Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Madeline leaned against the toilet door and took a deep breath.  Bitch, bugger, bum, tit, piss, cock, fart –  the mantra unspoken but repeated in her head over and over.  She let the breath out slowly.  How the fuck did I end up here?  Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck fuck!  There was a heaviness somewhere between the base of her spine and her buttocks that was becoming more urgent.  She needed to shit.  Now.  What the fuck?  Who needs to take  a dump at 10 o’clock at night?  Really.  Here of all places – at a house party hosted by the woman who she was sure was – at the very least – in love with her husband.   It was like her whole world had turned so far upside down that even her bowels weren’t obeying the rules of nature. 

Outside, only a metre and a half from where she stood, on the other side of the weatherboard wall, most of the party were gathered around a glowing four gallon drum.  The edge of the day’s heat was just starting to ease, but really it was still too hot for the fire.  But who doesn’t love an outdoor burn off in the suburbs?  John was out there, probably, with Yoko.  Madeline grimaced as she thought about her looking up at him doe eyed and laughing at every little stupid thing he said, batting those eyelashes (false!) and stretching that tiny dancer’s body into intricate poses just to listen to his crap.  Fuck her.  John had left her very early on in the night, ostensibly to get some air and put the beers they’d brought in the ice in the laundry trough, and she’d been willing herself not to follow him and find out what he was doing and who he was with ever since.  In fact she didn’t blame him, truth be told.  Even if he wasn’t besotted with the hostess, at the end of the day even she wanted to get away from herself tonight.  She’d been acting like a right cow since before they’d even left the house and all through the dinner that she’d insisted they have first.  But I’m his cow she thought, so he should just suck it up.

It was bad enough that she’d turned into one of those paranoid needy chicks, without actually starting to act on it and start physically stalking him – so she’d obstinately stayed in the stinking hot living room and faked some kind of interest in the conversation around her.  She’d ended up kind of cornered on the end of a couch listening to some guy who’s name that she knew she should remember, explaining banking policy to her.  He was keen to help her understand why “The Man” would always win out over “The Little Guy” in the end.  Sweet Jesus!  She wished she could muster up the interest or respect to participate and tell him what she thought.  But he wasn’t all that wrong.  And it meant that she wasn’t out looking for John and demonstrating her neediness or wondering who else at the party were already in on their affair – assuming that they had blown the lid of the sexual tension at some point.  She told herself for the thousandth time to stop being paranoid.  He’s a great guy and he loves me.  Me.  Though tonight, only god knows why.  It’s good that he has a broad network of friends and I should be proud that he’s so kind to her.  She’s been through a lot these last few months finishing her PH.D and losing her mother suddenly.  He’s a good man.  You’re a lucky woman.

Yeah.  Sure.  Her inner voice was in full bitch mode tonight. 

They must be throwing stuff in the fire outside she thought as she pulled down her undies and sat on the toilet.  Every now and then there’s a second or mores silence followed by hoots, cheers and laughter.  She looked across toward the vanity.  The floor dipped down in the corner where the foundations of the single fronted terrace had dropped.  Some of the ugly hexagonal tiles – mission brown – had fallen off the wall, revealing the even uglier remains of grout and tile adhesive, raked in lines like some kind of vertical zen garden created by a crazed midget.  A grubby glass held two toothbrushes, both furry and in need of replacement, and an almost empty tube of toothpaste.  The pop up lid had been left open and there were crusty gluggy bits on the sides preventing it from closing properly.  The pink loo brush was poked into the corner, not quite right in its holder, was supported precariously between the wall and a pyramid of no frills loo paper.

Push.

Madeline hadn’t looked John in the eye all evening.  In the car she’d stared straight ahead, humming tunelessly to whatever it was that was playing on the radio – and walked from the car to the pub just that little bit diagonally behind him (heels a little too high, skirt a little too tight, bluestone in the dark – a recipe for falling over).  There were 10 minutes or so where she alternated between studying the menu and looking at the other diners.  When did talk she looked at his mouth.  Everything he said pissed her off.  Even when he agreed with her, and he wasn’t stupid enough not to.  At least they were talking, though they weren’t saying much.  They talked about the girls, of course: Lucy’s swimming lessons – how would she go in the next class when John wouldn’t be in the water with her.  Rosie’s current fascination with fishing and whether they should have got her a rod and line for Christmas after all.  Stuff.

Push.  Breathe out.  Relax.

