All posts by Princess Sparkle

Three Easy Pieces – Juliet Charles

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

The Woman On The Tram

She was the most perfectly beautiful woman he had ever seen. How long had he been coming in to town on this tram? And when did he first become aware of this brunette with the wonderful face – the wide squarish jaw and the straight, proud nose? She wore her hair in that very popular style women were wearing these days – he couldn’t describe it – he was only a man! But if pushed, he would say, it was some sort of roll at the crown, clear of her broad forehead and long at the sides. He would have no problem describing her hair as thick and glossy. How many mornings had he sneaked looks at her while supposedly engrossed in his newspaper? How he would love to meet her. But this morning he was ecstatic. She was sitting next to his friend, Bessie Harding – and they were chatting. He leapt to his feet and staggered the few steps towards their seats. He coughed nervously and his friend Bessie looked up. He cleared his throat and greeted her. “Oh Ken, she said – how are you? This is my friend Joy”. Joy said “hello Ken” and he nearly fainted. She must have had the most glorious smile he had ever seen. It was dazzling. And he had really never seen such beautiful teeth. Pearly white and straight. He hung onto the strap and swayed with the movement of the tram. The rest of the trip, he reflected later, was a haze. But he hoped that their conversation – surely the intelligent yet casual mix he was pursuing – and his charm – oh how he tried to be charming – would provide even the faintest glimmer of a favourable impression with her. For already, he loved her with all of his heart.

 

Away

Such homesickness he had not thought possible. The ship left Sydney Harbour days ago. He missed Joy so much, it actually felt like pain . Much later he would bitterly regret not marrying her before steaming off to the Middle East. He reflected on his life in Melbourne – working in an office in the City, studying accountancy by night; and taking Joy out on weekends. Not exactly an exciting or unusual life. But now, his life for the present – and who knew for how long in the future – was something vibrant, new, impossibly different. What was in his makeup that compelled him to sign up for the war – to offer his services to Australia and to support Britain? Because of course, this is how he saw his contribution. And although it may be an incredible life change, the notion of not being involved was unthinkable. He couldn’t understand how Alec and Doug did not feel the need to join up. During the voyage from Sydney to Egypt he became more aware of how just how different his life was and how much more so, it would become. What jolted him unexpectedly were his yearning for Joy and less powerfully, his feelings about his family.

A Special Boy

(This story was inspired by my picture of a man and a woman with rays coming from their heads. It made me think of Superman’s special x-ray vision. My scrap of writing read “crank it up”)

Once upon a time there was a boy called Silas. He always felt special and that he had extraordinary powers – but he was not sure why he felt that. One day, when he was about 13 he discovered that he could see through heavy materials – like bricks, or wood or concrete. For example, on the Tuesday after his birthday he saw his next-door neighbour outside their front door – as if it was a pane of glass. Silas was able to every day practise his new found skills and perform miracles. He discovered much about his friends and classmates and played harmless tricks on them all. But he was afraid to let anyone know. He kept secret for example, the fact that he could see people’s bodies beneath their clothes. One day he saw his mother outside his bedroom door, about to come in. He didn’t want her to, as he was reading a very interesting book and did not want to be interrupted. So when his mother knocked he said he was in bed ready to sleep but she said “don’t be ridiculous Silas, I can see that you’re reading your book”. He closed his book and opened the door. “I think that you’ve inherited your secret powers from me” she said. She took him over to the window. “What can you see through the walls of the shed?” He said he could see his father, in his special Man Shed, place a record on his old fashioned player and was about to crank it up. It was amazing! Mother said, “one day when I was a girl, about your age, I discovered I could see through the walls of buildings – like the Tower of London, right through to the courtyard and beyond. I never told my parents that. Silas said “how can we use our powers for good? How can we make this ghastly world a better place?” His mother said that like Silas, she had always used her powers to play tricks on other people and have fun. She never told them the truth. She thought Silas’ ideas were wonderful and together they sat down in the lounge-room, while in the shed Father played his music, and talked long and hard into the night about how they could help the world. And because of that, many wonderful things happened. They helped the Government discover if people were smuggling in illegal goods like guns, they helped doctors and nurses diagnose illnesses, as they could see into peoples’ bodies. And so they continued their good work until finally Mother died – old but content. They never did tell Silas’ father. But Silas decided that if he had children one day, he would try to discover if they had these powers. He would help them channel their deeds into good ones. But of course there was still room for some harmless trickery. He would be sure to tell his children that.

