Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Jeff was a bit of an arsehole. Some of the dogs on Fig Street thought he had a superiority complex, and the others knew it. On the arsehole-scale, with 1 being Lassy and 10 being the type of dog who commences eating their owner within minutes of suffering a major stroke on the toilet, Jeff sat around 9.5.

As a pure bred, Jeff knew he was above the rest. In fact, he actively sought to offend all neighbourhood pooches that came near by wearing a collar announcing him as a racist (yes, it said “I’m Racist”, not “I’m prone to racism”, or “I occasionally harbour racist thoughts”, just plain “I’m Racist”, no excuses offered. Look, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one).

After one particularly nasty incident, where his adopted half-breed sister Lucy-Loo died suddenly (choked on a lamb chop), Jeff didn’t so much as piss in her general direction, let alone actually help her!  Digging up her rotting corpse a few weeks later, he retrieved the lamp chop and set about making light work of it. He briefly considered burying it (which is like marinading for dogs) but then he thought perhaps Lucy-Loo had done that job for him.

So, as you can imagine, the Fig Street dog-gang were beside themselves with jubilance when they discovered that Jeff was having… well… a bit of a problem.  You see, originally, Jeff was a fast-paced canine. He had respectably fast heritage after all (not that he thought much of his largely absent parents). For the past 35 dog-years he had reigned supreme among the Fig Street dogs as being quick as a jet plane. Don’t get me wrong, Jeff was lazy as fuck, but when he really wanted to, he could chase down anything! Man or beast, there was nothing he couldn’t catch, and everybody knew it.

And so it happened. On a sunny Wednesday afternoon he was tested, as he had been many times before, but this time he was found wanting.  It was Stacey, that bitch cat at number 33. After years of walking delicately along the fence line, swinging those curvy hips in a ‘come-hither’ stride that attracted every cat-fucker with a pulse, Stacey finally mis-stepped. She landed with a thud. Jeff sprung to his feet, and with greed in his eyes and a smirk on his face, he dashed in her direction. Alas, at a pace somewhat less than lightening speed, he faceplanted the colourbond. At first he wasn’t sure whether the thump he heard was his head or his ego. He shot a look to the left, then to the right, before realising with horror that Stacy’s perky arse had cleared all 2.2 metres just nanoseconds earlier.

It was immediately the talk of Fig Street, but never under-estimate the power of a middle-age dog in desperate circumstances to side with denial.   Why yes, he’d missed Stacey on this one occasion.  One could be mistaken for thinking his speed was to blame, but really it was because he wasn’t trying at all. I mean, he had I full stomach…a big lunch… you know how it is? In any case, it had only happened this one time, and so what? Who really cares? It was a warning. Yes, he was letting Stacey off the hook on this occasion. A single incident, without cause. Discussion over.

Within days, Jeff had put it out of his mind and raucous excitement of the Fig street dog gang had mellowed to a few musings.   That was, until, a prancy-arse little Blue Wren appeared.

Who could believe it, this little chancer was actually pecking at Jeff’s leftover dog biscuits. First Jeff’s ears sprung to attention, and then his jaw lifted from its comfortable position upon his paws. What this little Blue Wren cunt had forgotten, Jeff Thought, was that while most dogs are content with only attacking cats, Jeff was a master bird-eater. No soon had this thought crossed his mind when his body lunged forward…. Just as….. well… THAT little Blue Wren took flight. But it wasn’t a scattered and scared kind of flight, it was more like a sarcastic hover.  He fluttered, then landed less than a metre away. Jeff lunged again. Another flutter, another land.  Lunge. Jump. Flutter. Land. Repeat.

Time and time again, that fucking Blue Wren taunted Jeff with its waggly tail and high-flying antics.  Briefly, Jeff recalled the time that Bill (the man that lives in his house) took him to the park. A fiver had flown from Bill’s pocket, and each time Bill stepped forward to grab it that fiver seemed to gain a life of its own, flying through the air, only to resettle just a few steps from Bill’s current position. Jeff had thought Bill was an embarrassing dickhead that day, and he was starting to think the Blue Wren was doing to him what the fiver had done to Bill! But what could he do? He couldn’t let this blue-arsed Nancy-boy eat his dog food. Hell, he couldn’t let him live after entering his domain. Doesn’t this Blue Wren know just who he is?  The saga continued for a humiliating 30 minutes before Jeff, exhausted, took himself and his shame under the house to hide.

