Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

My Father’s Hat

He would wear the hat every year at barbecues. The same chef’s hat, tall but floppy with some gaudy design on it. He loved that hat. It’s gone to my nephew now the one who bears his name. Not sure if he ever wears it, but he will one day.

But I have the apron. It’s stained and those stains won’t come out, but I don’t really want them to. They are a tangible memory of what was, a reminder of times long gone, but still vivid in my mind and etched in my memory like the Aboriginal rock drawings in the Kimberley.

When I use that apron, as I often do, I can see the barbecue fired up and Dad standing around it with the long barbecue tongs in one hand, beer in another, and I see the smoke rising . This was a real barbecue, with briquettes, none of that piped gas that we all have now. There was always the effort to get it going, and the debate about how long it would take to heat up and when to put the meat on relative to when the guests would arrive. What should go on first? The chicken or the steaks or chops?

I can see the salads all lined up, covered with glad wrap, the nuts and chips being handed around , the wine in the cooler and the beer foaming in its high mugs.

Somewhere the dog would be about, perhaps one of the German shepherds or perhaps the psychotic Doberman who ran round and round the pool until finally, one day, it dropped dead of a heart attack.

The barbecue was in the back garden , which was up a steep flight of stairs behind the house. However, in the pool house adjacent to the barbecue would be set up was a sink, small fridge and a sauna and shower.

I can visualise the old plastic dishes that were used, or perhaps paper plates, as the good china was never used for a barbecue.

Dad relished being in his hat and apron, king of the barbecue, being a good host.

Sometimes of course, Melbourne being Melbourne, there was either a total fire ban or else a cool change that would sweep through dropping the temperature by 20 degrees in 10 minutes. In those cases, the barbecue wouldn’t be on and the cooking might still be done outside on a little electric grill or, if the weather really turned, we would all come indoors.

But the hat and apron always stayed on.

People these days like to declutter. Chuck it out , they say. You don’t need it. It takes up too much space. Be zen. Empty. Bare.

But I like this old apron. It evokes a time and a memory, a feeling, a sentiment like all old things do. It might be the battered old frypan that we used to make pancakes in when we were kids, it might be the old coffee table that is a relic from a beach house from 60 years ago, it might be the old leather chairs that have lost their straps but are too comfortable to chuck out. Those memories that are indelible are with us always, and when I use that stained old apron, or sit on the chair or put the mug on the coffee table I am taken back in a nanosecond to times long past- to days where there were people and drinks and a barking dog, to hot days and wet days, to a time when we weren’t exhorted to be zen and declutter..

 

It’s funny how he liked that hat and how often I think about it. Must be something about hats in the family.

His family made hats. My grandfather had a business making straw hats in Krakow,in Poland. I don’t know how he started in the hat business, but by 1900 when my aunt was born the hat business was up and running.

Grandfather Samuel Wiener was born in a little town called Dobrowa Tarnowa which is in the area called Galicia, at one time part of the Austro Hungarian Empire. Dobrowa(which means near to or next to) Tarnowa is about 20 minutes by car from the bigger town of Tarnow.

Grandfther was born in December 1874 to Ascher Wiener and Tova Knobloch. Great grandfather was born in 1849 in Chrzanow and Tova was born in 1850 in Tarnow. Great grandfather Ascher died in May 1875 when grandfather was 6 months old. I don’t know what killed him, but possibly some sort of epidemic such as flu or typhoid. Great grandmother moved back to Tarnow and much later, in 1898, had remarried Leib Unger and had a child, Markus, in 1898 at the age of 48. Whether she was married previously or had other children I don’t know, but no records of either have been found.

I Couldn’t Quite Get My Head Around It

The first time I opened the window and saw him lying there opposite I couldn’t quite get my head around it. My god I thought he ‘s stolen a skeleton from the anatomy lab. But why is he sitting there naked? That was my first thought. But then, thinking about it some more, I thought, with some shock, surely he hasn’t killed that old geezer who lived downstairs? Or was it some love story gone really wrong? Had someone just died in the arse and there he was staring mournfully at him?

I didn’t know the answer to any of these questions and in any event it was time for me to take the cat to the vet for her annual shots so didn’t have time to ponder it any further.

Then at the vet, they had a cat for adoption. I toyed with the idea of adopting another, but I supposed that 10 was probably enough, for the minute anyway. There was after all still the possbiiltiy of fostering the cheetah cub and I supposed really that I should think of her.