John had kicky legs.  He’d fidgeted all night.  His voice telling her he wasn’t all that keen to go, that he didn’t care if they just had dinner and went straight home, but his body betraying his anxiety to get to the party.  The way his knee bounced reminded her of when she was pregnant, that bizzare need to move your feet – and not in a great lets get down and boogie kind of way.  Like something invisible had been holding a feather to the backs of her knees, tickling her – only from the inside, so that the only thing she could do was squirm.  Today the feather was in her stomach.   How much coffee had she drunk today?  She was simultaneously wired and exhausted.  Squirming.  The pit of her stomach felt cold and empty.  As if she’d suddenly fallen from a great height – only she hadn’t done as much as jump of the couch all day.  John’s fidgeting was pissing her off too.  She was the human equivalent of kindling, ready to go at the slightest spark.  If she wasn’t so fractious, she’d almost feel sorry for him.

Push.

She emptied her mind and heard the sticky mass hit the water, instantly feeling that much better.  Breathing out she reached for the loo paper and wiped.  Jesus she was hot and sticky.  It must have been forty degrees today and she wasn’t convinced that cool change had hit.  Why the fuck have they lit a fire she thought idly, simultaneously recognising that she was in that kind of mood that she’d blame Yoko for just about anything tonight.  She made a mental note to stop calling her Yoko.  It was rude.  And she didn’t want it to be prophetic.

She wiped again.  Front to back like she’d been taught before she could even remember, and as she’d taught her own girls.  Again, there were sticky brown smears on the paper.  A third, a fourth and a fifth wipe before she came close to clean.  She could feel sweat dripping down from the small of her back – why hadn’t she used anti perspirant?  She wondered if she was even wearing clean underwear. These days it was such a big deal to get her two little girls fed and washed and ready for the babysitter that she felt it was an achievement to be washed and wearing matching shoes herself, personal grooming wasn’t the priority that it might have been in the past.  Standing up, she felt under her sweaty armpit with one hand as she flushed with the other.  Fuck, she hadn’t shaved either.  Fuck.

The water swirled and rushed just as the guys outside hooted and cheered again at whatever stupid game they were playing with the fire.  I may as well have stayed home with the kids she thought.  But there was no way she’d have let John come alone.  She hadn’t even put the words in a sentence yet, but there’s something going on.  Something not right.  Maybe not an actual “thing”, but a “something”.  She didn’t have the words for what it might be.  She just knew she didn’t like it.

She washed her hands and glanced into the toilet bowl as she reached to unlatch the door.  Fuck.  It hadn’t flushed.  Her big (yes, really big) chocolate brown pooh and way too much toilet paper remained well within sight.  She flushed again, but this time nothing – no water rushing, no cheering or hooting from outside.  Shit. Shit!

Ok.  Breathe out she thought.  She only thought it though, she wasn’t really capable of doing it.  Who the fuck has a party if their loo isn’t working?  Fucking students.  She opened the cupboard above the vanity, knowing even as she did so that there wasn’t going to be anything in there that would help flush the loo.  But opening it meant that she couldn’t see her own hot red face, so it kind of helped.  There was a contact lens case in the cupboard and for a fleeting second she fantasised about dipping it in the shitty loo and putting it back in the cupboard, but even as she tasted the quick thrill that the idea brought with it, she knew she’d never do it.  She looked around the bathroom for something to fill with water – maybe she could manually flush.  Her bathroom was always filled with ice-cream containers and plastic boats – who’d have thought it, there are benefits to having toddlers in the house – bath toys could be used for flushing loos.  But no, this bathroom was devoid of toys – unless you counted the particularly useless jasmine scented candle on the edge of the bath.   

OK, she thought, I just have to wait and hope no one else needs to go.  She contemplated having a shower – but not seriously.  Outside the music got louder.  No one was missing her.  This is as bad as it can get she thought.  So she slid down onto the cold tiled floor and waited for the cistern to refill.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

My name is Miriam and I’m a myopic. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious. For those of you not up with optical lingo, it means that I’m short-sighted. And for those of you that get confused between short and long-sighted because they are lucky enough to have perfect vision, it means that I can only see things that are close to my body. And by the way I hate you. Having bad vision is a curse.

Until recently I was in denial about my challenged eyesight. I used to flip my glasses on and off throughout the day, only using them when it was absolutely necessary. You know, things like being able to see people crossing the road when I was driving, or for trying to read the specials board in restaurants without that horrible squint-face look typical of the glass-less myopic. That kind of thing can be a bit awkward without corrected vision. But apart from that I was fine, right? What I didn’t realize is that for the most part, I was living in a world of complete delusion. For example, sweeping and vacuuming the floor of my home was a breeze. And why on earth were people complaining about having to mop floors all the time with kids I wondered? My floor was 6 months since a mop and going strong. Make-up? What was that about? I didn’t need make-up. All this money people forked out on foundation and concealer just seemed so unnecessary. Blemishes? Wrinkles? A quick look in the mirror and off I headed for a night out with a bit of lippie on. I never watch television, so basically I never had to wear glasses at home at all.

Of course as my children’s faces became harder to recognise from shorter and shorter distances, I did start to ask myself some questions. And so did they. “Mum, why don’t you smile back at me?”