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Strange Things – K A Fairjones

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time there was a man with a camera. He went around with open eyes taking photos of the strange things. He took photos of birds hopping along the ground. He took photos of leaves turning from green to orange. He took a photo of a child kicking through a puddle.
One day he decided to hold an exhibition, his photos of strange things. Many flocked, they exclaimed over the pieces. How he saw life and how they saw the world. Every day people would come and walk through his strange things. They would note the absurdities. Two doves sitting on the war memorial. The sunrise over a sodden landscape recently decimated by flood. One day the people came and the photos had changed. There was writing and symbols scrawled across the work. Messages of hate and sorrow. The show took on a new title The Vandal of Strange Things.
The man came and took a look at his life’s work. The words were disjointed, confronting. He sat and pondered. He pulled out his camera and started to take pictures. He took pictures of the words. He took pictures of people looking at the words and he took pictures of the street. He fastened his tie and heading up the street. He walked and walked, taking pictures along the way.
He walked until one day the words stopped. In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees, grass and birds he slowly sat down. He placed his camera on ground. He patiently unfastened his tie and took off his jumper. He rolled up his sleeves and breathed in. He unlaced his shoes, one lace at a time. He rolled his trousers up and sank his toes into the grassy dirt. Because of that his toes and feet became slightly damp. He stretched up, stood tall and swayed side to side. He exhaled and inhaled while closing his eyes. He listened and sank into the noises around. And because of that he heard a soft cry in the distance. The voices grew as he disengaged from the environment. The wind, sun and quiet. The voices grew excited. He opened his eyes and took a step forward. A step at a time he followed the voices. He stepped over logs, transversed a small stream until finally he climbed up a steep hill and saw a break. A group of children were running and laughing. Giggling and playing. Their teacher, a friendly type, was directing and indulging their antics. The children ran and ducked. Chased and swung. They lived and breathed every moment.
It was at that moment that the man looked down and saw himself. His tie and jumper were abandoned, his shoes and socks discarded. His camera was missing, forgotten, back on the ground. He quickly turned away and spirited down the hill, jumped across the stream and skipped over the logs. He swooped down and grabbed his camera mid turn. He pranced across the logs and dashed across the stream. He army crawled up the hill until he was perched on the rise. He snuggled down and raised his camera. He slowly adjusted the lens and changed the light. Then he waiting. He watched the playing, laughing  and living until it came to an end. The perfect shot. He click away. The light was right. The time was right. The kids were quiet, lining up for class. Smiling and a little tired and ready to learn. The photo of possible things.

 

 

 

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Dancing with Demons – gilmoregal42

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

 

Today I contemplated getting out of bed and going to the office for at least one minute before the futility of life overwhelmed my small ambition and I hit the alarm button and rolled over to go back to sleep. I promise myself I will email Kate, our receptionist, before 9.30 am so my very caring work colleagues are not concerned about my whereabouts. I don’t really understand why I am back in this place although the ‘how’ is patently obvious.

Eight months ago I was on top of my game again and ready to take on the world. A controlling ex-partner, work deadlines and the endless demands of domestic routine and single parenting couldn’t faze me. It’s funny how stopping your meds seems so logical when your feel good – even when you’re a health professional and should know better. So here I am again, lying in bed, unable to take the first step toward facing the day. I did make it to the office yesterday, but by 11 am the gnawing in my stomach had become intolerable and my chest felt so constricted that I hid in the bathroom for half an hour trying to calm my panicked breathing. I left at lunchtime.

I read my journal entries from 2008 – the dark thoughts and self-help quotes and I wonder if my life will ever be ‘normal’ again. I am a barely functioning shell of the real me. My spirit is crushed by the voices in my head highlighting my inadequacies and failure in life.

