Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

The soundtrack is Don Henley singing on the Eagles’ Greatest Hits. Everything 70’s is cool right now. The smell is Body Shop Dewberry oil. The feeling is the wind through the wound down windows of Bek’s Bluebird. But also of freedom. We are four friends, itching on the inside from so much study. It’s a beautiful midsummer’s day.  Let’s break out this beast, the first car, and go on a road trip!

There’s a crew standard of long, shiny hair, the result of square meals lovingly prepared and the clean living of school-work, rest, play. Blowing free of scrunchies in the cooling breeze of the state forest, the car stereo is punctuated by the call of a solitary bell bird.

We’ve got an undercurrent of anxiety – in tonight’s delivery of the Herald Sun our scores will be published, along with the rest of Victorian Year 12s. The measurement of an entire school career represented by a percentage to 2 decimal points. I never want the day to end, but I cant stand the waiting either. I certainly cant put aside the ants inside me feelings and go home to dinner with Mum, Dad and the boys. I’d punch one of them.

“Hey! What did that sign just read?” Jo’s singular voice cuts above the music and the wind. “Did anyone else just read that? I think it said Cum Creek. It was actually spelt the right way!”

“I think it did. We’re going back to look.” Pulling the car over, the newly licensed and responsible Bek did a careful u-turn.

“This is a kodak moment Ber!” The smile that broke a thousand boys flashed across the back seat at me from Emma.

I reached down into my Sportsgirl bag for my camera. Yep, still 10 shots left.

We clamber out and pose in front of the sign for several snaps. Less than 20 km from our home town – how is this filthy and very excellent little waterway name something we have never heard of?  While we stand there giggling and posing there are several hoots and shout outs from the occasional passing car.

The rest of that day and night is a haze of memory and barefooted summer fun. What remains is the sensation; the smell of the cool forest on a hot day, the exemption from curfew, the feelings of friendships to last a lifetime.

Early the next morning the results did come in, we ripped into those early paper deliveries like savages. The main street looked like the aftermath of the grand final parade. Some of us were happy, some were going to have to come up with a new plan. We would all survive.

Those photos worked – there were no ways to check them on the spot, no guarantees with film; but they did come out. In a box in an album they sit – golden sun dappled frames of those first days of freedom. Whenever I hear the opening chords to Hotel California it’s this day I’m straight back to in a flash.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I have been a bit restless of late, really sleeping badly. Well that’s a lie really, I have always been hopeless at getting the standard government recommended eight hours or forty winks whatever way it’s measured.  Usually it’s forty wanks before I can finally visit the land of nod.  I mean, I can readily inspect the other side of my eyelids but that does not mean my mind is switched off. Restless nights run in my family. It’s the same complaint but only from the males, being my father and my only brother as firm reference points. We are always getting up late, moping around yawning, eyes like we have just been 10 rounds with Mike Tyson in a bad mood or being accused of doing Panda impersonations.

But that’s just the root of my problem. The thing that really disturbs me is that the most comfortable position in bed for me is in the shape of a swastika. I know it sounds contorted and awkward and before you start wagging your finger it’s not quite the subconscious preamble to joining the KKK or other like-minded organizations. One little problem is that this sleeping position takes up most of a queen size bed and that really annoys any other person sharing it but that is not my primary concern either. You see I am fervently anti- Nazi. And I should mention that I have an obsession of drawing Celtic triple spirals ever since I saw that long haired Scottish TV historian Neil what’s-his-face, whispering to camera while pointing one out on the wall of a dank dripping grotto somewhere in South Wales and saying how cool they are. Drawing triple spirals has a therapeutic effect on me as they don’t have any sharp corners and angles (like swastikas) and seem to flow from the hand through the pen onto paper gracefully (with a little practice anyway). Whoopy-fucking-doo.

Anyway I read a book by the late great Spike Milligan called ‘Gunner Who?’ It was his diary of his WWII experiences in the British Army. He wrote a part of the book under the name Adolph Hitler and delightfully described Adolph’s antics with the hapless Eva Braun. “We screw in the shape of a swastika” he gleefully boasted.  After getting over the visual of Adolf and Eva going at it in patriotic fervour I started to seriously consider trying it myself, forgetting just for a minute that Spike was a master comedian and expert bullshit artist. By the way, I haven’t tried it coz I am a bit nervous about suggesting that to any woman especially without first checking she is not a member of the Labor Party anti-fascist committee and/or Jewish.

