Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Dear little one inside my tummy,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love always,

Your Mummy

Xxx

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

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twitter Handle:  @missdissenteats

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

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

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

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

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

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

One day his children got together to celebrate his life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We lived … sort of.

No we didn’t … yes we did….

The end.

@tussnelda

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

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

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

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

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

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

You see, I’m sort of amazed that I can even begin to think the big stuff or have ideas. Even just the thought of unpacking them produces a quiver of excitement.

Twitter handle @Salinafix

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was a man with six children. They were very hungry children, and his wife was even hungrier as she gave most of her food to them, because the pain of hunger in her stomach was nowhere near the pain of hearing her little ones try to be brave about having no more bread in the house.

The man worked as hard as he could as a blacksmith to feed his family, but all he ever did was earn enough to barely keep them alive, week to week.

In between working he thought and thought about how to make their situation improve, so that they could eat meat every day instead of just on Sundays, and all have a new pair of shoes every year, and maybe even take a family trip to the beachside at summertime, because his children had never seen the sea, but he had seen the sea, and it was beautiful, and he would love to give that to them.

In October a circus came to town, and his children were very excited, and every day would run down to the circus tent just to be near the thrill of it, to hear the growl of the lions and the gasps of the crowd, although of course they could not buy a ticket to go inside

The whole town was talking about the strange, or strong, or beautiful circus performers, and their exotic animal accomplices.

The man’s children would come home after these days, their eyes shining with what they had heard or glimpsed or imagined. “Papa, have you ever heard an elephant? It is like the loudest steam train in the world!”. “Papa, they say there is a lady who can walk on a wire in the air, like magic!”, “Papa, there is a man who can lift a tonne with his bare hands!”

It was early one of these October mornings when the man was in his forge, with his hammer, bent over a frame of red hot metal bars and two wheels with dozens of spokes in them, wiping the sweat from his brow. He was secretly working on his invention, about which he had not told anyone, least of all his hungry family.

He had been trying and trying to perfect his machine’s function, so that he might become rich and smell the sea air, but it was confounding him. He needed to work on the milling part of the machine, whilst also turning both wheels, and he simply couldn’t do all tasks at once.

As he gently, finely twisted the hot metal, he heard a strange noise outside his forge, around the back, where the woodpile was.

He kept the hammer in his hand and went outside. He stood looking at the woodpile for a moment, then leaned in closer, and was astonished to see two versions of exactly the same girl’s face, about 14 or 15 years in age, looking up at him from behind the pile of logs. They had fine features and long limbs and brown eyes.

He was too surprised to say anything.

“Please! Please sir! Don’t tell them we’re here!” whispered the girl with the larger hair.

The man found his voice: “Er, pray tell, who?” he asked.

“The ringmaster, sir!” hissed the girl. “Oh please sir, just turn away, I beg of you.”

The man stood there still: “Ringmaster? From the circus?

“Of course sir! You do not recognise us? We’re the air-flying acrobatic twins. Oh sir, please have mercy and do not tell him! For he is trying to make us GET MARRIED to his grown sons. So we have made our escape, for to find another circus.”

“And you ran away because of that?” asked the man.

Finally the other girl spoke, quietly, coldly: “Yes, because of that.” She stared at him.

The man heard shouting in the distance, and without thinking he piled up some more logs in front of the girls, then turned around and pretended to be examining his hammer in the sunlight while a crowd of policemen trotted past on horses, craning their heads this way and that.

And as he stood there, looking down at the hammer, the sun hit the metal and pierced his eye, and a little idea began to form in his mind. He held the hammer and squinted at the gleam of light and let the idea form itself, until finally the clip clop of hooves and the shouts of the officers died off in the distance.

Softly he said to the air, “And what will you do instead?”

“I don’t know,” answered one voice.

“We’ll land on our own feet,” said the other.

“Yes – it’s your feet what interest me,” said the man. “Give me one week. Then I will pay you eight coins, you will be free to go, and I won’t say a word to any police sergeant.”

