing toward my flat, from whence clouds of steam were now wafting.

“No no, that’s just steam. For my bath”

“SMOKE” repeated the Leader gruffly, and walked inside. Then Acrobat Two stepped forward and with a contemptuous glare pushed past me into my flat.

Acrobat Three then stepped politely past, nodding gently in the direction of my flat and repeating softly and kindly: “Smoke”.

I followed them into my kitchen where they all stood, looking about them in amazement at the steamy situation they beheld. They all huddled and spoke rapid Spanish to each other. Then the leader announced:

“Not smoke” and they all filed grimly out. Acrobat Three gave me a slight apologetic shrug behind Boss Acrobat’s back, and they were gone.

I was on my own.

I now believed I really could smell smoke, so I decided to call the fire department and ask for their advice. I tried to stress that it was not an emergency, but of course all my talk about smoke alarms and smell of smoke was right up their alley. She announced that she would ‘Dispatch a Unit”.

I asked: “Does that mean firemen are coming?”

And before she could utter the‘s’ in ‘yes’ I’d slammed down the phone and was rushing into my bedroom to change into something fireman worthy and some lipstick.

Soon sirens could be heard approaching and then two fire engines appeared and blocked the street below. Six firemen in full regalia stomped up the stairs. They immediately stopped the fire alarm, and then we all stood in the hallway sniffing the air for any signs of smoke. It soon became apparent that there really WAS a smell of smoke, and it was coming from Kris’s flat! Before I could say: “Maybe I should call him?” they took a huge battering ram and with a one-two -three they knocked his door off his hinges.

We all crowded in. Firemen are highly trained in these matters and identified the source of the smell immediately. It was ten pairs of Kris’s child-sized underpants gently scorching on a drying rack in front of the heater. At that point they all sniggered and shook their heads, a fireman turned off the heater, and they all made to file out.

“Um…excuse me…what about my neighbour’s door?”  I rather nervously asked.

One of the fireman replied: “Oh we’ll put a card on the door and if he has any questions he can give us a call at the station”. They stuck up a cross of tape, and they were gone. I stood there in shock. How the hell was I going to explain this to Kris? He hates me already, and now I’ve had his door knocked down by the bloody fire brigade!

Then I decided to do the only thing I could. I walked calmly into my flat, locked the door, got into bed and put a pillow over my head so I couldn’t hear him arrive home.

I was going to deny all knowledge and keep out of sight until I could find another dump to call home.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer. 

Once upon a time, beneath a sky of velvet midnight blue, a girl stood alone outside in the cold crisp air, gazing upwards into the endless darkness. Her gaze was blank and without recognition, she had forgotten why she came.  She did not see nature’s night time canvas of the magnificent sky blanketed from horizon to horizon, or the milky way so brilliant it seemed within a hands grasp, or the silhouettes of dark hills in the north and the gum trees illumined in the fields by a clear reflection from the moon.

Her vision was so clouded by a shattered heart that she no longer admired in wonder at the array of constellations in the sky, or searched for the stars that glimmered more brightly than others. She no longer welcomed dusk – to go outside and seek the evening star upon which to count her blessings, then close her eyes and slowly breathe in the beautiful scent emanating from the earth, the plants, the trees, the air, from all of which nature gave.

She felt numb, not from the cold air, but from heartbreak. Her insides hurt, her heart felt like crumpled dry paper which gave paper cuts in her chest when she inhaled. She just keep bleeding inside.

One day, she had thought, this pain will leave.  But the pain was embedded so deep it was an insidious companion, a constant reminder of what was gone forever.  She had lost hope, had lost faith in her self and she did not know that she was dying from a broken heart.

Her vacant reverie was broken by a warm muzzle nudging at her calf, she looked down and sighed, then slowly went into the house to fetch the lead,  her dog trotted with anticipation close to her monotonous stride.

There was one star in the sky in which an angel lived.  All the angels have people to watch over and this angel knew of the girl’s heartfelt love of nature and her evening contemplations of gratitude, he knew of her softness.  The angel also knew how much she had endured in her life and had kept a vigilant watch as the girl had rallied, strengthened and recovered in previous times.  However, the angel now felt acutely the depth of her sadness and wept tears of compassion.  Because of that, the angel chose to invoke a power to help this girl.