Why was I so resistant to wearing those amazing lensed inventions unless absolutely necessary? A bit of ego, a touch of control-freak and let’s throw in some hypochondria while we’re at it. I know that the optical world has tried to make glasses sexy in the last decade, bless them. And sure they look pretty damn great on the gorgeous, tanned model in the hot black dress on the FCUK advertisement. But let’s face it, that ain’t how most of us are looking. When I put glasses on, I feel like a scientist, without the intellect. And have you ever heard the idea that the more you wear glasses, the worse your eyesight becomes? Well I sure have. Combine this with my hypochondriac tendencies, and I was set for complete blindness by the age of 50.

But staring at my fuzzy daughter (who was apparently smiling at me), I answered “Because I don’t have my glasses on, sweetie.” That was the moment I reached for my glasses and put them on. And the world changed.

Holy crap it changed. What on earth was that blob on the floor by the pantry? And how many crumbs were under that stool? Was there something growing from under my fridge? As my daughter’s smile disappeared to be replaced by a look of confused horror, she asked “Mummy, are you okay?” I ran from room to room gasping in terror at the marks and flaws that stained my home. Sure, maybe some of them looked vaguely familiar, but now it was as if a chorus of blotches had been set in high contrast across my vision all at once. It was overwhelming imperfection.

As the shock subsided, I picked up the phone and rang my helpline (aka, my sister). “Are you okay?” she asked in her usual loving way. “I just put my glasses on” I mumbled as if delivering terrible news. “And everything’s a mess.”

“Welcome to the real world, darling.” she chuckled.

And so it is that I accepted my diagnosis and a life of prescriptive lenses. As the shock gradually subsided, so did the blotches and faults. How much had I missed living in my fog of delusion? I had stuck my head in the sand and softened all the blemishes, but so too had I missed the clarity of my children’s expressions – joy, sadness, curiousity, concentration. My world opened immeasurably in response to what I saw.

Vision is an immense luxury. It’s one that I tossed aside, choosing instead to live in a murky haze because I wasn’t quite prepared to accept the reality of life around me. Things are never perfect. With perfect vision comes the responsibility of accepting all of life’s imperfections. It means we are prone to seeing things we sometimes don’t want to see, however our reactions and judgements to those things will always be our individual responsibility and choice.

What I realized is that the splotches and blotches become normal after awhile. I do put a bit more effort into the mopping now, but the excitement of a clean floor isn’t enough to personally convince me that I need to spend too much of my life doing that. But hey, at least I know what’s growing under the fridge now. Being a reformed myopic-in-denial, I now know what I choose.  I’m choosing to see the splotches and blotches, the marks and stains, and all the certainty that comes with the crispness of our imperfect lives.

NB: I won’t elaborate on my first lensed encounter with the mirror. Suffice to say that I spent a small fortune at the Lancôme counter a week later, as well as purchasing a ridiculously expensive pair of tweezers.

Another brilliant piece from a Gunnas Writing Masterclass writer.

Once upon a time, there lived a magnificent bear who was the town’s hero. When he went missing, the devastated town unleashed a hoard of spying flies to rest on walls and uncover the bear’s whereabouts.
However, this would prove to be fruitless as the bear now lived where there were no walls. Every day, for the last four years now, the bear was joyously living in a garden with a marvellous young man, who wished to free him from the town’s oppressive walls. Every day, the flies persisted, sitting on walls and harbouring secret after secret on not only possible whereabouts of the bear but the entire town at large.
One day, the flies encountered a huge secret, involving so much more than the bear. They discovered, that the bear’s benevolent liberator was in fact plotting to unleash the bear on the town and seek revenge for some unknown, hidden, traumatic war between the man and town.
Because of that, the flies abandoned their search of the town hero, and desired only to hunt down the man, named Victor.

Meanwhile, Victor’s and Bear’s relationship had blossomed into a romance.
Because of that, Victor had shifted his desires of imminent destruction to begin his new domestic life with the Bear, who too had long forgotten his ties with his old town. The flies had other ideas, however. They hunted Victor’s whereabouts, until finally Victor’s estranged wife led the flies to a possible lead at a place once thought to be off the edge of the world. Yet once they saw the man and bear, the realised true love exists anywhere and everywhere.

They lift Victor and the bear alone, and they all lived happily ever after.

Check out Emma’s Blog http://flyintheweb1.blogspot.com.au/.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I come from a line of obsessive control freaks. My dad used to bring hospital grade ethanol home from work and clean the kitchen benches with it.

I remember chopping carrots on the bench one day and wondering what the weird taste was. Dad had only just swept through the kitchen with his ethanol and in my hurry to eat the dip with carrot I hadn’t notice the bench was still wet. It tastes like chemical, but not a nasty strong one. It was subtle, like unscented washing powder.