It was melting the day I met the cheetah. She was alone in her enclosure and they told me I could go in and play with her for a little bit. Her mother had died, they weren’t sure why, so she had to be raised by humans until she could be released into the wild. But, as she grew, they realised that she was much too domestic cat like to ever be released, and whilst she could never be a house cat, well not really, she also wasn’t suited to the wild. The idea was that I might be able to foster her for a little bit of time.

But then, walking down the street one day with the cheetah, this weird dog started to follow me. Of course, its not my   dog as mine would be securely at home, or on a leash, or something. If I had had a dog. So I told the dog to go home which it seemed reluctant to do.

The cheetah was quite beautiful and didn’t seem to mind being just one of a family of its smaller domestic cousins. She was quite small at this stage. And then, as soon as she seemed to be settling in, she seemed to change a little. Whereas she had purred and chirruped as they do, she adopted a different persona, almost dog like. I couldn’t really say what prompted it, whether it was that odd dog that followed us, or what.

The one day we were out and the dog joined us and walked with us for a bit, but then, in a weird way, it began to crumple as if it had heard bad news. I couldn’t say what happened to it, but it just sort of sauntered off. By then I had ascertained that it lived with the old guy round corner who used to work for ASIO. Funny old dude but harmless in his way. Well, now he was. Not sure that I could say that in the past.

So the cheetah stayed with us for a couple of months, until finally, she grew too big and had to be returned to the sanctuary. I still go and visit her, and she comes and sits on my knee as she used to do, as she observed the other cats doing, and purrs loudly. I had bottle fed her at nights and sometimes she would indicate somehow that she wanted the bottle again, so, to be prepared, I always brought one with me and had it heated up there. She particularly liked certain brands of milk.

I often wondered how many people the old ASIO dude had killed. We knew he had as he was so cagey about what he did.

Then I saw the young guy from across the way. I was about to ask him about the skeleton, when I saw him look around and go into the house of the old ASIO dude.

There were 39 steps in his front yard we had heard. Was he going up those 39 steps or was there some other in? It was only when I heard the news that I found out.

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

For humanity to survive with its civilisation intact, there needs to be a global change to drug enforcement policy. A change in mindset is needed from majority of the population, who due to a combination of government led misinformation for decades and being affected by religious beliefs. Have incorrect and harmful ideas about ‘illicit’ drugs.

Ending prohibition will benefit the world by:

1. Fixing the Economy. It seems ridiculous and illogical to spend vast amounts of money trying to stop the supply rather than regulating and taxing the demand. Developed nations bemoaning national debt and budgetary shortfalls need to shit and get on the pot.

2. Ending the Monopoly Alcohol Exploits. Alcohol has a monopoly on private and social inebriation. By the time most are in their early twenties, drinking culture and weekly/nightly drinking habits are well ingrained. Along with the belligerence and apathy that goes with it. The experience ‘Illicit’ or recreational drugs offer is application specific. Some are good for creative tasks, some good for mediation, some good for dancing, some good for conversation.

3. Make the Industry Not For Profit. Currently the majority of the drug market operates for profit, and arguably this is also the reason prohibition is maintained. What ending prohibition offers is an opportunity to establish a manufacturing, distribution and responsible usage system that is not profit focused. Ok there’s going to have to be some profit somewhere to keep the capitalists happy. It’s not just being about harm minimisation but positively enhancing society in general, this is the aim.

4. Data Doesn’t Lie. The overwhelming story the data from regions that have made a positive change to drug policy is that it is a change for the better. Contrast this to the medieval strategies, such as those imposed by the President for the Philippines and it is obvious that zero tolerance around ‘illicit’ drug use is primarily a tool to commit genocide on a population. Both directly (executions) and indirect methods such as creating stigma and a vilified subculture around drug use.

5. Smarter People. A significant motivator and driver of demand for recreational drugs is their ability to improve cognitive function. This is a delicate element of some drug use that if managed carefully we can maximise the benefits and minimise the negative side effects. We want our brains running faster, better, longer, with less mental illness and correct dosage of some therapeutic medicine will make that happen.