More frightening still is the fragile emotional state of my highly articulate daughter who has no words to describe why her world is so bleak. My mother suicided when I was 35 and I contemplate the legacy our family has passed on to my daughter. My guilt is compounded by her neediness. What kind of mother am I to be in this state when she has never needed my support more than now? At least I have some understanding of her pain. She tells me many of her friends feel the same way as her but they don’t discuss it with their family.

On the surface life is fabulous. I live in a wonderful home, my kids are great, I am well compensated to do work I enjoy and I have planned a 3 week trip overseas with friends for later this year. But the reality is I am terrified. Of everything, but especially of failing to cope with life.

Epilogue: Gilmoregal managed to win this battle in her ongoing struggle with anxiety and depression. With the help of yoga, family and friends, the occasional bottle of wine and yes the dreaded anti-depressants life is back on track for now…

 

 

 

 

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The Journey – Karen Milgrom

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

The woman struggled up the steeply inclined track, the babe in her arms grizzling for the breast. There was no time to stop. Three children were labouring to keep pace, the youngest tightly clutching her mother’s skirts.

It was a hot day and the woman felt overheated in her rough-spun woollen dress but she had no other. Her boots were patched at the heel but at least she was shod, unlike her barefoot children who snivelled and moaned when the rocks were too sharp or the ants bit. Her face under its battered straw hat was as worn as her clothes. In years, she was still a young woman, but her eyes told a different story, a story of hunger and pain, of childbirth and loss, of brutality and neglect. A common story.

Her husband was in front, leading the old carthorse that carried all their possessions on its bony back. His brass uniform buttons shone in the glistening sunlight. He was swigging from a jug. She knew that before their journey ended he would be staggering and she would have to somehow manage the horse as well as all the children. She silently prayed that he would be able to hold onto this job; that for once he could restrain his drinking and foul temper for the sake of his family.

“Keep up you lot or you’ll see the back of my hand, “he yelled back at them. “We gotta to be in Creswick by nightfall.”

The woman made an extra effort to quicken her pace. The little boy stumbled and fell, wailing as his knee smashed hard on the rocky ground. She stopped to bind his knee, begging him to shush. His father had no patience with snivelling children, especially his own. She sighed and set one foot in front of the other, just keeping going once again.

 

 

 

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Once Upon A Time – Melody Poppins

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time….
Barely visible in the dim light of an inner suburban alley…
A man in a barmans white shirt and vest lights his cigarette before leaning over to place a cigarette between the waitress in the crumpled skirts lipstick lips.
He hands her the green plastic lighter.
In the distance a police siren sounds. Noise from the kitchen as the bain marines are shoved in the sink.
Its closing time in the bar. She stands close to him her neck craning up towards his face
Wondering if she should start ironing.
She gives the lighter a good solid flick,
He is talking about his car
The wind flutters down the alley, there’s a spark and a small flame
She pushes the head of the cigarette towards it
Just as the flame quivers away in the wind
“And now I have to get the interior cleaned because my brother spilled bourbon on the backseat’
He seems oblivious to the status of her cigarette….After her 3rd attempt the girl decides to simply devote herself to listening. Telling herself that the more patient she becomes the better.  This is a good opportunity…
Besides before she didn’t want a cigarette …and now he has placed one in her mouth.. and even if it felt sexy and like it menat he liked her, but then also the temperature is dropping. …
She should be getting home, work is over after all, his wife will be expecting him surely….
Perhaps there is an advantage to his disregard….
One day, she thinks, someone will notice what she needs.
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Work – Vincent Hicks

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time there was a small boy idly kite flying alongside a high-rise parking lot on a very windy day. He walked slowly along the cobbled footpath, completely oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the world passing him by. Suddenly he became extremely agitated when the kite started plummeting towards the overhead power lines. Everyday, the boy had been had been kite flying during this week, he had encountered no such problems; no mishaps, no unforseen obstacles. But today was different. He was now forced to use previously untapped skills to protect his beloved kite. One day in the previous week, he was unable to go kite flying due to the unusually inclement weather; this was the only interruption to his normal daily routine. Today was very different. The boy stated to jiggle and wiggle the kite string, using his whole body like some deranged juggler. His eyes never left the kite as the traffic whizzed by. His skill was outstanding, enabling him to deftly shift the kite from its perilous flight toward the overhead wires.
An old man stood on the opposite side of the road, watching intently. The boy had a sense he was being watched and finally his concentration was broken; he looked across the road at the old momentarily forgetting the kite’s doomed destination. The two stared at each other for what seeme…