But the dilemma with my far right sleeping position is that it contributes to one of my other hang ups – Zionism. I don’t regard myself as anti- Semitic and I can usually put my geo-political hang-ups to sleep (unlike myself) at least until I see the carnage on the seven o’clock news, but now find myself stewing over the Gaza strip situation when adopting the aforesaid sleeping position. And that, as you can guess, contributes to my restlessness.

And then there’s my Jewish neighbour Elias who lives alone in the apartment above mine. I have never seen him with anyone else since moving here 15 months ago. I like Elias without getting to know him. He acknowledges me in the elevator and doesn’t seem to be anti-social with us gentiles. He works as an IT nerd. I know when he is at home because I can hear every footstep he takes. He never seems to take his shoes off (he always wears black hard soled shoes) and tip toeing is not one of Elias’ talents. I could say something to him but I don’t want to come across like the whinging neighbour so I grin and bear it and he goes to bed at a decent hour anyway. Maybe I could solve the problem and buy him some sneakers but that might send the wrong signals and freak one of us out.

But these old Melbourne places are about as sound proof as paper bags. I can hear the other neighbours talking, arguing, the clatter of their utensils at meal times and not to mention their screwing and snoring. But while I am lying on my bed in the fascist position I start wondering if I have misjudged Elias and he is really a voyeuristic creep who has drilled a spy hole through his floor above my bed (conveniently forgetting the incriminating wood shavings that would have dropped onto my doona).  Like he would really do that but my meandering thought processes render me vulnerable at night and I become more paranoid and speculative hence my restlessness. I lay there wildly imagining Elias going down on all fours, pressing his face onto the floorboards expecting to have a good wank watching me go hell for leather with some wanton wild weapon I picked up at the footy. But instead Elias is left flabbergasted and feeling menaced at the sight of his fellow lonesome neighbour (and let’s face it, all men who live alone are considered dangerous weirdos) consciously contorting his body into the most fearsome insignia in recorded history. Poor Elias, thinking he was safe in Melbourne but finding he has a budding SS storm-trooper as a neighbour. The thought of the awkward moment of our next meeting in the confines of the elevator just don’t induce any Zs. Back to square one.

Well it might feel comfortable being in the shape of a swastika but it has not brought me any peace and come to think of it, that sign never brought anybody any peace anywhere. I will just have to try another method to dominate my own little twilight world.

Good night.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time, there was a girl name Rilee and she had a big, white chicken as a pet. She saved it from her father’s axe. Everyday she would take him for a walk. His name was Nugget. As gruesome as it is to name a pet chicken, Nugget she thought it suited him. But one day, Rilee came home from school and wanted to take Nugget for a walk but she couldn’t find him anywhere. She thought he would just turn up later and just went about with her day. As any kid would, she went and asked her mum what was for dinner.

“Chicken,” she said. Rilee then grew worried, her and her parents hadn’t had chicken since the day she saved Nugget from being beheaded.

“But chicken takes ages,” began Rilee, “you haven’t even started.”

“Oh don’t worry about that,” her mum chuckled, “There’s one we prepared earlier…”

Rilee was then horrified, her mum put Nugget’s feather plucked body on the kitchen counter.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I’m GUNNA get a novel writ,

Before the year is over it,

I’ve commenced perhaps a thousand times,

Abandoned art,  Creative crime.

 

I did the GUNNAs Masterclass ,

To get me off my big fat arse.

There is no need to starve in garrets,

Or to whack up smack like old Keith Jarret,

 

There is no doubt procrastination,

Is more dangerous than masturbation,

Wanking doesn’t make you make you blind,

But number one will kill your mind.

 

Trust not the warnings from the Lord,

The pen is mightier than the sword.

And if you tell me no again,

Ill stab you with my fountain pen.

 

Van Goghs’  flowers  may bring tears,

But wasn’t made excising ears.

No more Facebook  viral days ,

I’m vaccinated from its haze.

 

So armed with weapons of my trade,

I will fight to get the artworks made,

No more saying , not today.

I’m GUNNA do it anyway!!!.

Word by word,  and page by page,

Little steps and stage by stage,

I’m turning off the internet,

Phones, doorbell and settling pets.

 

If drama knocks upon my door,

The sign will say “Not Here.  No More!”

It’s time to slaughter all excuses,

Distractions and emotive nooses.

 

I’m knocking off the writers’ block,

Avoiding those who judge and knock,

Ignoring haters ,and blocking trolls,

Restoring my creative soul.

 

My ears are deaf to those who say,

You’ll never do it anyway.

And if they say it yet again,

Remember my waiting fountain pen.

