Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
Sister madly
I can’t remember the last conversation I had with my sister. This thought has a nasty habit of springing to mind uninvited. For better or worse, it is invariably throttled before it has time to take hold. If I’m brutally honest, I struggle to even recall the true extent of our relationship at the time. I think it was OK. That phrase sounds so hollow as it echoes around inside my head.
Most of the time, I don’t allow myself to feel the sting of that particular barb. My sister loved me, and she did so with all her heart – and I loved her too, of course – but the parameters of our particular family dynamic never allowed for such wild and uninhibited displays of vulnerability. My mother yearned for such a thing, but for my dad, it was simply a step too far. Life was about discipline – military style – sharing nothing too personal for fear it could be used against you. Giving was an acceptable commodity, but only if one was sure to be in receipt of something greater.
My sister left me a letter. An outpouring of life-affirming emotion – even in death – but hidden within it was an undercurrent only a big brother could decipher; I know you have an immense capacity to love, but will you please fucking find it before it’s too late.
Notes from within the test tube
As the day drew on, he observed some reduction in his current dwelling on the human condition. The disturbing sound below him turned out to be just the hum in the kitchen. Sure, the Wi-Fi caused some pain in his nether regions, but on the upside, last night’s altercation with the mould seemed more distant, perhaps brought into perspective by the slight smell of must that had greeted him as he first materialised in the room.
The day itself went from shockingly offensive – from the teacher, to the material, to the surrounds – to somewhat bearable, distinctly pleasurable and eventually, highly fulfilling. More than a few exceptional takeaways in addition to some characters well met.
A beautifully broken lot, writers, inevitable drawn together like moths to a flame. As he listened to the combined melange of their experiences, he was reminded to allow people in. Suddenly, he felt everyone was dancing to the same tune. Turns out it was just him making the needle stick.
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