6. End Scapegoating of Drugs. They are the easiest target for politicians and authorities to apportion blame to. They are often used as a stop-gap to prevent delving deeper in the bigger social issues contributing to death, crime and much more. A person dies of a heroin overdose? the response is what a shame they succumbed to the evils of drugs. Instead of who was it that abused and traumatised that person so they required a constant supply of a banned therapeutic medicine so they could function. Is someone presenting at hospital or medical clinic because of drugs? or are they malnourished, stressed over debt, don’t have enough money to survive, dealing with the realisation their religious beliefs are a bit like santa or has the illogicality of the world we live in just not compute and their brain needs help rebooting.

7. Removing the Market for Synthetics. The only reason these exist is in order to circumvent prohibition. Technically they are legal, functionally they are a bigger health risk the the natural drugs they are trying to mimic the effects of. As well as lacking the active ingredients/elements that make some recreational drugs beneficial when used correctly and in moderation. Trying to scientifically prove the health benefits is intentionally made as impossible as possible thanks to prohibition.

8. Trading Guns for Licences. The killing and death that occurs due to the enforcement of prohibition, along with the wars over territory and distribution by the existing manufacturers and suppliers. Is totally unnecessary. The only way to bring a positive change is to work with rather than against the existing players. It is in everyone’s interest to trade guns for licences so to speak, There is enough margin in these products so that producers, distributors and retailers can operate without the threat or costs of dealing with the legal system, the governments can take tax and law enforcement can be repurposed to issuing massive fines for unlicensed activity rather than trying to throw people in gaol for a couple of years.

As it stands, with what we now know. If you still support prohibition you support death and crime and poverty and suffering and an Australia wallowing in eternal debt. And you’re a sadist. The whole abstinence thing does not work, it’s a proven failure with sex. Religion tried their best and did their worst to convince people to keep their pants on. Same thing is happening with drugs, people will do it no matter how many tv shows and movies are made depicting drug dealers as evil. You realise Hank was actually the villain in Breaking Bad, that’s a whole other topic to delve into.

The vision I am working towards is one where the young adults of 2020 and beyond don’t have to buy cannabis from meth heads and heroin addicts funding their own usage and ‘pushing the harder stuff on them’. Even using those terms shouldn’t carry the murky disdain it does, because if someone wants to do that, that’s their business. What society can influence is how they are supplied, what they are supplied with and the support they get to manage what they choose to use. If we can do that better at beginning of a person’s drug use then that is when we will see less people reaching levels of severe dependence, overdosing or going over the edge.

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Shaking hands can hold on to things. I watched his – they were thrust forward across the table. It seemed a privilege that I was the only one to notice their slight tremor; a secret thing, not apparent to the casual observer. We were out the back in the beer garden and the service was shit, the garden smelled like stale alcohol and cigarettes. The edge of the table was some sort of metal…fucking hipsters, why do they have to go and make everything so attractive yet also so uncomfortable? Our drinks were long since drained so we were talking without the benefit of anything to sip between remarks.

His body language was persuasive. It was a congenital tremor but I couldn’t help feeling infected by anxiety when I saw that slight movement travel the whole length of his hands. A long time has passed and I’m remembering his drink seemed warm but that’s fanciful re-imagining. Really, it was just a few dregs of beer left in the bottom that were soaking up the afternoon sun. We talked about politics and women’s lib and whatever book he’d just read by Plato but his fingertips were all I could concentrate on, though they were barely visible in my peripheral vision.  Our esoterica was perfectly appropriate for this environment; the service was so bad that nobody even came to take away our empties. We spoke slowly and turned the glasses to lubricate them with the sweat of our palms.

I remember I was wearing men’s trousers that day and a V-neck T-shirt. Whenever I wear that uniform my arms feel like they belong to someone else. They are browned and weathered enough to belong to a thirty-five-year-old man. That afternoon my limbs felt sublime, actionable. I wanted to take both his hands and fold them into stillness.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

 

Trumpetta the elf, was generally loud,

But tonight her voice was cloaked in a ‘cloud’!

Intently she listened, her eyes open wide,

So marvelous a sight that she nearly cried!

 

The puppets had learned,

To make music and earned

Much respect, for their catchy sound

Made you want to twirl round and around!

 

Train Driver was first, with whistle in hand,

Behind him was Lambie, bleating rhythm in this band.

The Koala, a bit of a “star”,

‘Cos she’s been observed in UK,-that’s very far!

 

Parrot, controlling his squawk,

Miraculously kept rhythm, tapping his fork!

Starfish was silent, moving slowly,

No sound as she slithered down lowly.

 

Then Platypus, just a little bit lonely,

And perhaps… maybe… if only!

