Spelling Tests are Stupid – Jessica Alsop

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

I was unsure of how to spell unsure. The stress from that realisation made me miss the next word… and the next word.

It was another Friday spelling test and words were flying over my head. I didn’t know how to spell any of them. This would be another zero out of twenty words. Miss Jenkins, my teacher, would look down on me again. My parents would try to make me feel better by saying “We are not spellers. We do Math.” Not that I was doing much better in Maths.

I couldn’t even remember the words to try one answer. Just one! I looked to my desk buddy’s test, Belinda best student in the class. They all looked correct, I guess. Next minute, the test had ended, and I had failed.  I banged my head on my desk and sighed.

I could smell the sea. What? There was no sea nearby. I had recently watched a show on how brain tumours could make you smell things that aren’t there. Did I have a brain tumour? My eleven old brain couldn’t spell unsure but knew about brain tumours!

Then a crab ran over my foot. I had never seen one before. Although I had seen them in a picture book. Where did it come from? We don’t have a class pet. I looked around. Nothing on the bookshelves and the view from the windows above was a sunny playground. There was a sink behind me. The white plug sat next to the tap which wasn’t running. Water started to rush over the sink. What?

“Miss Jenkins” I exclaimed, “The sink is overflowing.” Belinda screamed as water started to rush over our feet. Miss Jenkins raced over. “It’s coming from the drain! I need to get a plumber.” Rushing over to the door she signalled to the class to follow her. The class ran for the exit. I was about to follow then I noticed the floor was covered in sand. Seaweed had started to grow from the floor too. The water was now up to my waist and I could see fishes swimming around. Brightly coloured tropical fish.

I started to wade my way to the classroom door when a giant geyser of ocean water shot out from the sink. There was no time to make my way to the door. The water was rising quickly. I began to swim to the top of the classroom. Once at the top, I took my last breath before sinking back into the watery depths of the classroom. The view was amazing, an ocean wonderland. Crabs walking along the desk. Fish swimming about just like it was a normal day. That’s when the white plug floated past. Of course! Plug the waterflow!

I started to swim to the plug when I saw a shadow quickly swim pass me. Was that a shark? Courage I thought, grab the plug stop the water! I dashed for the plug. It floated into a school of fish and bounced of their body. Coming back to my hand. Yes! Now to the sink. That’s when I saw the shadow again. Crap! Swim faster! FASTER! I made to the sink and plunged my hand into the water geyser.

Stretching my hand down into the sink though the rushing water, I plugged the drain. I danced under the water, taking a moment to celebrate.  Suddenly the water started decrease, as I slowly returned to the floor. Sand, seaweed and even the fishes disappeared as the water faded away. Everything seemed surprisingly dry, even myself. Except for one thing, everyone’s spelling tests were still wet. The ink blurred and illegible. The ocean in the class room may not have made sense but the spelling test was ruined! I was glad for that.

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The Australian Flag key ring – Eric Bittner

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time I realised that the Australian flag should be changed I was 30 and travelling in New Zealand.  Yes they have the same flag as ours – well nearly. And will they become a state of Australia? No. Actually we should become a state of their country.  They have far better morals and ethics and environmental asspirations than Australia and their ethical treatment of their indigenous populations puts ours to shame.

So why change flags – well do we worship the flag or is the flag representative of our country? Yep ours is representative of our country 100 years ago.

Next minute we would roll the dice and gamble on a change of flag and the joining of countries.  Maybe it’s not such a gamble. The options of six choices versus a continuing on with a current flag and connection to the monarchy and a history that many wish to forget.

Becoming an independent nation would be awesome.  But we would have to trust our neighbours and are we up to that.  Not yep, but we have to work to get to that as it is what many Australians want.

I think it’s dead.  The flag that is. It has lost its heart.  It’s cold like a gem in the earth. It’s shaped how we found it. A gem shaped heart with no currency – only trotted out at special occasions for kids to see and sing for – do you know the full words to the flags national anthem.  Do you sing it with real pride and confidence. The flag is dead, well in tatters anyway. So let’s bury it. Now for a replacement. What defines us Aussies?