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The Couch, the Skeleton, the Woman and Cupcakes – Jeanette Wirt

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time, there was a couch, a skeleton and a naked woman. The skeleton and naked woman was posed at either end of the couch. The naked woman was surmising whether the skeleton would have so bony if he had eaten more cupcakes whilst alive.

Cupcakes taste good, but are not so nutritious. They can be naked or decorated. They can be iced.

Everyday could be a day for cupcakes. Making the cupcake mix is therapeutic for some. Creativity with the icing and decoration can be therapeutic for others. These days, cupcake decorating is a whole new artistic thing. Not sure why daggy old cupcakes made a comeback as a fashion thing. Was it Sex in the City?

One day maybe I should try my hand at making fancily decorated cupcakes. The muffins at my local Café are a bit of an inspiration with their decorative toppings shouting “buy me”. I’m more interested in the toppings than the actual muffin, Texas pan size, themselves. They look like half your daily calorie intake in one baked item.

Now let’s get back to the cupcakes. They now manufacture containers especially to carry your cupcakes in to travel. Even tiered cake plates to accommodate cup cakes.

Because of that, couples now have wedding cakes made up of tiers of cupcakes. I’m not sure how elaborate they’ll eventually become.

This activity has now carried over to other things until finally we are now getting ‘imitation’ cakes of cupcake like tiers made up of nappies like at the Baby Shower we had at the gym a couple of days ago.

That’s enough of cupcakes. Why is there a skeleton posed on a couch?

At the last minute, I did notice the naked woman at the other end of the couch gazing at the skeleton. I didn’t notice her face earlier as there was a paper fold across her eyes. Why is she gazing at the skeleton? What are they both doing posed on the couch? What connection do the cupcakes have?

I don’t know or would even venture to guess. This is part of a writing exercise in Catherine Deveny’s Gunnas Writing Master class and here is what I learned.

Just write! Don’t worry about where you are, what chapter it should be, that you are not sitting at a desk. That you don’t think anything will come to you.

This exercise started with a mangled photocopy of a picture of a vintage style couch with a rather tall looking skeleton at one end, a naked female posed not to show anything at the other end. And a separate piece of paper with only the word ‘cupcake’ typed on it. To get us started and help us along, we were given six prompts (in the bold type) at various intervals to incorporate wherever we were up to, starting with Once upon a time.

The Gunnas Writing Master class is not about how to write but how to get you motivated to write.

After spending decades of a professional life easily writing and editing specifications, manuals, business cases, project plans, internet content, presentations and speeches with words and writing coming easily to me to meet workplace deadlines, what did I discover on this class?

Much to my surprise, I wrote quickly and easily during the enforced writing exercises. I didn’t agonise or delay, the words easily tumbled out too quickly for my hand writing to keep up.

Self criticism is your worst enemy. Don’t worry about what anyone else will think, particularly you. Just write.

Initially attending today with non-fiction aims, I might think about some fiction writing and some social commentary too.

Maybe this is the start. Stop. Not maybe.

This is the start of something new for me.

 

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I’m Set Free – Camille Broomhead

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

When my uncle Mark died there were four of us in the room; the neighbour, Michael who happened to be a nurse, my aunt Jane who is also a nurse, my uncle Damian and me. Damian had always been the master of mix tapes and his selection of songs at Mark’s deathbed proved to be no exception. We had been talking quietly out on the deck when he had leaped up like a man possessed and made his way as quickly as possible to Mark’s bedroom. It was as though, in that moment, he had come to the full realisation that hearing is the last sense to go and he knew exactly what to do. My grandparents were sitting by Mark’s bedside, praying the rosary. Somehow, Damian’s entrance to the room shook them from their vigil and they left the room, suddenly desperate for a sandwich.