The moon was so bright this night the dog decided to walk the girl.  She obligingly attached the lead to his collar and he impatiently dragged her back outside to walk the tracks in the fields close by.  The dog had been walked less and less in recent times, the girl’s demeanour touched him also.   From above, it did not appear to be a walk of reciprocal enjoyment, the dog was continually lunging forward and tugging against a lead which was not keeping up with his excited pace, the girl at the other end did not share his enthusiasm.  The abundant scents overtook any skerrick of restraint the dog may have had and one tug met with no resistance – his collar had snapped and he was off!

And because of that, the girl had to run, chasing the sound of the barking dog into lightly falling snow, ascending an unfamiliar path, each breath of cold air punctuating sharp pains into her chest.  Her anxiety increased as in the distance the dog’s barking became fainter and fainter.  She strained to listen and follow his barking, now panicking that he may have fallen into any of the unused mine shafts in the hills and gullies nearby.  Her climb became more laborious and agonising, but she must find him, to lose her little dog too would be unbearable.

She called out the dog’s name again and again, and kept running, the path becoming narrower and rocky. She reached the top of the incline and though she had been running, she now stood shivering in the coldness.   She looked around and noticed that the moonlight illumined the snow on the ground around her.  Suddenly a bark pierced the air from close by and she stumbled in its direction, but tripping upon a rock hidden beneath the snow she fell heavily, collapsing, her head hit something hard on the ground.  She called out the dog’s name, then could not stop her mind from drifting, snow falling softly and prettily – yet cold upon her face as she lost consciousness.

Something warm, but rough upon her cheek, and again, on her nose, cheeks, eyes – yuk what is that? Go away! The dog kept licking her face, trying to rouse her until eventually she slowly opened her eyes and began to sit up.  Her movements halted as her eyes regained focus and she struggled to make out what stood nearby.  The dog did not leave her side and was clearly unperturbed but the unusual presence of another.

The angel stood far enough away not to frighten.  He was actually quite smug at his ability to manifest as human, but clearly this ability did not apply to his dress sense.

Though slightly disorientated, she felt no danger and her clarity returned.  It was still cold, snow no longer fell and what looked to be a timber outdoor toilet was near some bare trees.  The man smiled warmly at her, the peace and safety he radiated was palpable.  But, he was so inappropriately dressed for the weather – this she could not understand.  He wore leather boots which came up to his bare knees.  A short sleeved, long t-shirt came down to his middle thighs, which were also bare, a leather belt buckled at his waist.  Around his neck on thin strips of leather hung a drink flask and a coiled trumpet, similar to that which you would see in pictures of angels.  He held something in each hand, maybe a torch, and could that really be a grenade in the other?  He wore a pith helmet, atop the helmet sat a small black cat and it too was looking at her.

The angel smiled with knowingness – his attire was purposely chosen.  The girl stared, the unexpected sight was beyond comprehension. No words exchanged, then she realised – sometimes things happen in life that, no matter how hard she tried to understand – they were beyond any reasoning or logic, and thus needed to remain not understood.  The more effort she had applied in trying to understand the choice of another gave no resolution, just more sadness.  The dog sat patiently by her side, she gave him a hug, grateful that he was ok.  She glanced around to acknowledge the strangely dressed man – but he was nowhere to be seen.  Her gaze turned skyward – the clouds were shifting and stars appeared.

Gathering herself up she reattached collar and lead to the dog.  Now ready for home she looked around, sighed a big sigh, smiled, then slowly inhaled, breathing deeply the beautiful clean fresh air.  The sky was clear, her heart no longer hurt.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

10pm 21^st March 2014, that’s the deadline for getting a written piece into Catherine and she will publish it on her site. I noticed my thoughts, it’s ok, you don’t have to have anything published on her website right away, you have started writing and you have walked away with lots of learning from the Gunnas Writing Masterclass today. Now that’s the easy way out and what I can very easily fall into, so I decided to challenge myself and take a leap, possibly fail while daring greatly (Theodore Roosevelt) and I can practice not giving a shit what people think! Just do it and stop the procrastination I told myself.

I walked into the Avid Reader in West End to attend Catherine Deveny’s writing class this morning. A writing workshop! I was both excited and nervous at the same time. Not really sure what to expect so I had armed myself with an idea I wanted to work on, pen, paper and an open mind.