He used to spray the house in insect repellent. I hated it. Even the family eating at the dinner table wasn’t enough for him to desist. I remember arguing with him so many times about where spraying was not okay, but to no avail. One time I grabbed my dinner plate and ate elsewhere. At the time this was a noticeable act of rebellion. He didn’t do that again for a while.

His hands have always been raw from cleaning. He taught us about germs from early primary school. But it’s not just about cleaning. It is about control. The fallacy of control.
When on holiday once for my sister’s wedding I stayed with Mum and Dad in an apartment. On the night of the wedding I picked up one of the wedding party. The next day after coming “home” in my wedding dress at 7:30am Dad was trying to pack. He had taken over the job of packing a couple of beach chairs.

He always took over. There was never a negotiation. In our family if Dad wanted something we would just let him do it. It was easier that way.

He taped the chairs together so they could go through the luggage check-in. He taped. And he taped. And he taped. After 20 mins or so he had a bundle that had been covered in packing tape as if it was wrapping paper. He was still distressed that he might have not done it right. I looked at him and the chairs and said that it was fine, that they would be fine. Then he got the scissors out. He cut the tape and started again. Mum tried to intervene but this made Dad worse.

From a young age I have been able to placate Dad in these situations, if I wanted to. Today I did. His behaviour was in part a response to Dad’s inability to cope with my fun night out. I was no longer young enough for him to make judge my choice of extra-curricular activities and certainly not for him to yell at or control me. The obsessive wrapping was his way of projecting: directing his anger at the chairs instead of me.

Control: it is so often we think we can control things in life. We think that a bank account or the latest gadget or the new job or some improved government or workplace policy is going to change things, save us, insure us against trouble and disaster. But nothing can ensure anything. Not really.

Two and half years ago, at the age of 37 and after breaking up from a 9 year relationship, I decided to proceed with my plans to have a child. It was the perfect decision made under the perfect conditions. I owned my own place, no money owing to bank or government. I could decide and control exactly how I wanted to parent. I had friends around me who were elated and wanted to help. I had a good job: a 12 month contract in a university, the kind of stability that is rare in the sector. Plus, IVF was now available to single women and the technologies were so advanced. “I’ll be pregnant by the end of the year” I told a friend. Decision made. All planned. It was going to happen.

It is now three egg collection rounds, seven embryo transfers, around 150 or more days of hormone treatment and over $25,000 spent (much of that borrowed), with no success. That feeling of planned control has faded. This is one of my biggest gains from IVF.
The white suits and white rooms, the technologies and medications, the graphs showing new successes, the specialists with long lists of qualifications: none of this controls life. No matter how far the technologies of fertility have developed, we don’t know what creates life and what kills it. But more than that, it is outside the hospitals and clinics that life really happens, away from plans and policies and scientific advances.

This fallacy of control is disabling. It distracts, gives false hope. It prevents us from seeing the world and people around us clearly.

Dad’s obsessive chair wrapping was not going to assist him to understand that in having a one night stand I was perfectly happy and safe and living my life well.

Taking out yet another mortgage, or more time off work for another attempt at IVF, is not going to guarantee the arrival of a baby. Worse, it closes you off from other parts of your life and the possibilities these bring.

My Mum and I talk regularly during IVF rounds. “You have given up so much for this” she says after each of the last failed rounds. “I don’t want you to miss out on the great things in your life.” I hear her words often. They remind me of talking to my Dad: “The kitchen benches don’t matter that much. Can’t we just start cooking”.

I think of our family of control freaks and scientists and our penchants for planning. I think of the birth of my niece, and the other beautiful little humans in my life. I think of those unexpected accidents, the surprises and the joys they have brought: out of our control, unplanned.

I think of the relationships and friendships that have suffered as I have obsessively saved and planned and injected and waited and then grieved. Again and again.

I hear the stories of those giving up IVF to have only gained broken relationships, lost homes, lost jobs, damaged health, even bankruptcy.

I wonder at this fallacy of control: what it does and how it disables us, whether by obsessively cleaning hands and benches, or writing the next cheque for that IVF promise.
Back in the apartment with Mum and Dad, I put the kettle on. I told Mum it was okay. She joined me. At sometime between putting the kettle on and making his tea Dad came around to our point of view. The chairs would be fine. They now just had a criss-cross of tape around them.

As he joined us for tea he said to me “I think you’re right. I think that’s enough.” We drank our tea and finally talked. And everything was, indeed, just fine.

Twitter: @pollytext
Email: lisafaa@gmail.com

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Telling people she sang in a choir had become a chore she avoided. People outside this world, who didn’t do it, didn’t understand and imagined church robes and evangelical preaching. Or they thought rarefied music nerds who played recorder and built their own harpsichords.