 

If they don’t care for what I write,

I now fear not, their toothless bite.

To those fear they’ll be defamed,

Relax, Ill change your guilty name.

 

You won’t find me anywhere,

Without my brand new NADA chair,

With shower cap upon my head,

I will leap to write, straight from my bed,

Day by day and letter by letter,

Practice makes perfect, it will get better,

And if I continue to each day repeat,

The fucking book will be complete.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

There was a hard, shaped chair, covered with fake green leather.

It’s not fashionable to have dreams for your children. You can’t say you want them to be doctors, lawyers, to be just like yourself. You even risk judgment if you say you are hoping for a boy or a girl. It only seems acceptable now to wish for happy and healthy – that’s the key phrase.  “As long as it’s happy and healthy”. That’s what every pregnant woman beams. That’s all that society allows.

But what if you end up with a child who isn’t healthy, or isn’t happy? Or where the answer isn’t clear?

There in the waiting room I gazed at my son. Did he have the same potential for a happy, healthy life, as any other child? Or was there some kind of time bomb inside him, in his genetic or neurological coding, that limited his potential for health and happiness.

These are not questions I thought I would have to face when I was 30 and trying for a baby.

So there we were waiting for the answer. Me and Felix, aged 7 and flipping through a Captain Underpants book. He was very used to medical waiting rooms.

Was he happy? Yes, mostly, except for the language difficulties and learning problems and social issues and anxiety and moodiness and meltdowns above and beyond what anyone would consider normal surely, surely, for a child of his age.

Was he healthy? Well sort of, except for the allergies and the asthma and the constant tiredness and ongoing need for medical interventions during his short life, each one seemingly unrelated. Surely this couldn’t all be bad luck. And finally a doctor who said yes, he does seem to have a lot going on. This doesn’t seem quite right. Let’s run some tests.

And in the years after Felix’s birth and with the slow dawning realisation that something wasn’t quite right, my marriage fell apart. Felix’s father knew the appointment was happening but said I should go by myself.

This wasn’t what I pictured, not at all, when I was 30 and trying for a baby. I didn’t know any more what I had pictured; but it wasn’t this.

Felix’s grubby school shirt seemed like the only real thing in that waiting room. I kept it in focus, breathing slowly.

And then the doctor called Felix’s name, and Felix closed his book, and we went into the office to find out the test results.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Dear Goddess,

Please, ploise, free my mother from her constant worrying. She gives me the guilts and the shits, and I am made to feel responsible for her mental health.

Signed,

Camille.

Dear Camille,

Free yourself, or shoot her; the choice is yours. BTW I’m not responsible for you or any of your family. Aren’t you Irish Catholics?

Signed,

Goddess.

Dear Jesus, Sweet Jesus,

Get this woman off my back! I know she’s my mother. I know I should be patient with her but in every interaction, she’s worried about something. I’ve told her about meditation, dealing with it herself etc, but to no avail.

Signed,

Exasperated Camille.

Dear Camille,

Go into the desert. Get away from your mother. It worked for me.

Signed,

Jesus

P.S. Don’t talk to burning bushes.

Dear Prophet Mohammed,

What should I do? My mother is constantly worried about me and my sisters, and tells me so regularly, but does nothing about it. Can you help?

Signed,

Camille.

Dear Camille,

No, I can’t help you. Try Rumi’s poetry. It may lead you to your heart, and perhaps to a solution.

Signed,

Mohammed.

P.S. My first wife, Khadija, suggests two things: get a life, and build your own business. That will keep you busy! 

Dear Buddha,

What can I do? My mother is plagued by a monkey mind, always worrying about me and my sisters. She refuses any advice, or to do anything to change the situation.

Signed,

Camille.

Dear Camille,

Still your mind by sitting for a while under a tree. Let your mind become like a mirror, reflecting the vastness of the sky.

Signed,

Buddha.

Dear Buddha,

I did sit still, under a tree, quieting my mind, like a lake mirroring the sky. Then my mother jumped into my lake, singing “The hills are alive with the sound of music..”!

Signed,

Camille

Dear Camille,

Then join her!

Signed,

Buddha.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

“I’ll have Italian”

They sat down at their table together, hesitant and facing each other a little awkwardly. The restaurant was a pretty old-style Italian bistro that looked cosy and inviting from the street, filled with warm wood, white tablecloths and bottles of wine lining the walls. They’d enjoyed many meals in this cosy candlelit space, but tonight they were led out the back and past the busy kitchen to the second dining room, which boasted twice the size of the front room and less than a quarter of the charm. Noise from the other patrons ricocheted off the white tile floor.