Lying in the dark and burning with rage, Jeff wondered if perhaps, just maybe, the other dogs had missed the whole event.  It was a nice thought, but highly unlikely.  Those popular dogs had friends in high places. There was Cindy, a Cavoodle (Jeff hated the fancy names they gave half-breeds). He didn’t see Cindy in all the chaos, but he knew she would have had prime position atop the kids’ slide, perched high in her yard. There was also Max, a fucking mutt, who had a whole-of-neighbourhood view from his kids’ cubby house. On one hand Jeff loved that Bill didn’t have kids (Bill would rather ruin his carpet than ruin his life) but Jeff had to admit that he envied the opportunities that kids’ play equipment provided. While Jeff over-thought the whole situation, the Fig Street dogs enjoyed every moment of his suffering, telling and re-telling the story of that Blue Wren, their new hero.

It was on a rainy Wednesday morning that Jeff finally succumb to the lowest of lows. The nail in the coffin, so to speak.  While scratching his back on the gate to the veggie patch, Jeff noticed something small and brown dart across the yard.

And then, it happened again.

Is that?

Could that be?

No?

A rat!

Another rat!

And what the fuck? Another fucking rat!

Now the average non-dog reader might wonder what difference it makes, I mean really, he can no longer catch cats and birds, so what’s the problem with a rat?  Well firstly, this isn’t ONE rat, it’s a fucking rat infestation. Secondly, rats are vermin. Disgusting, pathetic flea ridden crawling swine that devour not only Jeff’s food, but Bill’s food too.  While Jeff only moderately tolerates Bill, he has developed a mildly concerning inclination to protect him from the numerous threats to which Bill seems oblivious. If Jeff can’t protect Bill from a rat plague then what the fuck does Bill need him for?

If Jeff was capable of conscious thought at this point, he would have used it. Alas, instinct dominated his impulses and he ran…and he lost. Time and time again the rats evaded him, and oh how the Fig Street dogs roared with laughter.  For days the dance persisted. A rat ran, Jeff chased, the ran won. Repeat.

By Sunday, Jeff was spent. Ready to give up on this world, he wandered to the dead side of the house where he was pretty sure he could not be seen. He wept.  Isolated, alone, and hearing only the hushed laughs of other dogs enjoying his misery, Jeff wallowed and wallowed all afternoon. Exhausted, Jeff drifted to sleep. Upon waking, Jeff noticed he was surrounded! Six rats at all angles were peering into his pathetic eyes. Jeff had lost the will to chase. One of the rats stepped forward. “We know you don’t have any friends” the rat said. “and we know you’re old and slow” he continued. “But we kind of like you. You’re an outsider, just like us! Perhaps we could all be friends?” the lead rat asked.

For a moment Jeff considered the proposition. He’d have others to talk to, people who actually liked him! For a moment, a brief moment, he let himself wonder. Then he replied on a racist’s instinct.

“No” said Jeff. “You are beneath me”. 

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Who are we when we drop the identity we have built around us?
We become self-conscious as we grow more and more attached to our identity. What if we could drop all that and see past to the raw materials as such?
What are our core emotions, where do these emotions come from?
Why do we project so much of who we are onto others and the world around us?
If I didn’t put first that I am a woman, a single mum, a teacher well who am I?

I am an individual who is compassionate and empathetic. I care when people hurt, not because of who they are or what they are but because they hurt and I don’t want that. I want everyone to have as much happiness as a human possibly can.
And I understand that we can’t be happy all of the time and I understand that is not even preferable. I find myself now in a very good place. I now know it is possible to feel happy a lot of the time, some of the time. So what might it be that is making me happy a lot of the time right now?