All I could see was sky – maybe that should be our flag – Blue – but which blue – aqua for the ocean that surrounds us, baby blue because that’s how we start, or navy because apparently we need physical protection.  No. Some of our migrants came by boat. How many Vietnamese travelled here and have inspired out food culture and history and their kids have become our doctors, lawyers, comedians and artists. Their parents have probably seen too much sky and blue in their journeys here.  The flag to be Australian should be based on our history. 40,000 years of it carries a fair weight. Ok we have the Aboriginal flag as a base. Now let’s add the 4 points of the compass to it. That’s where the rest of our multicultural melting pot come from. Already I can feel the change.org emails zinging off and social media trolling- and yep cafe conversation happening too.

Until finally change happens and an aboriginal flag with a sequin garter sewn around the sun perfectly represents the diversity and sparkle of our population- the men, the women and the gender neutral and those still not sure, who make up our country and create and share our history to make Australia a better place in the world.

It was brilliant, the new flag.  It carried the feeling of the people and the country and the change that was possible.  We created the dice but stacked it in our favour – putting the results we wanted on all the sides.  The people, the houses, the leaders, the environment, the transport and the food that we wanted. The energy we created.  Energising the people and the systems. Change is possible – you need to listen and think, and talk. In your groups and towns and streets about what you want and listen to what your kids want.  It’s about them really. It’s your legacy. It’s not about you – that’s your diary. Leave history to write your dreams.

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The Duncans of Salty Creek – Emma Scholz

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

No one who was there forgot the day that Rosemary Duncan staged the coup that dethroned her mother in law. Priscilla Duncan had reigned over the community of Salty Creek, the fourth Mrs Duncan to do so, for almost four decades. When news came that her son, Sandy (the fifth), was to be married, gossip and speculation about his fiancée seeped under doorways and floated through the open pub doorway for weeks.
The Duncans were Salty Creek royalty. Ever since the first Alexander Duncan had edged out the competition to squat on the best piece of land for a hundred miles around, the town had been a Duncan fiefdom. Each successive head of the Duncan family was named Alexander, and the locals began to distinguish one from another by using their ordinal number, in the royal fashion. If this habit began with a hint of mockery, then by the time of Priscilla’s husband, Sandy the fourth, the term had long since become purely descriptive. The Duncans were woven into the fabric of Salty Creek, their legitimacy grounded in the sincere belief they shared with their fellow citizens that the interests of the town and those of the family were indivisible. They employed a combination of ruthlessness and gracious condescension, always with an eye to the main chance, and their networks of patronage were unfathomable.
The real key to the Duncan family success lay in the gift, displayed by Sandy after Sandy, of selecting wives. Fair, tall, well bred and fertile, all Duncan wives developed into formidable matrons. While their husbands conducted the public activities of business and government, the incumbent Mrs Duncan made social connections, gathered information, persuaded, bullied and flattered, always with a light touch, a good deal of charm, and reassuringly clear expectations. That was why it was utterly inexplicable to Priscilla when her son presented her with Rosemary as his bride. Average in height, perfectly normal looking and slightly socially awkward, she seemed to lack any particularly distinguishing features that might make her an unappealing daughter-in-law. For Priscilla, however, the possession of distinguishing features was prerequisite to be a Duncan wife, and the apparent lack of any represented an irredeemable sin. She was, however, not one to allow disappointment to overtake her. A woman of resolve and firmness, she chose to ignore the existence of Mrs Sandy Duncan the fifth.

 

 

 

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Better Me Than You Love – Tracy Robertson

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The shocks started before I left the specialist’s consulting room. I knew the diagnosis of cancer was coming from the time I’d found the lump eight days earlier. But it was everything that came with it that undid me. Shockingly for me I immediately had control over my own life taken away. The specialist started rattling off a list of all the other tests I now had to have before the surgery I needed and I interrupted to ask what… when… where did I have to go for these tests as I madly scrambled to get my pen and notebook out of my handbag. Only to be told that all the appointments had already been made for me and his secretary would give me the details on my way out. I opened my mouth to explain I had other things in my diary. Important things. Trivial things. MY things. But I shut my mouth without uttering a word. Clearly everything else was going to have to fit around THIS thing.

Then the shocking realisation that I had to tell the people who love me. There’s a story in all these conversations. A story and so much love and gratitude for each and every one of ‘my’ people. This story is about one of those people – my Dad. I have always known that he loved me, never doubted it. And I had to tell this wonderful man my terrible news.