At 18, she just didn’t have the right language to explain the bloody marvel of it. The sheer, gorgeous, lush, filling up that happened inside her, which made her want to cry with joy and was surely better than any of the sex she had yet to experience. That a few dozen people, most with little or no formal training, could make something so stupefyingly glorious was a phenomenon that defied explaining in any comprehensible way.

She felt it before she knew it, when it worked. The air changed. An outside observer might note them standing straighter but with such a dimunition of tension, and the clear lines of sight between every face and the conductor’s hands. When she felt in good voice, when at least eighty percent of them were confident of their entries and when everyone actually watched the conductor, it was like this.

They started the fugue, tenors first then altos. She couldn’t hear his voice but felt it, just behind her and to the left. Part of her anchored itself to that feeling, a strange cousin of hand-holding. A corner of her mind not currently occupied with singing was immersing itself in a fantasy kiss. Her blood rose.

Basses, then, gloriously, sopranos. Vocal lines twined around each other like lovers, feathery caresses, a brief slap, a long embrace. A call and response, soulful questioning followed by triumphal declamatory shouts. The conductor moved his hands, arms, torso and feet, his whole body leading and guiding, interpreting the lines and dots and weaving them together.

She imagined an invisible aura hovering overhead, shivering and silver. Competing and complementary placement of syllables, the Latin incomprehensible but the emotion and meaning pulsating with life. You couldn’t be inside this and not be moved, this piece, this product of the mind of a long-dead German man. He probably never imagined his music being heard outside his own skull, never mind his own lifetime. And sung by people living in a place barely known in his time, on the other side of the world. It was incomprehensible yet a cornerstone of Western culture and thus part of the everyday. An everyday miracle.

The apex phrase, the theme everything else depended from. A two-bar D natural at the climax she sung as if it wasn’t near the top of her range, feeling the note rise from her belly and fill it, not hearing her own voice but conscious of a faint buzzing in the middle of her forehead. The voices beside and behind her picked hers up and made something new and beautiful and carried it forward and up, joined by yet more voices and merging with that glistening invisible thing above. Everything north of her groin felt like the struts of cathedral arches, an infinity of resonant space between her pelvic floor and the top of her skull. Her solar plexus thrummed.

Finally and far too soon, the diminuendo. The tangle of lovers unknotted themselves, then chastely kissed each other on the cheek. The majesty of a moment before was gone, replaced by homely comfort, dignified withdrawal.

On the long last word, their diaphragms strained, tongues tautly poised for that last “n”. Ending on a hard consonant, like a “t” is avoided whenever possible, for fear of the machine-gun rattle of dozens of “t”s microseconds apart. A soft “n” allows the choir to hum the final chord, leaving the audience with a little afterglow of sound.

The final hum, cut off by the sweep of the hand. A beat, silence, breathe out. Scores down. Small smiles, a quiet, contained laugh. Yes. That was it. After hours, nights, weeks of frustration and note-bashing and drunken nights at the pub and late-night coffees and an informal crash-course in reading music, now they could perform and sing their pride and love for the sheer doing of it and soak up the reward of the applause and foot stamping and after-party vodka.

Follow @sairjane

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

This is not my story and I do feel a bit guilty I‘m compelled to tell it at every opportunity. It’s cringe-worthy!  Do you like uncomfortable stories?  Maybe this doesn’t take the cake but I like telling it for the looks of unpleasant shock and disgust it generates. So here goes. Sorry Annalisa, it doesn’t change the fact you are a home wrecking slut.

About three months ago my old high school buddies Brian and Chris came to Sydney where I was living at the time to launch a new video-editing program their company is flogging throughout Australia. They booked out a double story, bluestone bar in Surry Hills and served free booze to hundreds of industry guys.  Guys that promised to be in contact on Monday to buy some gear off them after the hangovers had subsided. Brian and Chris took the opportunity to book a penthouse in the Meriton in the World Tower for the private after party. Of course I was invited, they were my long time friends from Melbourne, I wanted to hang out, drink free booze and meet some guys. It worked for them too, they wanted me around as a pretty face in a room full of flirty, horny, drunk men.

Brian and Chris are both married. Brian has been  for about ten years and has two lovely kids. Chris has been married for about three years and is expecting his first baby early next year. Both wonderfully devoted family guys, dedicated and committed to their families. But Brian has always complained of feeling disconnected to his wife, Annalisa. What a stupid fucking name is has and she is the type of person who will correct you if you use just Anna or just Lisa.
“Oh, I prefer Annalisa honey.” She would gush if anyone got it wrong. All this emphasis did was make everyone roll their eyes when they added on the lisa part.

Brian has felt anxiety and depression in regards to her perceived infidelity and spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours in counseling sessions where she would hold his hand and sob,
“Baby, I love you. Nothing can ever come between us. Look at our beautiful children, look at our wonderful house, our trips. We have everything why would you ruin this with all your doubt. I am one hundred percent committed to you and I have no idea how to convince my baby otherwise.”