1.      I know that it’s okay not to be happy all the time. I don’t kick myself when I’m down.
2.      I honour my feelings. If I ignore them they fester and get septic and come out all ugly at the wrong people.
3.      Some stress is good for me but I have to manage it. Exercise can help a lot as it gets the endorphins flowing.
4.      Care. I’m not afraid to care and show that I care. I get misty eyed a lot and I get embarrassed by that but is it really something to be embarrassed of?
5.      I am unique. I am special and I bring to the world something no-one else has got and that is my ticket to a deserving place on this planet. It doesn’t matter what I’ve got. I’ve got it and no one else has.
6.      I express  myself. I just do it whenever I can. Throw some paint. Cook a meal with a weird combination of spices. Yodel. Model. Snorkel. I do what makes me happy in the moment to find my flow state.
7.      I trust myself. I don’t always need to ask others opinions sometimes I just know what is right for me.
8.      Set some boundaries. I might not be so good at this. I might feel mean sometimes for shutting people out but I try to remember this is really important for my sanity.
9.      I get angry sometimes. And that’s ok too.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Sydney, Australia – 0653hrs

Ivy arrived at work early.  She had slept fitfully after too many joints and too much wine – found it difficult to distract herself from thoughts of Andrew.  They had been together for five years – had lived together for most of it – and Ivy had finally found the courage to face what they had become – disconnected and desperate. Andrew had moved out of their Leichhardt terrace over a month ago – but his new apartment in Newtown felt suffocatingly close.  Ivy had become fearful of the inner west suburbs, her suburbs, expecting to see Andrew wherever she went.  So she stayed at home instead – smoked and drank herself into a stupor – or barricaded herself at work – surrounded by a concerning mix of crime and mental illness.  Her own mental state was worrying enough – anxious, cynical and reckless at a resting state.  Numb and detached when she had consumed enough of something, anything, to dull her senses.  She knew that work was an unhealthy way to avoid what was happening – but focussing on her patients’ problems was an easy way to escape her own existence.

She was trained as a forensic psychologist – something her mother regularly commented on.  You? A forensic psychologist? But she was proud of what she’d become and felt a sense of purpose through conceptualising her patients’ issues and trying to make sense of their complicated thoughts and behaviours. Ivy had been obsessed with crime since she could remember – encouraged by her grandmother – a woman she loved fiercely – who had introduced her to Edgar Alan Poe and Alfred Hitchcock well before her seventh birthday.  After a chaotic upbringing and an unconventional family, Ivy was not surprised to fall into the world of forensic psychology. On a good day, herpatients could be like little gifts, unwrapped to reveal something special and unique. But over time, they had left a stain on her – a white sheet turned grey.

Ivy parked in front of Bradford Prison – waved to a bunch of officers, out for a quick cigarette.  Opening the door of her new Prius, she felt the humid air catch in her throat, as sweat popped off her chest.  The city had been in a heat wave for days, the temperature edging 40 on more than a few occasions, hot even at this hour.  She closed her eyes and thought of the ocean nearby. Ivy could smell salt and inhaled deeply.  Decided to go to Maroubra Beach in her lunch break.  She had made this promise before but usually didn’t get time to follow through with it.  Ivy walked towards the Forensic Hospital where her office was located.  The Hospital was a metal structure built next to the Prison and designed to house mentally disordered offenders and those found not guilty by reason of mental illness – the most depraved and disturbed criminals in New South Wales.  The contrast between Bradford Prison and the Forensic Hospital unnerved her. The Prison was old heavy brick  – filled with history and hate but honest and predictable.  The Hospital was different – cold and stark, brutally modern – it felt unknown – its new shiny windows suggesting a secret that should be kept hidden. She shivered in the morning sun as she walked towards the steel doors.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The Japanese have a saying that the sands of time run softly for those who shine golden light. This may well be true for the lucky ones, many people in Japan live a long and fruitful life.