Arrangements to have dinner came about after they’d not seen each other for nearly three months, when one Friday morning, he packed up his belongings and disappeared from her home without saying a word.

He had a wife he was estranged from when the lovers met, and a son, a little boy of five. The pull of the familiar and familial was a strong one, riddled with unfinished business. He spirited himself away that Friday morning, quiet as a mouse, moving back to his old marital home and rekindling his previously unhappy marriage that now suddenly appeared rich with promise.

She got the first phone call from him the next Tuesday like nothing had happened, and soon received daily phone calls, and even more frequent emails. It was clear he was hoping to keep their love and relationship together despite powering ahead with the reconciliation.

She was the woman he loved, indeed the only woman he had ever loved. He lusted for her and didn’t want to have sex with his wife. She was the only one who had ever understood him and the only one for him. She was the only person he could be himself with. He was only back with his wife because of their child. The narrative continued, conveniently and selfishly compartmentalising his oblivious wife, his young child, and their shared home, as if his family was packed away in a neat little shoebox shoved under the passenger seat of his car.

She was disappointed in his lack of originality.

Somehow dinner in their favourite restaurant eventuated, and he arrived full of confidence that their love would withstand his renewed marriage.  He could keep the woman he loved in his life, as well as enjoy the benefits of marriage and comforts that come from a nuclear family setting. He was a respectable family man back at home where he belonged, and a businessman building a business and a profile. He could make this work. His wife had set to posting their seven-year-old wedding photos to her Facebook page on an almost daily basis.

She arrived at the restaurant with the calm resolution that it would be the last time they would see each other.

The uncomfortable room had those harsh white floor tiles and tacky aged beige walls and the noise of the other diners was irritating. The couple hadn’t seen each other since he’d moved out and their conversation, peppered with banal trivialities like ‘how is work’ and ‘how is your dog’, was stilted.

Their Italian waiter, all white shirt, accent and barrel-chest, arrived with a fluster of energy to deliver their meals and wine. She had ordered pizza, he had ordered pasta, and the wine was a very necessary social lubricant.

The mood started to shift. They slowed their banal chatter, carefully designed to not impart any real information to each other, and started talking about the rich red wine and the food. Spoons reached, bread ripped, glasses clinked and the mood continued to move, focussing on the pleasures in front of them. He was swept away by how pretty her face was and the exuberant way she spoke with her hands. He was reminded, every time he looked at her or heard her speak, how much he loved her and why they fell in love. He was awash in warmth and knew he had to keep her in his life, no matter what.

She was also feeling that love, that warmth, and was quietly observing it almost like an anthropologist. She knew she loved him, she knew her heart was hurting, and she knew she was never going to see him again. She was no man’s mistress and despite his effort to avoid the topic, the marriage reconciliation was clearly still going ahead. Indeed, they were building a new house on a block of land they’d bought.

He continued eating, oblivious, devouring the hot italian food that made him feel safe, sure in his confidence that this amazing love they’d found would see them through anything and they’d be in each other’s lives forever. He had pulled it off and he had it all.

She slowly drank her red wine, savouring every mouthful and every morsel of food, knowing this was a meal of lasts. She doubted she’d come back to this restaurant again. It had been a favourite of theirs, and held so many memories.  She knew with quiet conviction that she’d ensure she never saw him again.

They paid the bill and left, him happy in his secure knowledge was that she was his forever, her happy that she had one last delicious memory of him.

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

We met at the bookstore, in the greasy boiler stockroom.

Trish pushed me forward, her shiny lipstick smeared onto her smile.

‘This is Charles,’ she said. ‘He’s been working here for two years so he knows all the tricks of the trade. He’s going to look after you on your first day, Caitlin.’

Charlie had a broken front tooth which I tried hard not to stare at. His dark oily hair curled over the collar of his white bookseller’s shirt and he had on black skinny jeans instead of the regulation dark slacks. He snapped shut the scalpel he was using to slit open dusty boxes of books and shook my hand.

‘So you’re the new Caitlin?’

I was suddenly conscious of my straight white teeth; my freshly ironed shirt.

‘The ‘new’ Caitlin?’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve got plenty of Caitlin stories I can tell you over a drink sometime …’

It seemed important to deliver a witty rejoinder but I couldn’t think of one. Trish jingled her keys and shouldered her beige handbag.

‘Well, I’m off. Have fun together, guys!’