He lived hundreds of kilometres away. I had to call him. I felt sick. I couldn’t breath properly but if I tried to take a big breath I felt like I would throw up. Somehow I managed to make that call. Somehow I managed to speak the words I knew he didn’t want to hear. And then there was silence. I knew he was crying and trying to hide that from me. I knew he was trying to get himself together for me. To talk to me. To speak words of comfort. And I knew the shock and the terror had started for him too. But in that silence I could feel his love and I could breath again.

Over the months and months and months that turned into years my Dad never forgot any day when I was due to have a test, get a test result, have chemo, radiation, start some other type of treatment, finish that treatment, start some other bloody thing. Every time I would get a text from him. Every. Single. Time. From a man who was renowned for being forgetful. Who went and got himself a mobile phone and learnt how to send texts after vowing he would never do such a thing. That he couldn’t imagine what could possibly be important enough to want to carry a phone around with you all the damn time.

So here I am. Still alive obviously. But he is gone. He had to call me with his own terrible news. Terribler news because his condition was terminal. The terriblest news. And when he told me, I was silent as he had been years before. I cried and tried not to cry at the same time. Tried to hide my crying from him. Wanting to talk to him and not being able to speak. Already feeling the horror of the grief to come. And, in his beautiful gentle voice, he said: “Better me than you love.”

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Life – Linda Walker

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`

Today is Natalie Klassans 48th birthday.  It’s on my mind as I wake up and get ready to go to a writers workshop, quietly shitting my pants at stepping outside my comfort zone and putting myself out there, and it’s on my mind because I know I can’t call so she can tell me (again) how shit my voice is as I try to sing Happy Birthday to her.  I know I won’t be having drinks with her tonight, and our days of getting drunk and laughing at dating stories are of the past now- there is no way for me to reach her since she left this earth. It’s on my mind.

Nat would have been 48 today, maybe she still is turning 48 in heaven? I don’t know how it works up there – or if there is heaven at all. Actually scrap that turning 48 idea, she would have way preferred to stay young and hot, even though it was only three years ago, its still three years, she is forever mid 40’s now and not late 40’s.  I can hear her in my head telling me this.

It’s one of the reasons I am here today at a writers workshop, one of the reasons for a lot of things.

Three years ago she got given the prognosis of two to four weeks to live. Aggressive cancer, blah blah. You know the drill.  I remember getting the call, I was living in NZ at the time and she lived in Melbourne.  I was frantically trying to make plans to get to her immediately and in her usual way she was making jokes, “I have weeks yet…weeks, don’t rush!”. Then we would cry.  In the end I was so glad I rushed. When life throws you curve balls, you don’t always catch them. Some days you don’t even get to finish playing the game.

It took three days for me to get there in the end, the curse of living on the wilds of the west coast of the south island of NZ, I drove through snow and ice, took two plane rides and car ride then I was at the hospital, at the side of a women who looked radically different already.  I recall she never actually made it home, back to her bedroom, her cat, her life.

She went into the hospital to get results and never came out.  Seven days was all it took. Seven days and she was gone.  From when they told her to when she left. Seven days.

I could of course tell you so much about Nat cause she was one of my best friends, how she ate a piece of chocolate cake every day before she went the gym, how she played the clarinet and sang like an angel, how she told the filthiest jokes and had the dirtiest mind, how she was a fiercely independent woman and used to inspire me to want to be more like her…but I am not here to talk about that. What really gets me is the seven days.

How we used to talk about what we would do “one day”.  Everyone does I guess.  I floundered after she went.  I couldn’t fathom what I could take from this, I felt I had to find something or I felt like it would be in vain, losing her, such a vibrant person. Then it hit me. That we think we have forever, but our forever could be seven days.

I base a lot of things around that now. Nat doesn’t know it (or heck, maybe she does from wherever she is) but that thought helped me leave an unhealthy relationship.  Would I do this if I had seven days? Is that what I would accept? Is this who I would be? No.

So today is Natalie Klassans birthday.  She will not be given another seven days on this earth, but I might be.  So I left a relationship, I took a different job, I moved out from my partner, I am broke as hell but I am happy, all because I didn’t want to waste whatever my forever is, because I know forever doesn’t last as long as I thought. And of course I signed up for this class, because I miss writing and I want to do more of it, and If I have only seven days I have at least spent a part of that telling people not to waste theirs either.  You think you have forever. You don’t.

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Just a Girl – WendyJoy Smith

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`

I began my working life in the city working as an auditor for T&G insurance because I was good at maths. I did not choose this work, I wanted to stay at school (to be honest I wanted to leave too) but dad said I had to go to work.