Brian complained of this to me over coffees and lunch for almost a decade and it was honestly getting to the point if I heard “something’s not right,” one more fucking time I was going to lose my shit. I am seriously sick of hearing about his anxiety and depression and not a way I choose to spend my afternoons. To be honest it makes me want to avoid him. But he is a beloved friend and I will reluctantly be their for him… I suppose. Honestly, It’s getting harder to bear. I am only human.

Anyway, this story is about Annalisa and Brian, not me. The next morning after the launch party I woke up way too early with the sun shining into my luxury penthouse room on the 77th floor overlooking the city. I would say from my bed the view was amazing but to be honest at first, all I saw was sky and planes flying into Sydney’s Kingford Smith in the distance. I hadn’t the foresight in my drunken stupor the night before to close the blinds. But the glare woke me and my throbbing dehydrated brain from all the boutique 9% Moon Dog beer Chris insisted everyone drank.

As I lurched out of the bed and fumbled around the penthouse opening doors I eventually found the bathroom. It smelt like lavender, the towels were fluffy and freshly folded and all that was about to change the moment I lifted the toilet seat and began spewing into the bowl, under the seat and on the floor. Of all the places I’ve deposited the contents of the night before drinks, this would have to be the most pleasant. On the counter reflected in the spotless mirror were about three bottles of water for $4 each and even though there was a glass on the counter and a basin fitted correctly with a tap, I ripped off the lid and gulped down my luxury water. Living the high-life, I was.

I closed the door behind me, fingers crossed no one would notice the fowl stench I’d left behind before looking down the hall and living room with zero recollection of which room I’d come from or how I’d gotten there in the first place. I made a silent vow to myself this is the last time I drink alcohol and at almost 40 it is hardly becoming of a woman to sleep in her party dress, stockings and a full face of makeup. No wonder I am still single.

I opened one door that I assumed I’d come out of, to see sitting on the side of the bed Brian sitting hunched over, face in hands sobbing. This was not any old sob, his large 6ft2 frame was heaving and drops of snot were dripping through his fingers onto the floor. I ran over to the bed and put both my hands around his torso and we fell onto the king sized bed in an embrace. He lay there in my arms catatonic for about twenty minutes. I said nothing to him, not wanting to hear anything awful that my brain was assuming.  My hangover was already wreaking havoc on my brain, this was not time for bad news. Had his children been injured? Was Annalisa dead? Is he bankrupt? Does he have cancer? I didn’t want to ask, but I knew at some point he was going to have to speak.
“You don’t have to tell me what’s happened? But, you do have to tell me if you want me to cancel your appointments today and organize your flights back to Melbourne.”
I’m not even a PA for him, I was just hoping I could concern myself with those details instead of having to listen to whatever trauma he was facing. I need to process too, you know. I was in no state for heavy shit right now.
“That fucking slut. I knew it, I’ve known for years she is a fucked up, sadistic whorebag that is just using me for my money. She fucked me and I am fucking going to destroy her.”
That was when I let go of him and sat up straight. This was a side of Brian I hadn’t seen, and I thought I was about to find myself defending her yet again for the millionth time.
“She loves you Brian, she is the mother of your two beautiful kids. We all have stress and feel distant at times. You have to have faith in her. Please don’t do this anymore.”
It was at that point he reached down to the floor, opened up his notebook and put it on my lap, screen pointing at my face. What I saw confused me. It was a picture of her torso to her upper thighs, large plump tits, one of which cupped by a kneading hand,  somewhat shapely abdomen, kneeling with her legs apart and her fingers buried deep into her … well, you get the idea.
“Far out – WOW. Too sexy? A lot of guys, er… husbands, would be turned on by such an adventurous wife.”
“Look again, Amber”
I didn’t want to, I already felt uncomfortable. Of course, I’ve sent nudie pictures to boyfriends and things like that. Snapchat is a great app for that purpose. But, I don’t want to see private sexy pictures that are meant for someone else in this case.
‘Fucking look again!”
I reluctantly did and this time on closer inspection in the corner was a picture, much smaller of another torso. A male torso with a long, hard, black cock in
it’s hands. Clearly, Brian is anglo and not his cock and suddenly it dawned on me this was a screenshot of a Skype chat. I pushed the computer away from me like that cock in the picture was about to spray me with unrequited cum.
“I don’t understand what you are showing me. What is that..? Do I even want to know…? It’s not fucking right that I can see Annalisa’s body like that. It’s not right to show that shit to people.”
Brian was sobbing harder now.
“I did the wrong thing. Yesterday, morning before the taxi collected me I put a keylog on her computer. I know it’s wrong, but I knew something wasn’t right.”
“What does a keylog do Brian?” I was stumped, scratching my head, feeling nauseous.
“It recorded every key she pressed, every sentence and every paragraph, every click and takes periodic screen shots of her computer, collated it all and sent it to me as an email this morning.”
My heart was pounding,
“And this is what you found?”
My mind was racing, had she done the wrong thing? Is that technically an affair? Did she know the guy? Is Brian a cunt for putting that keything on her computer?
“The moment I left the fucking house, that bitch logged onto dozens of chat rooms, she told random men she wanted to “cam”. She had a fucking marathon. One after another – non fucking stop. I didn’t read all of it but just from the pictures alone, she webcam fucked about eight or nine guys, probably more. A fucking marathon! How many times does the bitch have to get off in one night? I want to fuck, but she doesn’t want me, she wants to finger herself with these headless torsos.”
“Eight or Nine guys since last night?” That seemed excessive to me, what woman wants to cum that many times.