So many thoughts going on in my mind like what makes you think you can be a writer, who would want to read what you have to say and a little closer to home how will you find the words? So many questions, it was such a surprise to me. First exercise – write for five minutes and don’t stop moving that pen. Totally amazed that my pen actually didn’t stop moving, one page filled and then another and then half of the next page. My eyes were having difficulty accepting that this was me, so surreal, so many questions.

What does writing mean for me? I explored and played with this question throughout the day. The initial idea I had come with was never given space in the writing I did which also surprised me. This idea melted away and exposed the real work I need to extract from myself. Extract sounds like a hard word and it feels like it is hard work. It’s my childhood trauma, my silenced voice locked away deep within. I faintly heard my voice whisper to me today and my voice knows it could be heard by me, finally. Now the work to unlock this frozen, isolated world of mine begins.

I left delighted in the acquaintance of this space that has been hidden so deep for so long. My commitment is to write from this space for one hour a day, four days a week, for four weeks. I look forward to building a relationship with my inner voice and allow it full voice for the first time in my life. Again I am sitting with excitement and nervousness as I write this and I will learn to ride the waves of doubt and just do it.

What an awesome opportunity to allow myself the creative space to attend Catherine’s workshop. So glad I did!

www.rainbowatma.com.au

https://www.facebook.com/RainbowAtma?ref=hl

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

This story is about the Power of Love. That 80s rock ballad just went through your head momentarily, huh? Sorry about that.

In 1984, I was 5 years old. Whilst all parents are sure that their children are blessed with gifts beyond their age, I wasn’t. But that was okay, because I was happy, my chief hobby was snuggling up with my grandmother, on her single bed, learning how to read from her Mills and Boon novels. To me, this equaled a perfect existence.

Not only did I have a grandmother completely committed to equipping me with Important Life Skills, but I had a grandfather, who undoubtedly buoyed by rapid progress on the Mills and Boon front, believed that I could Do Anything. So over the long days of the holidays I would swing from reading lesson with Nan to days out with Granddad, and life lilted by at a glorious pace.

Until: The Day.

You will have to forgive that my memory is a little patchy, as I was only 5, but I am going to say that it was a warmish early spring afternoon. My grandparents, sister and I had driven from their coastal home at Saratoga in to Gosford City in order to borrow some books from the library; this was a weekly exercise and one I enjoyed no end. After attending to our book duties, we decided that seeing as we were in town, we would meander across the way to the shopping centre and Make a Day of It.

So far, so good, right.

As we enter the shopping centre there was a stage in the centre of the forecourt, that on this day was hosting a display from a local piano retailer, complete with spruiker that would give John Burgess a run for his money. I was transfixed. And then it happened. Baby John Junior called for audience participation, and from a crowd of around 50, I whipped my hand up and gave the best smile I was able. I think I was even making some of those straining sounds that kids make when they really want to get picked for something.

Jackpot. He picked me.

An important side note to this story, is that I had on a dress this day, and a favourite hobby of the time was to gently press down the front before grandly lifting out the sides of the material before I would take a seat. And so, as I made my way to the stage I began to gently pat down the fabric, and as I approached the stool, lifted the sides and assumed position.

The thing was – I actually had no idea how to play piano, but here I was – with the crowd now swelling, in front of a baby grand. I caught granddad’s eye, he gave me a big smile and away I went. I am not talking softly tapping the keys, I absolutely went Mozart on this thing, my hands bashed the keys, my head lolled and as I became more convinced that this was actually sounding quite spectacular – I fell off the back of the stool. As in splayed out on my back, legs in the air falling off.

And in that moment, I discovered a secret about life.

Still lying there, I commenced the patting down the dress, stood up, lifted the sides, resumed my seat and finished with a cacophony of noise that was so spectacular, I’m pretty sure the applause I got at the end was just relief that it had stopped. And it was only later that I reconciled myself that I would never be able to play piano, but the secret, is that love, real love, gives you the courage to try anything and I was happy.

The end.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Four years ago on my Mum and Dad’s anniversary,
I was swallowed down under the sea.
A wave of emotional darkness crashed over me and my family.
It was a significant marker to that day,
Didn’t need another, but I got one anyway.

My doctor was concerned with the lumps in my breast which I presumed were blocked milk ducts. She told me to have a scan the next morning. So there we were, driving along wondering about things in our own quiet way, my husband and my baby daughter and I. Pavement’s “Range Life” was playing in the car as we parked at Mater Private. When we returned to the car about five hours later the song “Range Life” continued from the very same place we had left it. But so much had happened within those five hours. So many cycles of thoughts and feelings and resolutions to do this and that. And the tears I did cry. I held my husband’s hand in my palm and wept. Our world had upended but the song still sounded exactly the same way it did before those five intense hours.