Over the next seven days, light would crack into the forge in the early morning as the man opened the door with a hidden bowl of porridge, and the girls, sleeping together under a grey blanket on the pile of hay on the floor, would rise from their slumber.

They would work into the day, each girl rotating one wheel each, which turned the mill, on which the man tinkered and hammered.

Each evening the man brought the girls some bread and a little vegetable stew, and locked them inside the forge again, for their own protection.

On the seventh day the girl with smaller hair said, “Wait, if you please.” said. “Our week is up. Where are these coins you have promised?”

“Indeed,” said the man. “You have been excellent assistants, and my machine is ready to be revealed. I will pay you your coins on the morrow.”

Then he bolted the door of the forge and walked the path to his home. The moon was out and the evening was crisp. His humming heart was fairly bursting with the thrill of finally seeing his machine in working order.

After so many months of keeping his invention secret, he could now confess all to his wife. She would be surprised, but proud. And he would take his machine to a factory, and have hundreds of copies made, and his whole family would eat chicken every day and go to church in a carriage with four horses.

But now he was here, now it was all within reach, it wasn’t enough. His mind continued to race, and it raced back to the gloomy forge he had just left, and the two girls in it.

They were industrious, not lazy, their waists were slender, and their hair was thick and healthy. The one with the smaller hair was quietly spoken, and he thought about his eldest son, who was needing a wife, and there were none as fair or demure in the village.

All the man had to do was invite the girl inside the house, whilst he alerted the sergeant to the other girl, the one with the big hair and the scowl, then he would be rid of the one whilst keeping the other, and never need to pay those eight coins, which he didn’t have anyway.

His heart was really pounding now as he considered his plan. As he came closer to his house, his plan became set, and when he climbed into bed beside his wife, he almost was too excited to sleep.

But sleep he did, deeply and smugly, full of the satisfaction of all he would soon have.

Sometime just before dawn, however, a noise entered his dreams. It had been going for a while, a repeated high-pitched sound, and finally his conscious self swam out of the depths of sleep and he sat up in bed.

There was the noise again, coming from outdoors – chink, chink, chink, chink.

He went into the kitchen, put on his coat and his boots and stepped outside. The sky was quite light now and he could see the path clearly. The sound was coming from the forge and he quickened his pace.

As he came up to the forge, he hissed, “What are ye doing in there?”. There was a shuffling in response, the girls murmuring.

“What the devil…?” snapped the man. He slid back the bolt and opened the door a crack but couldn’t see anything in the gloom. He opened the door and, as he let it swing wide and his arm fell down, something came rushing at him out of the forge.

It was the twin girls, one directly behind the other, but somehow they were sitting down, and yet at the same time being propelled forwards in a rush of skirts and feet.

His eyes widened and his mouth started to open, but nothing came out.

It was his machine, his treasured machine, but it was not his machine. The wheels were still there, and the frame, but the mill had been removed, and somehow these girls were sitting astride it, one after the other, pedalling furiously, a bar fixed to the front for steering.

They flew past him and away, away down the path, to the road. He shouted, and forced his feet to run, run after them, but they were like a bird with wings soaring out ahead of him.

And he could do nothing, not even shout, as watched them, and it, his machine, grow smaller and smaller, then disappear, off to the east, in the direction of the seaside.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time, Dad & Dave were going for a stroll on a fine Sunday morning. They came across a snail who was sunning himself on a rock. “Hey, you almost trod on me!” the snail said to Dad. Poor Dad was horrified as he had always taught Dave to treat all creatures as he would like to be treated.

The snail smiled at Dads humble apology and decided he would grant Dad a wish. “Every day, you must ask Dave what his favourite dinner is and you shall have the ingredients magically appear”. So that evening they decided to try it out.

Dave excitedly told Dad all of his favourite treats and they magically appeared for them to consume. One day, Dad was getting tired of all the rich, naughty food and begged Dave to change his dinner request. But Dave had become so used to eating his favourite treats that he had no desire for healthy food and vegies.