We played a number of songs in that twilight time. The Police “Walking on the Moon” and “Message in a Bottle” and songs by Bon Iver and Boy and Bear. Damian’s arthritic fingers were too stiff to navigate the iPad, so I served as his trusty assistant, plugging the songs into the Mog site as he thought of them with an ever increasing sense of urgency. Mark’s breathing was becoming more and more intermittent and it seemed as though every breath he drew could be his last. Damian sat facing him, looking lovingly at his baby brother while Jane and Michael were having an intense conversation about pain medication and weren’t really paying attention to what was going on by Mark’s bedside.

The songs continued. “There’s a song”, Damian said, “It’s by Lou Reed…I’m so free?” I dutifully played “I’m so free”. We could feel we were close but hadn’t quite got there. Then Damian remembered, “The Velvet Underground, I’m Set Free”. I tapped the song into Mog. The music wafted out from the electronic device. The words “I’m set free to find a new illusion” hitting us with all of their power and resonance. At the exact conclusion of the song Mark breathed his final breath, a private moment shared between him and his big brother, and died.

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The Great Big Stinky Burp Competition – Jennie Irving

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

“I’ve done it! Yippee!” Charley’s shout came from the kitchen, barely two seconds before the sound of glass shattering on the tiled floor. A deep, fruity, noisy belch splurted out through the open kitchen door. It oozled around the corner and into the laundry. A baked-beansy, last-night’s-lentilsy sort of smell drifted in its wake.

“Far out!” Dad’s shocked voice floated back to where Charley stood in the kitchen, surrounded by shards of glass. “What on EARTH was that?”

He appeared around the corner like a human clothes horse, wet washing hanging from his shoulders and each hand.

Charley beamed from the stool by the kitchen sink. “Well,” she said, “I reckon that would have rated at least 8.5 overall.”

“Overall what?” asked her dad, his eyes scanning the floor to see just how far the broken glass had spread.

“Overall on a burp-meister-meter, of course,” she replied. “I reckon that one would have scored a 9.5 for sound, maybe 8.5 for strength and stinkiness. Maybe 9 for speed?” She sighed. “It would probably only have rated a 7.5 for staying power, though. It didn’t last very long.”

Her dad shook his head. “It seemed long enough to me,” he remarked drily, then eyed Charley curiously. “What I can’t figure out though, is how a noise so big comes out of someone so small!” He looked again at his grinning daughter. A bird’s nest of bed hair hanging over twinkling eyes, which shone above her Milo-moustachioed mouth, PJs covered with… Well, better not to think about that.

“So what’s with all the glass?” asked her dad. “What did you break? And anyway, just what is it that you’ve done? Apart from the obvious, that is.”

Charley held up what looked like an empty jam jar, with its lid firmly screwed on and a label written in large, uneven letters. “I’ve worked out how to bottle and store my burps!” she announced proudly.

Dad stared, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You’ve what?” he asked, astonished.

“Worked out a way to store my burps!” she repeated. “You know, keep ‘em. Bottle ‘em. Whatever you want to call it. The one that you heard was pretty powerful. That’s why the jar slipped out of my hand when I took the lid off. Cool, eh?”

Dad walked over to the kitchen table. Draping the wet washing over the back of a chair, he sat down and looked at his excited daughter. “Well, I must say, that’s a first. Pretty clever. Good job. I’ve never heard of anyone ever bottling burps before.” He paused. Then asked suspiciously, “And just why are you bottling your burps?”

“Well, that way, I can add to them, bit by bit. Then, when I really need to let one go, I’ll have a ripper all stored up. All I need to do is take the lid off, and…” Her eyes closed in anticipation of what would happen next. “It’ll be sooo sweet, dad!”

“So stinky, more like it,” he retorted, rolling his eyes.

“No,” Charley assured him. “It’ll be like, totally amazing. AND I’ll be in with a chance to win the Great Big Stinky Burp Competition!”

At that moment, Charley’s two older brothers came in from the back yard.

“Is that even a thing?” scoffed Ed, her oldest brother. “Sounds pretty stoopid, doofus!”

“Sounds pretty cool to me,” said Angus. “But, is it a thing?”