Her poor worn out bill

Could make someone thrill

With her cross rhythm beat,

 

Check out Josie’s Piano Lessons Plus here

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Sitting with a group of like-minded masterclassers who determinedly want to write something, anything really, but are unsure of how to do this at all, do it better, or do it just for the hell of it, can be very empowering, or intimidating. The chemistry of eagerness physically permeates the small room with a large table. It ebbs and flows with the stories and observations that people manage to insert into the relentless stream of knowledge, ideas and suggestions pouring from Catherine, the Head Gunna, liberally spiced with her fearless language and admissions.

You walk away with a hopefully higher level of inspiration and a lower level of excuses, and a better framed notion of how to translate those half-baked ideas lurking in the back of your skull into something tangible. A book or a blog. Writing or webpage. A relief or a revenge. And knowing that there are others wrestling with the same inspiration, demons, issues and excuses is only half the benefit. The real gain comes from sharing ways of nurturing your own open mind that brought you here in the first place, and topping this up with an enthusiasm for completion, not craft, inimitably communicated by the gregarious, multi-talented Deveny.

Seeping energy, fuelled by challenge, common sense and good food make this no waste of six hours of a life for those ready for it. Not at all a laugh fest, although laughs were to be had. Instead, an intense and generous sharing of journeys, roads travelled, techniques, tools and suggestions, laced with admitted failures, hit a cynical but fertile target absolutely dead centre. A panacea for excuses.

A much needed day away for any confessed would be Gunna who has been too long a source of ridicule and criticism by those not appreciative of the despair and frustration of having words and stories locked away, of what it really takes to put them on paper or screen, and can’t help except to exhort and sigh at the lack of anything eventuating. It renews the confidence and gives you ways of dealing with the well meaning encouragement from those we live with who have never set foot on the same road as the like-minded.

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

We’re all searching for it, our purpose, our passion, the thing that makes us sit up every morning and want to get out into the world. I have reflected and searched for my gift for as long as I can remember. What is it that I am supposed to give back? How am I going to contribute? What do I have to offer?

Today I think I may have found it! My magic!

The thing that makes me light up inside and nourishes my soul. What I didn’t realise was that I had always had it with me. I think I may have stumbled across it by accident when I was younger but managed to bury it over with fear and self-doubt. I knew I had something there I just didn’t know what to do with it.

I have always looked at my Mum and admired her natural artistic flare and often wondered why I hadn’t found my passion or purpose when it seems to flow so freely through her. I am cut from the same cloth, where was my talent? The problem was, I think I always knew it was there but didn’t understand it. My best friend often encouraged me to pursue writing, she could see it too but I doubted myself and always felt that the timing wasn’t right or what I had to say no one else wanted to hear. That’s the problem with magic, how can you use it if you don’t believe? I didn’t believe that I had what it takes so I ignored it. I had been ignoring the little voice that had been trying to get out. Looking for something else to make my heart skip a beat.

Until today I hadn’t really understood the concept of art or having a muse, but I am starting to see why I have attachments to things or people and why I want to express myself in writing. It comes naturally to me. Not in the sense that I always have something to say, but in the sense that I am an expressive person. Having in depth conversations with the people I love and admire can send me off into a little writing frenzy and sets my ideas on fire. Sometimes it’s small and manageable and other times it’s pie in the sky. What excites me now is that I want to chase each thought, explore these ideas further, make time to make my writing a priority.

I feel like I have uncovered another piece of my authentic self and it excites me. It opens up pathways and brings with it new challenges that I can’t wait to explore. The shine and sparkle of testing out my craft is something I can’t wait to do, so here I am sharing it with you. We all have that special something in us, we just have to have the courage to look. Believe in your magic and follow your heart and there you will find your passion and purpose.

 

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time those fucking hipsters turned up at the corner I tried to ignore them. All bloody beards, pony tails and perfume. Their chicks all looked like lesbians. My mates a real lesbian. She reckons lesbians invented hipsters and they’re all just imposters. They think they are so bloody cool. Soy decaf latte drinking wankers. Like those chicks getting around with dreadlocks, torn overalls and a half naked baby on their hips getting in and out of their fucking  Mercedes four wheel drives. Yummy mummies, pretending to be something else.

Whatever happened to authenticity? In the event of an emergency, face the wall and breathe. I can feel my blood boiling whenever I see them. These used to be my streets, filled with my people. Drug addicts, prostitutes, down and out alcoholics and the homeless. It was our beach, our strip. Then the yuppies moved in, the yummy mummies, the hipsters. In fact, I think the yummy mummies and the yuppies bred the fucking hipsters.