In spring, cherry trees bloom and people gather around the flossy flowers. For some, falling cherry blossom symbolises the fleeting nature of life. Like grains of rice being sifted in a sieve, the blooms flourish then drift lazily down to the ground. Later they will wither and die.

One morning Haruko (“spring child”), a local Geisha girl, stood underneath a marvellous billowing tree, admiring the pink cherry blossom. As she stared at the beauty of the tree, a solitary tear trickled down her painted cheek. In the early hours of that morning, her beloved Grandmother Aiko had died.

Surrounded by family and friends, Aiko had rattled her last breath. But not before she had asked Haruko one last favour. We’ll talk about that later…

The sun was still rising over the vivid hue of pink cherry blossoms and towering Tokyo buildings. Jaunty skyscrapers coming in to view, looming out of the night’s shadows. It was eerily quiet – aside from the occasional last breath of a cherry blossom, as a falling flower drifted down to the ground.

Haruko sighed. She could taste life’s bitter discontent on the wind. She did not wish to continue the life she had. Serving men. Contained in the House of Geisha’s. Her wings clipped by the life she had been forced into. Servitude was crushing her soul, slowly sucking the life out of her.

Soon, as the city woke up, she would be expected to return to her daily regime. Cleaning, preparing, perfecting her painted face, dressing up, entertaining, serving guests. Being the “perfect” Geisha girl and living the life she was told to.

“I need a box,” she worried, clutching her Grandmother’s diary beneath her Kimono. Letting out a deep sigh, that just scratched the surface of her troubled mind. Sidestepping a cockroach, she pattered up the path. Back to the dirty alleyways of the city.

A foul-smelling and turgid looking water was coursing down the back-alley. Haruko cursed as she jumped over a rock and mis-judged it. Tottering in her impractical sandals and stubbing her toe as she accidentally splashed down into the murky water. Dark splatters stained her Kimono.

“I need a box,” she muttered as she scampered on. Somewhere, a few streets back, she could hear clattering. The city was arising. She must hurry.

Back at the House of Geisha’s she slipped out of her sandals. Her fingers deftly rubbed at the muddy marks on her Kimono. She cursed. She could not wipe it off.

Oka-san wasn’t awake yet. This was unusual. “I may still have time,” Haruko thought, as she peeked into Oka-san’s room. The Geisha House mother appeared to have passed out on the floor. One too many sakes? A smirk spread across Haruko’s face. And there – just to the right of the snoring lady was an empty box, which looked just the right size. It lay discarded, as if fallen from her hand.

It was a difficult decision. If she accidentally woke the House mother, then she would have failed in her mission to fulfil her Grandmother’s last wish. She lunged for it and grasped the box in her sweaty hand. Backing gingerly out of the room Haruko whistled in relief, dropping her Grandmother’s diary into the box deftly and hastily scribbling the memorised address onto it.

What I had forgotten was string, she mused. To tie the parcel. Without a second thought, she did the unthinkable and pulled the red ribbon from her hair. Instantly breaking the rules of the House of Geisha. Her once neatly piled high hairstyle now ran amok.

Haruko tiptoed down the corridor and tumbled back out into the alleyway. Barefoot and fumbling with the ribbon she tied the box tight. Then ran for her life. The box swinging beside her as she set off. “Good morning everyone” the speaker system sounded out as she ran. The Geisha’s were being woken up. She pelted down the street.

This was it. Freedom. Nervously checking the coins in her pocket. Haruko had just enough to post the hastily packed parcel. She rounded the corner and joined the queue that was already forming at the post office.

Gingerly, Haruko placed the eccentric looking box on the counter. The counter assistant was too absorbed in dealing with the queue of people promptly, to comment on the quirkiness of the box or realise its importance, or notice the haphazard appearance of the Geisha girl. Haruko hesitated for a second before paying the postage. The box was on its way.

Haruko quickly turned on her heel, out of the post office door and made as if to start back towards the Geisha House. In the same instant the sun rose up as if to greet her, dazzling her completely. She turned her face the other way down the street, and in that split second a new world of possibilities opened up. Turning away from the sun, and to a new future, she ran.