For the first week, Charlie and I sat around unpacking books, playing the best of The Smiths on the tinny CD player and trading lines from Black Books. He told me he was a musician, a poet and a vegetarian, so I thought for sure he must be a really brainy guy. I liked the graceful curve of his smoking wrist as we rolled cigarettes outsides. I liked the way he held his head to one side like whatever I said was bound to be interesting or clever.

‘So … do you wanna get that drink?’ he asked as we pushed through the turnstiles at Heidelberg Station on Friday. A model glared at me from a billboard above us; she looked freshly bashed or gang-raped. The busy bodies of businessmen brushed past, the hoot of incoming trains competing with the sound of different service announcements.

‘Sure,’ I said, embarrassed by his broken tooth, but smiling broadly, too. ‘Tonight?’

We met at Pony, in the dim glow of the downstairs bar. Charlie’s eyes were already bright with a peculiar phosphorescence.

‘I take a lot of drugs,’ he said, ‘I just want you to know that right from the start.’ I shrugged. I wanted to be a cool girl; a girl who was chill. Besides, half the stories we’d shared had involved drug-addled nights and drunken hijinks. I thought he was just being dramatic.

‘I’m serious,’ he said, ‘I take drugs, like, every weekend. I don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘I won’t,’ I deadpanned. ‘Don’t let this newsreader’s face fool you.’

He laughed. ‘You know Trish freaks me out when she talks about you. She keeps ringing up to check on the store, asking, ‘How’s Caitlin fitting in, she’s such a nice girl’ …’

I rolled my eyes and took a filter from him; rolled a cigarette with it dangling off my lip. ‘I appreciate the sense of consideration that you’re showing me,’ I said, ‘But I can’t tell you how bored I am of being treated like I’m made of glass.’ We eyed each other speculatively for a moment and a sly pulse of excitement built in my stomach. For the first time in years, I wasn’t bored. I felt electric; powerful; a pearl of a girl.

We became a couple unconcernedly, casually. We wandered hand-in-hand down Smith Street, our reflection captured in shop windows and car mirrors. We were both part-time at uni, casual at the bookstore, and it was easy to become co-dependent. I was completely besotted with Charlie but when I saw him, I’d just say, ‘Oh hey. Yeah, right. I’ve missed you too.’ It was crucial to seem indifferent; not to be seen to care.

We went to cheap cafés and argued about the menu. We split the tab at seedy bars and sweated off the beer pong dancing to Joy Division. His friends told him I had great legs and I made cups of tea for people I didn’t know in the chill white calm of hungover mornings.

We were nearly always high, which created problems. We’d spend a lacklustre twenty minutes fumbling with each other in bed and then give up. ‘It’s me, not you,’ he’d say. ‘I take too many drugs.’ I didn’t know what to do so I did everything I could to make him feel powerful and virile in front of people. I smiled mockingly when friends complained about bad sex experiences like I was sequestered in a special, elite club.

I was too out of it to cry when I saw him exploring another girls’ mouth with his tongue at a party. He said, ‘It doesn’t count, babe. I can’t even get it up, remember?’ My lips were distractingly dry and there was a terrible heat in the back of my throat. I wanted Charlie to feel desire for me, but I knew that was not what he felt. Later that night, we spilt a bottle of red wine in his bed and slept in it anyway, the sheets damp and fermented.

Some of my friends couldn’t stand Charlie, could see through my smart talk and cigarette smokescreen. They said, ‘What’s happened to you? You used to be the smart one.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Yeah? And where’s being ‘smart’ ever got me?’ They gave me strong maxims to repeat, things like ‘I mean this …’ As if I could set the rules, mark out the boundaries. It didn’t seem realistic.

Sometimes at his band’s gigs, Charlie would jump off stage and come kiss me in front of everyone. Those charming moments, the inconsistencies, it was all part and parcel, I told myself, of loving somebody artistic. When he said to me, in an accusatory tone of voice, ‘You know, I could really fall in love with you’, I responded, ‘Well, if you think you can … ’, like I was telling him whether or not he could get away with a polyester shirt. I didn’t want to put any pressure on him. I didn’t want him to feel obliged.

He dumped me anyway, despite that, despite everything. The morning light was just starting to creep through the cracks in my curtains and my head was a violent cloudburst of conflicting colours. We hadn’t slept yet, but Charlie swung his legs off the bed.