They look at us like we’re scum, dirtying up the streets. We built this fucking place mate! See that building there, where you park your Porsche? That’s where my mate made a living in her back shagging people like your daddy, when your mummy didn’t want to put out for him. So, you’re not so different really.  Their smug fucking faces make me want to fix them. Where is the dog? That’s what we’ll do. We’ll get Buster and sharpen the knives.

Me and Jonny went out at night onto the dark streets, our streets and fucked up some of those fucking hipsters.  We caught em down a way one lane. Buster stopped em from escaping, he’s good like that. Looks real mean with a snarl on, and that pale pink scar down his left cheek.

That was a bold move by Jonny stepping into the light and pinning the hipster to the wall, letting him see his mad as fuck grin whilst I sawed off the fuckers pony tail. Even had a bit of a go at his beard. Ha. Ha, ha! Now he’ll have to shave it off or look like a wanker.

Next minute his stupid girlfriend started screaming. Bitch. What is it with these chicks? All look like tough as nuts lesos, but scratch the surface and they just start bleeting. I wasn’t having none of that. The bloody hipster started crying too and then Jonny decked him. One headbutt was all it took and he was down for the count!

Then that bitch really screamed. So I just grabbed her and punched her once in that shrieking gob.  Not too hard, but hard enough to shut her up. The scream turned into a little whimper.  Good girl I whispered in her ear.  Jonny and I looked at each other. What now it said, that look. We were daring each other.

Then I heard it. Fucking sirens. So, we ran.

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Two brains are better than one, especially if you’re a zombie. Sophie had never suspected the insatiable cravings for brains that would come with being a zombie. But she had made the choice and now she needed find a way to deal with it. Yes, it had been a well researched and deliberate choice to become a zombie. Not the lifestyle choice of may people, especially the ones that preferred the company of the living. Sophie preferred the living, but generally their sweet, gooey, slimy brains. Sophie was you could say, the ultimate in pro-choice. She was pro-choice everything provided it wasn’t harming anyone else. She hadn’t really thought the no harm aspect through when she had made her walking-dead decision.

The zombie lifestyle wasn’t for everyone. Her family, whom she still saw occasionally, didn’t really approve of her choice. But then they had never really approved of her choices anyway. At least now she had the ultimate excuse for skipping family functions because no-one, even the beloved living, wanted to spend their time with a brain-hungry-killing-machine. She only ever visited on a full stomach; she didn’t need any over powering temptations of hunger to lure into devouring an unsuspecting family members. Family gatherings were already awkward and heaven forbid she accidentally turn one of them into a zombie as well. Fuck, Christmas lunch was bad enough, but spending eternity with them? No! Minimal amount of time with family was recommended whether you were living, dead or something in between.

Pissing off her family had not been the reason for her ‘life’-style choice. It was an added, albeit unintended, positive consequence. It was a no brainer really given that so many of the people from Sophie’s living world were pretty much brainless to begin with. Mindless drones, sipping their skinny soy lattes – because “I’m dairy intolerant” – while eating slabs of chocolate cake – “a little treat won’t hurt” – all while wearing their latest Lorna Jane rip-off lounge wear – $200 on tracksuit pants is worth it because they’re just so comfortable” – and discussing their latest plans to procreate so that they had the ultimate accessory; a baby who they could deck out in what every infant fashion trend that was hot that month. She had sat in different cafes, drinking the same lattes, made by essentially the same barista, listening to the same old conversations for way too many years. It was time for a change and only a change of epic proportions would do.

It had begun with a random flyer that had been placed under windscreen wiper. Nothing about the flyer had registered as she pulled it into her car, rolling her eyes at the wastage of paper and potential masses of litter. It was a rainy and windy day and that was the only reason she had only pulled it into her car rather than removing it and ditching it in the bin when she got home. It now seemed ridiculous that such a monumental life choice was predicated on the weather, but then again she was a Melbournian. Like the random left or right shoes (but never a pair), countless pairs of chopsticks, butter-menthol wrappers and half empty water bottles, the flyer had sat in various locations in her car until the once-a-year-I’m-visiting-my-family-so-my-car-best-be-clean car cleaning event. It appeared to be some zombie lovers’ gathering but it read just a little like some white supremacist paraphernalia that was surreptitiously handed out on the quad during her uni days. Curious, she typed in the website to see that the event had. There was a random collection of links to things like ZombieCon and Zombie Camp 2016 with pictures of people dressed up as zombies riding horses, canoeing and taking nature walks. There was a blog explaining the etymology of ‘zombie’ and why it was spelt zombie and not zomby. And there also seemed to be many forums dedicated to the argument between purest zombies and people who believed that zombie/human cohabitation was not just possible but desirable for the future of both species. Flashbacks to Twilight flickered through her then live brain. She had already spent enough of her life reading soulless monster fiction, she was not been drawn into that world again.