Because of that, Dad had started to feel quite ill and was unable to look after Dave any longer. In desperation, he cried out for the snail to return and remove the wish from his son. Dave became very angry with this and because of that he stomped on the snail.

Instantly, Dad became well and strong and Dave fell very ill. Poor Dad was horrified and cried for his poor son until finally the magic snail recovered and agreed to lift the spell so they would both be well and eat proper food again.

And they all lived happily ever after

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

So here I am in the Gunnas writing class. It’s crazy because I have been thinking about this for the last week or more and have written ideas in my head, but when it comes to it I am lost.

I was sitting here thinking I have no idea what to write because all my ideas are for longer things that I can’t make into a chunk for today. But the reality is that is another excuse. Deep down I know what I have been circling and I am going to have to write it. I search desperately for something else. When I am at a loss I look back at the list of the pivot points in my life I just wrote for one of the exercises. And there it is again. That night. Oh shit I am writing it, please don’t cry yet.

At least if I finally do it then I can use it to say “well nothing is going to be as hard as writing that”. So I take a deep breath and plunge in.

I remember the build-up. The scene is that I am about nine or ten years old in the big shared house that we rent with two other families. The families are firstly, a single mum with one child much younger than me. Because I am 9 I find her intensely annoying she is always ‘borrowing’ my things and not respecting my only-child’s need for space.

The other family (the point of this story) was another single mum and her two children. The boy is my age, and his sister only a year or so younger. I love them both. They are my best friends. I have known them for three or four years, which at nine feels like forever. It is forever. We have lived together since their mother left her husband and moved in with me, my mum and my step-father. And our dog. Oh and the other annoying family… My mum has told me since that she never knew two children who got on so well and played so harmoniously as the boy, my best friend, and I.

So this day, my best friends had gone to see their father on an access visit and it is now getting towards night.

That night.

No, it’s no good, I am going to cry. Plunge on anyway.

It was getting late and I am trying to talk to the mother of my best friends, but she is not really listening. I remember feeling hurt that what I was trying to tell her wasn’t important. I am about nine and have a nine-year-old’s sensibility about what is important. Soon nothing is going to be important.

At some point I must have gone to my room. Been told to go to my room? Because I can remember sitting there and hearing the screams.

I can’t describe the screams.

Now, all these years later and I am a mother myself the memory of the screams is layered with what I can imagine about the screams. Then it was just screaming. Screaming I can’t describe.

Oh fuck I am really crying now – I might need to blow my nose. Why did I start on this? I am now the person who went to Catherine Deveny’s class and cried! Now the woman across the table is offering me a tissue. Oh shit, people are being kind, which only makes me want to cry more.

The screams.

“My babies, my babies”. I remember hearing this over and over again. And the endless barking of my dog. I don’t remember what I am thinking as I hear this. Eventually the bedroom door opens. My dog comes flying in from my mother’s arms.

“They’re dead”.

That was it. That was all she said. And the screams haven’t stopped.

“My babies”.

The door closes. I don’t really remember what I thought as I sat there trying to cuddle and calm my barking dog. I think I remember feeling like I shouldn‘t be left alone, that an adult should be with me. But maybe this is, in part, because I have since spoken (not very often maybe once or twice) with my mother and she asked something about whether I felt looked after that night. I had to admit I didn’t. I couldn’t blame her as she shook her head and felt again the pain that she hadn’t been able to make a difference to either  her best friend or to her daughter. That night. But who could help anyone on that night?

I also asked my mother about how I was after. The following week, months. I have very little memory of that time… My childhood memories are very fragmentary until maybe a year or two after that night. That night. I was trying to piece together a bit more of who I might have been then and how I dealt with the grief. She told me that I seemed ‘lost’ for quite some time after. But this doesn’t tell me much either. Lost… how lost? Where had I gone?

So I am here writing about it now – I have gone somewhere – it has never gone from me. That night. And I’m writing about that night but I still can’t describe the screams. I am telling people I want to be a writer but I can’t describe the screams.

How can you describe the screams of a mother who has just found out both her children have been killed by their father?