“’Course it’s a thing,” said Charley, hurt.

“How about this as an entry,” said Angus. He belched loudly.

Dad stood up and gathered the washing once more. “I’ll be somewhere far, far away if you need me,” he said. “Better get that glass cleaned up quickly, Charley, before someone gets hurt. Or before Mum gets home.”

Charley got the dustpan and brush from under the sink. She began sweeping up the broken glass. Angus held out the rubbish bin for her.

“How in the world do you win a burping competition?” he asked.

“Who cares,” muttered Ed, as he multitasked texting his friends while insulting his sister.

“Oh, just leave her alone,” said Angus. “So, how do you win? Is it based on the loudest burp?”

Charley took a deep breath. “No, there are five different categories, then you get an overall mark on a burp-meister-meter.”

“That makes sense,” said her brother. “What are the categories then?”

“Strength. That’s a bit like wind strength. It’s measured by a burpometer. A bit like one of those thingys that people use to measure wind. You know – an anemoneometer?”

“I think you mean an anemometer,” laughed Angus. “What are the other things?”

Charley held up her fingers. “Speed – that’s measured by a speedometer – obviously.”

“”Obviously,”agreed her brother, thinking that it wasn’t at all obvious, but letting it pass. “And…?

“Stinkiness – that’s measured by a sniffinator. Sound – measured by a decibel meter. And then staying power. How long the burp lasts. They just use a stop watch to measure that.”

“Cool,” said Angus. “So, why all the broken glass?”

Charley explained what had happened with the previous bottled burp. The one that got away. “But,” she said, “if I can bottle my burps, they’ll get stronger and stronger. Like when Grandma leaves her tea bag in for too long. And that way, I’m bound to win the Great Big Stinky Burp Competition.”

“Yeah, sure,” commented Ed. “Probably more like the Doofus Prize for Chemistry. I’m out of here. See you later. Not.”

“Let me know if you need any extra burps to add to your collection,” said Angus. “I’m happy to help.” Squeezing his eyes tight shut, he managed to produce a very small burp.

“You’ll have to do better than that!” laughed his sister. “But thanks for the offer.”

 

High Fliers – Jennie Irving

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Ethel. She had no fear of heights, she loved the idea of flying and it was her dream to become a fighter pilot. Sadly, she lived in the 1940s, when that wasn’t an option for her. Women were kept busy building the planes that only men were allowed to fly. There were no Amelia Earharts in World War II.

Instead, she indulged her passion for heights and flying by taking to diving. She became rather good at it, and was awarded all sorts of trophies in different diving competition. Meanwhile, her brother went and joined the US Air Force, becoming a fighter pilot.

She complained to him about the unjustness of this. All he said in response was, “You’ll need to compromise.”

Every day, as she worked in the aircraft factory, she thought about that compromise, and what an empty thing it was. Compromise involves a choice, she thought bitterly, and she had none. Nothing she could do would ever enable her to join the airforce as a pilot, let alone a fighter pilot. So while her brother continued his riveting job in the air, she continued hers on the ground.

By night, she flew from the high diving platforms, sloughing off her dark thoughts as she plunged into the cool, clear water again and again. Of course, she recognised that she was one of the lucky ones. A major advantage of this type of flying was that there was no possibility of being killed by enemy fire.

One day, in early August 1945, she was invited to perform at an aquatic benefit to raise funds for disabled airmen. All participants in the acrobatic diving display were awarded points. Needless to say, Ethel earned the most points, winning easily. She was crowned Queen of the High Fliers by a group of admiring airmen. Her coronet was surmounted by that ultimate symbol of power over everything – the mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion.

Ethel looked at the camera with a smile that was almost a grimace. She would much rather have received a year’s pass to the pool. She reminded herself, “You’ll need to compromise. You don’t need to wear this forever.”

And because of that, she kew that she would be able to sleep more easily that night. She might have helped to build the planes that delivered the weapons of mass destruction, but she didn’t need to live with the horror that was to haunt her brother for the rest of his life. He had piloted the Enola Gay. Such a beautiful name. Their mother’s name. But one that would sadly live in infamy.