 

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

That’s me there on the right. The shortest one. The one without the top hat. It was a day in September, at the community fair. We decided to dress up as gentleman – we were quirky that way. I wore a bowler – because it reminded me of a blueberry. I’ve always loved blueberries. That’s an understatement. I’m obsessed with blueberries. Their shape, their size, their colour, their texture. The taste; a perfect mix of sour and sweet. I often thought to myself, wouldn’t it be wonderful to be a blueberry, even for a day. I would hate to be thrown into a blender with bunch of other blueberries and made into a smoothie. Or baked into a muffin. No, I want to be the blueberry that’s carefully selected, on its own, and eaten fresh, by impulse. Because I stand out from other blueberries. And out of all the blueberries, I am the one that looks good enough to eat – straight away. On its own. I never told anyone about this, I felt stupid letting others know that I fantasised about being a blueberry! The man in the middle, that’s Steve.   He was the tallest man I ever saw – which says a lot, because as you can see, I’m barely taller than his knee! Of course, Steve always had the advantage. For example, he had his pick of blueberries on the bush. Whereas I can only select from the low hanging ones.   But if I asked him kindly, he would make sure to pick the best ones from the top. This was very important to me. I don’t know who the other man in the photo is. Neither Steve nor I ever saw him before. But for some reason, he decided to dress up as a gentleman that day – top hat and all!   You wouldn’t think he was a total stranger by looking at the photo, of course. I just remember he came up to us asking “Where is the dog?” just as the photo was snapped. I always found it odd that he stopped and posed while the photo was being taken. This was next level photobombing! Immediately after, he simply walked away muttering “Where is the dog? Where is the dog?” repeatedly under his breath, not giving us a second look.

You would think it was a rainy day that day, but quite the contrary. The sun was shining brightly over head. Don’t be fooled by the umbrella, that’s just Steve’s secret walking stick. He developed a limp while he was sent away for a while, he never explained how it happened. But I knew for a fact, he was too proud to use a walking stick. He was only 30 years old. So, he used an umbrella to steady himself instead. He felt it was more socially acceptable. It made him feel refined, not disabled. That was a bold move, I think.   After all, everyone could see he had trouble walking; the umbrella just wasn’t long enough to disguise his limp; but he thought he could fool people. I don’t care. We had a habit of fooling people. Heck – we made a living out of it. These same people thought I was a baby, but I’m actually the same age as Steve 2 months older in fact!   We’ve been friends since school. I’m just a dwarf with a baby face. They just assume I’m his toddler son. And you would too! We’ve been scamming people for years.

After the photo, we went for a beer in the next stall, preparing for our heist. Next minute, the man in the top hat looking for his dog spotted us smoking our cigars and clinking our beer glasses. Our cover was blown. We couldn’t possibly risk him calling us out – we had grand plans for pickpocketing and looting at the fair. So I called him over, and offered him a blueberry. I always keep a stash on me – laced with sedatives. This is how I immobilise our targets. Who wouldn’t take a blueberry offered by a sweet baby. I let him have his pick. Usually, people only take one. But he was different. He said he hadn’t eaten in days, so he scooped up the lot. Before I could stop him, he had devoured the handful. Seems he loved blueberries as well. He soon fell into a permanent deep sleep. Oh well, at least our secret is safe and we can go about our business. Luckily, I wasn’t a blueberry on that day, I wouldn’t have been able to tell this story. I would be dissolving in this poor man’s stomach. Out of nowhere, a dog appeared and went straight up to the man as he lay there lifeless. He looked deeply saddened. Then he turned to me, as if he knew what I had done. I gave him a pat, and decided to adopt him.   It’s the least I could do. I was responsible for his sadness. I named him Blueberry. As far as I’m concerned, he’s the luckiest dog in the world. He’s living my fantasy!

 

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

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