We sat in stunned silence for ages. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. After a lot of contemplation at some point it made me think that this is not really an affair but some sort of compulsion. Maybe it’s a symptom of a bigger problem. She doesn’t look like the kinky type. She sews for goodness sakes!

I booked Brian’s flight back home to Melbourne. That night he told her he was going to leave her and moved in with his mum. He left the kids with her.

I wanted to take the time to talk to her about what happened but couldn’t move past the thought that I had seen a picture of her fingering herself.

She killed herself about a week later.

I’m sorry Annalisa. Maybe this story isn’t about you anymore. I have to tell everyone because I’m dealing with the loss of you. I am so fucking mad with you, but I suppose I love you and miss you more. Maybe this is your legacy. A shit one but too bad.

Love Amber.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

ONCE UPON A TIME there was a guy in his late 20s living in Frankston (the nicer part, up the hill) who liked dressing up as a Roman Solider.  He wanted to be a vacuum cleaner salesman.  His name was Phillip Stone and he was originally from the small town of Handorf in Adelaide.  In fact he was a distant neighbor and primary school mate of Ali from the recent series of The Bachelor. As he wasn’t into reality TV shows, he had no idea of his seemingly insignificant claim to fame!

Philip really loved 80s music.  The B52s were probably he favorite band from the 80s and he particularly loved Planet Clare and Rock Lobster.  On Friday nights he would crank up the volume and jump around his lounge in his Roman Solider suits, it was extremely enjoyable and fun, although in the warmer months, it was uncomfortable due the thick canvass materials of his Captain’s jacket and pants.

EVERYDAY day he would look through the various vacuum cleaner catalogues and practice his sales pitch. Watching himself closely in the mirror and looking for cool facial cues that would encourage people to buy buy buy!! Philip was about to undertake a sales course through his local neighborhood house, starting the next Wednesday.  He felt very hopeful that his modest dream of selling such an efficient and time saving cleaning machine would take off and see him enjoy huge success and popularity in his beach side town.

ONE DAY his house caught fire, well not all of it, but enough to be a devastating blow to him.  This fire started in his bathroom after he took a long bubble bath to unwind.  He forgot to put out the lavender-scented candle that he had put onto the vanity basin. The flame of the candle burning under the face washer ring, took some time to catch on. But when it did, the house was ablaze like a university share-house during “O” Week.

BECAUSE OF THAT Philip, the Roman Solider lost all of his notes (as they were next to him in the bathroom – he didn’t have a computer to save them onto. They all burnt to a pile of ashes, and unlike the phoenix, there was no rising from the ashes to take a form of inspiration and wonder.  His equipment suffered too.  The vacuum cleaner collection was also destroyed, as they were stored in the cupboard just outside the bathroom.  There were however a few fittings left but nothing that would constitute an entire unit.  Philip was faced with a future without any prospects, his dreams shattered and his hopes dashed as he stood outside of his house, next to a hunky fireman, wrapped in a yellow woolen blanket. Boy, that was one shitty day.

AND BECAUSE OF THAT poor Philip was very upset about the fire and the damage to his ambition to sell vacuum cleaners.  He was now unable to continue to practice his sales pitch and had an impending sense of uselessness.

As rent payment were looming and his days were becoming more and more empty, Philip decided it may be time to just go out and get himself a job.

Philip began working at the local Karaoke Bar, it was called Thrill Time! It hosted many Hen’s Nights and 21^st Birthday party and was generally filled with drunken women who could only sing badly, drunk or not drunk. These people would often laugh at Philip in his new Roman Solider costume.  He cared not, for they all dressed in the stupid dresses sold at Forever 21 at the local Centro Shopping Centre.  All of them dressed similarly like those skanky Kardashian sisters in America.   That was showing off the curves and covering others with fake hair extensions, ruffle-dresses and massive hand bags over their bellies, bloated by the sugary beverages they consumed in great quantities.