At the last minute, Ethel looked at the young airmen around her and realised that, in a way, they had to compromise too. They needed to compromise their desire for peace now with their peace of mind in the future. They were, in a sense, just as powerless as she was. High fliers, all of them. But with clipped wings.

Why Guinea Pigs Don’t Need Trousers – Jennie Irving

Why don’t guinea pigs need trousers?

Well, it’s plain for us to see that they don’t need any pockets for a wallet – or a key.

Do you think they might need trousers? Just to put a hanky in?

All my guinea pigs use tissues. After use, they’re in the bin.

I find trouser pockets are quite good to warm my hands up,

And for storing bits and pieces, like those little packs of ketchup.

But guinea pigs are sensible (though they might get high on grass).

They’ve no need to gather rubbish in a pocket on their…

Moving right along… can you imagine when they’re going to the loo?

It’s easy for a person, ‘cos you know just what to do.

But a guinea pig would fumble with the buttons or the clips.

And black jelly beans would overflow from stuck, unopened zips.

Why don’t guinea pigs need trousers?

Well, they really don’t need clothes.

They’re neatly clad in softest hair from rear end to nose.

They have no need of modesty.

They really couldn’t care if they show their bottoms to the world for anyone to stare.

No MYKIs, car keys, hankies, mints,

And no alarms for houses.

A guinea pig’s life is simple.

And that’s why they don’t need trousers.

 

 

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When Simon Met Danny – Bree Allingham-MacLaren

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time, there was an awkward teenager, who lived in a small and weird country town.  You know the kind, with packs of stray dogs running around and somebody growing pot up the back in the bush.  He liked to collect rocks and he liked to play his Nintendo.  And he like-liked boys.  Now it’s hard enough being an awkward teenager – what with the shame of making love to yourself and not being sure how much is normal, being really bad at doing your hair and your parents falling out of love with you – but it’s even harder when you like-like people who are the same sex as you.  Especially in a small and weird country town.

Most days, when he wasn’t playing Nintendo or looking for good rocks, Simon would walk down the hill from his home, to the general store, where he would hang about in the hope of meeting people from out of town (because small towns are boring when you’re a teenager).  The store had a wide verandah, vestigial petrol pumps and importantly, sold Calippos.  Now and then, out-of-towners would swing into the angle parks at the front of the store, in their city-clean cars, to step out stiffly, stretch and stare about them absent-mindedly.  They were always disappointed by what was for sale at the general store.  Whenever somebody new showed up, Simon would try to act casual, as though he was just passing by too, while secretly hoping that the out-of-towners would recognise something special in him and whisk him away from that place, to become a celebrity.  He hadn’t decided yet for what reasons he would be a celebrity, he only knew that he wanted to be able to get annoyed by being recognised on the street (because he knew it would make him feel super important).

For the most part, Simon’s efforts were fruitless and he would slouch, disappointed back up the hill to his home, to wash his hands that were sticky from Calippo juice (being careful to avoid packs of dogs).  On one occasion, he got talking to a fancy looking couple in a Land Rover.  They said that they were opera singers from the city and they were utterly charmed by the small town, and Simon.  They chatted to him in animated, clear voices and used their hands to emphasise their words.  They also smelled really nice.  But although he thought they’d hit if off, the couple did not offer to whisk Simon away.  They just drove off gaily, and so it was back to avoiding mean little jack russells and getting callouses from his Nintendo controller, for Simon.

One spring day, when the smell of grass seeds was on the air, a new car pulled in at the general store and out sprang a sprightly old woman (she may not have been that old, maybe only 50, but remember that Simon was a teenager and it’s all relative).  The woman was wearing tiny white shorts, a white polo shirt buttoned all the way up, white socks and all-white sneakers.  The effect was blinding.  She had tanned, strong-looking legs, with folds of skin around the knees, and she moved quickly.  Her hair was permed tightly and was the colour of snow stained with pee.  Atop of her head, she wore a sun visor with a green shade, like a poker player or an accountant.  She was carrying a sports bag in one hand and when she saw Simon eyeing-off her bag curiously, she shouted (because she was a bit deaf) “Hello love!  Like the look of my bag do ya?!”