‘I’m going to go now,’ he said, cradling his clothes to his chest. I looked at him with my mouth open, uncomprehending. ‘Probably going to stay at Gerard’s. Listen babe, I liked you, I really did. Thanks for being so understanding – as always.’ His voice could be very soft. Like the fur of a kitten. There was a seam of bad breath all over the bed and Charlie kissed my cheek with his head angled like a periscope, pocketing his tobacco pouch. He shut the door gently behind him and I sat looking at my body in the mirror, watching my face fold.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

A Guide for Mothers On Dealing With Their Daughter’s Disclosure of Sexual Abuse, From A Daughter Who Wishes Things Had Gone Differently.

1. Believe her.

2. Hold her.

3. Cherish her humanity. Revere her vulnerability.

4. Tell her you are proud of her. Mean it.

5. Look at her. Really look at her; deep into her eyes, those eyes you looked into moments after she came out of your body; those eyes you know better than your own. Look at her quietly, gently, but try to do it with strength. It will be painful to realise how much you have missed in her. Look anyway.

6. Hold her, but stay attuned to her. If you’re not sure, ask her. If she says ‘no’ to you, respect her. But keep asking.

7. Don’t be afraid of her.

8. Ask her what happened, but never demand it from her. She may not ever tell you, but ask anyway.

9. Hold her again. Feel her body against yours. Remember that terrible things have happened to that body. Remember that you have the power to fix some of the damage, simply by holding her. She will cherish the sound of your heartbeat, the quiet strength of your hands, and the smell of you, which she has known since birth.

10. Believe her.

11. Feed her food she loves.

12. Remember that if she’s had to tell you, you have missed or ignored one of the most painful experiences of her life. Remember this, then repeat Steps 1-12.

13. Educate yourself. Look after yourself. Her faith in you will flourish if you show her that you care enough to read, to ask questions, to seek help. She will admire you for it, and she will learn from it.

14. Smile at her often. Mean it. Don’t force her to smile back.

15. Make sure she has a safe place to sleep. Try to respect that this may not be near you.

16. Give her books and/or music that will make her smile. Ask her if she would like to go to see a film, or to the theatre. Make it okay for her to say ‘no’.

17. Believe her.

18. Don’t forget about her.

19. Hold her hand tightly if she goes to the police station, or the hospital. Hold it tight enough so that she knows she will not lose you, but gently enough so that she knows she can still walk on her own.

20. Remember that the way you treat her now will tell her what kind of mother you are. The way you treat her now will teach her what being a mother means. Try not to disappoint her.

21. Remind her that she has fought for her life, and that she deserves to live.

22. Never wake her when she’s sleeping, but be sure to watch her sleep sometimes. The way you look at her when she sleeps will tell her what you really think of her.

23. Believe her. Love her.

24. Hold her. Don’t let go. It will be incredibly painful to hold her; but please, don’t let go.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

My Life is Disastrous.

I’m 31 and I live at home.

In a granny flat.

On the wrong side of town.

I’m a single gay man and I’m horny all the time.

Canberra is my home and there is no one to fuck in this town.

I am a teacher too. I work in a high school and mostly my students are little toe rags who have no passion, talent or ambition. Respect, empathy and concern have bypassed these kids. In fact, I think these traits may have got lost on their way to this satellite suburban nightmare. My boss is a prick. The kind of person you wouldn’t piss on if they were engulfed in flames.

When I’m not shackled to the teenage asylum I make pictures and I write stories. My artwork doesn’t sell and I’m not yet published. My mum likes my writing though, and so does my grandma. They both encourage me to keep going. And I do. My mum also likes watching Sam and Kochie on Sunrise. Her taste is sometimes questionable.

My dad and step mum stopped talking to me shortly after I turned 30. They had a fight with my big sister and accused me of taking sides. I have become collateral damage in this war. I recently found out that they moved out of the family home. I don’t know their new address. I don’t know where they live anymore. My brothers are in their late teens and early 20’s and I don’t see or hear from them anymore either. I’ve been cut out of the family unit.

4 weeks ago my little sister on my mums side was in a car accident. Some fuck-face on the Hume highway swiped the car she was travelling in as she returned from a weekend away in Sydney. She spent 2 nights in hospital with 3 of her friends who were also injured. Sadly one of the girls died at the scene of the accident. Laura is now in therapy. She’s working hard to deal with the haunting of this deeply traumatic experience. As a result of the tough time she’s experiencing her relationship with her boyfriend is showing signs of stress and fracture. She’s spending a lot more time back in the family home again. In the weeks following the accident the story featured on the news and it made the front page of the Canberra Times. I’m still hopeful that i’ll soon be published too.

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