I have never been afraid of much or believed in destiny. I have always believed in things turning out well. They always do because you adapt and make it so. This can’t be different. If I just keep one thought in my mind, turning it over, it’s that we grow forward. We don’t stagnate or turn back. We keep on moving. I am not alone here. People have done this before. My biggest hurdle to date was to be told I was infertile. I have two beautiful kids. I can be told all sorts of things and given all sorts of odds. Stage IV terminal cancer. I will rise and I will fall. I will rise again. My feelings dissipate and I will crumble, only to build up these thoughts again. Sand castles. Wave. Sand castles. Tsunami. Sand castles.

Four years on and I’ve done it again. I am here. Living and breathing after another occurrence of cancer. I am here because of many things. I am here because my Mum came on a boat from Sri Lanka with her family, dreaming of a better life, without fear of war as independence became a reality after years of British rule. I am here because my Dad’s grandma lived next door to my Mum and a blind date was successful. Cancer was not part of my vision of my future. But I do believe in the Buddhist saying that “pain is inevitable but suffering is optional”. Life is full of pain. I’m just focusing on that little bit extra I can squeeze out of life. My life took a nosedive into deep water, but even against the current, I am here.

Http://megsheartproject.tumblr.com

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

At my Hill’s Hoist, beneath the stars
Pegging uniforms, towels and bras

After chaos of dinner, bath, bed
Each squealing child’s laid down his head

The house so quiet and dead asleep
The sensual flap of a cool damp sheet

I am of, am one, with the night
I dissipate, tiny, out of sight

With each wet item lifted, hung
I breathe in deep, a day is done

Yasmin Gunn yasmingunn@ymail.com

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I always fib a little when I get the morning after pill. I’ll say I’ve had it before, but often one or two less times than I actually have. I’ll say there was a condom (it broke!), when there wasn’t. And I always make sure I go to a different chemist – because you wouldn’t want your local pharmacist knowing you were promiscuous and irresponsible.

I’m surprised at the shame that sits around me when I access emergency contraception. It’d surprise most who know me – I’m open about sex, my body and its myriad of functions. But having been born in the 80s and educated in the 90s, I had always expected and believed that any sex I had would be ‘safe’. There would be no STIs and no unplanned pregnancies in my life – no siree.

Of course, life and sex are a bit more complicated than that. And while I enjoyed telling the tales of my time as a ‘lady about town’, I never liked telling the tales of the few times or moments when sex went unprotected. Nor do I like telling the tales of the consequences of those times.

I’ve often blamed myself for the slip ups – it was my fault, I should have been more assertive, I should have put a stop to things. But judging by the number of men I’ve slept with who felt being asked to wear a condom was a personal affront – “But I’m clean baby, aren’t you?” – I’m not sure if I’m entirely to blame. I sometimes wonder if men only feel ashamed about unprotected sex if they actually catch something.

I only really thought about my morning after pill shame this week after a fairly ridiculous contraception fail. The condom broke and I had missed a pill in the last seven days – a contraception no-no according to my GP and the internet. My paranoia and my determination not to have a child saw me march right down to the chemist for yet another morning after pill. But this time it was different. I was all jokes and laughs – much to the relief of the pretty 23 year old male pharmacy student who served me. I didn’t feel ashamed because I was in a relationship and I had done everything in my power to be safe. Unlike the other times when mistakes had happened during casual sex with strangers. I walked out smiling, but I didn’t feel liberated.

More than anything else, the experience unsettled me. It reminded me that I am not as immune to gender-based assumptions about women and sexual behaviour as I think I am. And that bugs me. I know the personal is political, but I bristle when it becomes obvious to me. I try to rise above it – be tough and stand proud. But it isn’t always easy. Right now the best I can do is remind myself what I’ve learnt about shame from Brené Brown.

Shame is different to guilt. Guilt is knowing that I did something bad, but shame is believing that I am bad. What I’ve learnt about shame is that it hates being spoken. And now that I’ve given it a name, shown it to the light, and shared it with those I trust – it will get easier to combat. And maybe, one day, I will feel comfortable walking into my local chemist and asking for the morning after pill.

 – www.anneshirley.com.au

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