Clearly, this job was not the dream job he had aspired to.  He needed some quick cash to (a) buy a computer and protect his intellectual property (b) purchase bulk equipment for demonstrations and (c) rebuild his bathroom.  He thought about this for some time, trying to work out a way to get back on his feet.

UNTIL FINALLY, after watching a couple of seasons of Breaking Bad, Phillip thought that he may start to cook up some Ice.  It seems like fast money.  He watch the first couple of episodes closely, Sudafed, check. He could use his dodgy chemist.  Large boiler, yep and a number of beakers, breathing apparatus and a plastic apron, check check check.

He borrowed his cousin’s campervan and headed out to Bear Gully National Park for his first cook up, with his notes and dreams.

The Ranger busted him within 1 hour of Philip preparing his first batch.   Dressed in the Roman Solider outfit and all.  He looked splendid and heroic, but destined to fail.  He spent the next 6 years incarcerated.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Everybody knows that war is bad. Everybody knows that to help those less fortunate than ourselves is a virtue.  Everybody knows that the only thing we can be sure of is that things will change.

Everybody knows this and yet we are prepared to stop and detain, for unspecified lengths of time, people who risk their lives to flee injustice, war and persecution.

Everybody knows this and yet we insist that taxes must be lowered and that the National Disability Insurance Scheme will bankrupt the nation.

Everybody knows this and yet we fight to stop industries from dying that no longer serve our needs and, in fact, are poisoning our planet.

At what point are we prepared to act?  At what point are we prepared to defend what we believe in and say, “No, this will not stand!”

Is it once we have put our children through school and they are able to stand on their own two feet?

Is it once we’ve paid of the mortgage and are “financially secure”?

Is it once we retire, get off the treadmill and finally have time to look around and see that everything that we have worked so hard for just isn’t there?

At what point would you be prepared to go to a rally, hand out leaflets or door knock in support of a cause you believe in?

At what point will you investigate an issue and find out what the facts really are rather than just sitting back and taking the “opinions” dished up to you by the media?

At what point will you realise the future you dream of is being sold, compromised and given away without your consent or understanding?

When we finally realise that we have only one life to live, only one planet to live on and only one way to have an impact on the future then we will act.

That time is now.

Wake up and take action or the tomorrow you end up in will be someone else’s.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

“ you have a twenty year sentence, but you’re sixty five so it is not going to kill you “

Thanks heaps Doc.; good one!

I went home. I deliberately didn’t google my malady; I don’t want to become one of those people preoccupied with his (ill) health. But perhaps I was a bit scared too; the subplot of the novel I was reading was that the main character had just been diagnosed; just like me. Should he take the prescribed medication with all its potential side affects? How long will he be able to maintain his professional practice? I returned the book to the library unfinished.

I determined to be open about my condition. I didn’t want people tiptoeing around  questioning others about my plight behind my back.

I had no problem coming to terms with my affliction. The specialist re-assured me it is not the result from anything I have done (or not done) in the past. It is not caused by overwork or over indulgence and is not related to injury of any sort. Plus I know “ there is no trial that may overtake you that is not common to man.

How had I not been able to read/ recognize my symptoms?

The quality of my voice sometimes changed; I sounded husky as if I had a cold. “ Dad, you need to drink more water!”

We were striding across Hampstead Heath. “ Grandad one of your arms is not swinging”

Sometimes in bed one of my legs would get (disconcertingly) tremulous and restless.

I had to conduct a funeral of a young man who hanged himself, the son of a friend.Tragic; all very sad. Hundreds of people there. All listening to me. I am the one expected to put Malcolm’s death into some context, profer some rationale, provide words of some hope and encouragement. Good reasons to be nervous but my nervousness communicated itself to the mourners, something that would not normally occur. The neurologist calls it “public scrutiny”.

I started the medication.

My walking gait, previously becoming increasingly disturbed and irregular, is now back to normal. My left hand tremors are still evident and stutters on the keyboard. Preaching is becoming problematical and I have curtailed it but not stopped altogether. I find it increasingly difficult to extemporize. The words which once flowed freely now can sometimes stumble over each other, confusing rather than clarifying. I compensate by scripting more than I used to. The result can be more of a lecture rather than an inspired message.

Parkinsons is a slowly progressive disease that affects an area of the brain that controls movement. The brain cells that produce the chemical called dopamine degenerate. The process commences long before symptoms become evident. There is no cure.

“ God is faithful and can be trusted to not let you be tried beyond your ability and strength of resistance to endure, but with the trial will always provide the way out, the means of escape to a landing place, that you may be capable and strong and powerful to patiently bear up under it “ 1 Corinthians 10:13 Amp

Monday February 4, 2013  5.30pm

Pains in the chest. The dinner table is laid. In bursts the paramedics. Shirt off, wires all over me. Three and six year olds see Grandad wheeled out on a trolley.

St Vincents Hospital: “you’ve had a heart attack”

Aah well