Simon looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring, but it was too late.  He had met Dot.  And because of that meeting, he would go on to play in her mixed doubles ping pong team, The Swifts; a most glorious rag-tag team.

Although Simon was not passionate about ping pong, playing on Dot’s team gave him the chance to do something other than think and play Nintendo, and that was good for him.  He showed up in the cold town hall for practice, week-after-week, clutching a packet of Mint Slices for afterwards.  Before long, with a lot of practice, Simon became quite good.  Because Dot and the other players were actually very good, they made it to the Grand Final.  It was there, in a cold town hall, on a windy and moonless night, that Simon met Danny, the love of his life.  What a stroke of luck for a gay teenager living in a small town!

Danny and Simon might never have met, except that Danny was filling in at the last moment for his brother Adam, who played on the opposing ping pong team.  Adam was having an existential crisis after losing his licence for drink driving, and it caused him to question the need for ping pong in his life.  That’s why Danny was there.  The Swifts won the Grand Final, as it happens, and although Simon ended up being awarded a trophy with a person on top who had breasts, he did not mind (because really, who cares?).

It was love at first sight for Danny and Simon.  Their eyes twinkled and their mouths grinned when they looked at each other, in a way that they couldn’t hide from other people.  They held conversations and played their ping pong games that night, hardly knowing what they were doing.  Their minds were bent towards each other and in a very brave move, just before Simon left with Dot (because he didn’t have his licence yet), Danny slipped a piece of paper into Simon’s hand with his phone number written on it.

Sadly, the phone number became smudged beyond recognition by Simon’s sweaty hand on the way home.  And when he wanted to peer at it in wonderment, while his heart pounded like a cliche in his chest, instead he had to listen to Dot talking about lavender bushes, which he thought were nice but was not passionate about.  Thankfully though, this was the age of Facebook, and so with some clever stalking, Simon was able to find Danny’s profile and add him as a friend.

From that time on love bloomed and blossomed and Danny and Simon found great happiness with each other.  They lived for fleeting moments at the bus exchange in the city where they went to high school, and spent time at each other’s houses, playing Nintendo and making-out.

Danny and Simon loved each other’s company so much that when they left school they both got jobs with the power company in the city, because they liked the idea of working outdoors.  By this time they lived together in a rental apartment that smelled weird, no matter how much sandalwood incense they burned.  They would head off to work each morning together in their rust-sprayed ute, with their lunchboxes sliding around at their feet.  They liked to order an expensive coffee on the way to work, because they had acquired a taste for a certain type of bean.  And on Fridays, they would also order an almond croissant (because they’re delicious).

One day, even though it wasn’t legal yet, Simon decided to propose marriage to Danny.  Unbeknownst to Danny, he bought a beautiful engagement ring with a big fat cubic zirconia on it (because they didn’t have that much money and real love isn’t about diamonds anyway).

On the day that he planned to propose, Simon felt nervous (because he was terrible at keeping secrets and he didn’t want to blurt out the proposal just any old place).  He hid the box with the ring in it in the pocket of his cargo pants and tried to act cool.  Danny could tell that something was up, but he assumed that Simon was feeling anxious after eating nachos the night before (because anxiety is linked to your gut).

That day at work, they were called out to fix a power outage in the suburbs and it was then, as they hung from a power pole in their harnesses and hard hats, that Simon decided to go for it.  In a flagrant contravention of occupational health and safety guidelines, he gripped on to the rope that was attached to his harness at the waist, and walked his feet up the pole until he was hanging upside down above Danny.  Before Danny could say “What the fuck are you doing?  You’re going to get hurt” Simon had ripped open the velcro of his pocket and holding out the box to Danny (upside down) he asked, “Will you?!”.

Danny wasn’t as surprised as you might think by this situation, because people being proposed to usually expect it (at least a little bit) so he got his head around the box and the question quite quickly.  He shouted “Yes Please!” with gusto (and love) and while Simon hung upside down and Danny was hanging the right side up from the power pole, they kissed passionately (just like in that scene in Spiderman).  It was super romantic.

Hurry the fuck up politicians.

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