I was so young and hadn’t formed an opinion of myself yet, let alone formed any notion of what a suitable career might be for me. Just a girl!

Well that’s not exactly true, I had tried so many times…..

I had wanted to be a doctor since I could talk: No dad says, education is not for girls

I had expressed interest in becoming a nun; No he says, no bloody daughter of mine will be a penguin

My drawings of our new school uniform were chosen for display around the school and I thought I’d love to be a fashion designer. My brother, sign writer apprentice, told mum and dad I was not good enough at drawing, so that was the end of that.

I gave up trying, and at the age of 17 I finally gave in to just a girl and began work as an auditor, then in sales, until I married and had children. Motherhood suited me and I was good at it most of the time.

Time has flown, and along the way I’ve studied and done a lot of the things I set out to do with the skills I’d learnt. Now in my 60’s I still hear an instant no whenever I think I’ll (insert any new hobby, travel plan, study plan): It has taken a life time of undoing the early years conditioning and to battle against the inertia the ‘just a girl’ talk brings.

The future is huge, awesome in fact – I can do anything I choose to do. I travel, I write and share my adventures, and I get to share my wisdom with other women just like me. The early no’s I once heard taught me to be underwhelmed with life but I’ve turned them around to reveal of portal of grace I never knew existed.

My world is open and filled with adventures. Just a girl is now a woman who has lived, is living an amazing life. Two thirds of the way through, what’s next?

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Big Fat Announcement!

NEWS! Nelly Thomas, comedian, columnist, writer, author, broadcaster, cracking sheila and genius is CONFIRMED as our guest speaker for our June Gunnas Weekend Writing Retreat!  Clare Bowditch was our guest speaker for the March retreat and the November retreat speaker is about to be announced!

I’m BESIDE myself with excitement. She will be joining us after lunch on Saturday to share what she does, what she did, how she does it, how she did it and how she suggests you do it. Nelly will give you a squiz under the bonnet of her career and lavish your with hints, tips, laughs and a huge amount of inspiration, motivation and stories. You are in for a treat. Check out some of her stuff…

She recently made this amazing radio show on class with Dave O’Neil and Christo Tsiolkas!

Nelly has self published an amazing children’s book called Some Girls which is going off like a frog in a sock and coming soon SOME BOYS!

It’s hard to choose but this is one of my favourite articles of her’s.

Nelly performs a bunch hosting, speaking, comedy and teaching. We did a show together for Melbourne International Comedy Festival called Mother Of The Year with Christine Basil. This is not from that show but form her show Yummy Mummy.

She’s even made a sex video. It’s for teenagers and it’s called The Talk.

Check out here showreel.

AND she wrote perhaps a femoir, it’s a fantastic read take a look.

Nelly is also running her second stand-up comedy masterclass for Gunnas in September book here.

CHECK OUT ALL CLASSES AND RETREATS HERE 

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Dice Roll – Shauna Stafford

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`

The first time I gambled for a man’s life, I lost and he was shot. And that was shit. And I feel sorry about it to this day. I don’t know what I was expecting or even thinking to be honest but it seemed like something that was important not to refuse.

Roll the dice, and save this guy who was tied up to the chair. Don’t roll the dice and walk away and he dies. Dies, dice — they even sound the same.  Full disclosure, I had some skin in this game because the tied-up guy and I had just married and it even though what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I didn’t think walking out on him tied-up in Vegas was cool. But hey ho, that’s exactly what ended up happening. Gamble a 4, roll the dice, get a 2 and boom! One dead just-married guy. One hell of a wedding weekend.

Beneath the plane’s wings earlier, Vegas had presented its usual dusty, weird self. Like the drunk that she is, the city doesn’t come up well in daylight. Bitter and withered and reeking of loss, but we didn’t have time to care about that, we just got the hell to the hotel so we could hit the tables.

It wasn’t until I saw the note on the suite door that I figured something was up. “FUCK YOU” in bold type. (Calibri, nice. This smooth asshole had seriously woke font style I’ll give her that). “Her”? Yep. But more on that in a bit.

Husband-to-be pulled the note off the door, laughed (awkwardly the more I think about it) and shoved it in his pocket. The hallway was empty, silent. Not even a maid’s cart, or congealed room service plates in view. Having had more than a few drinks on the plane I didn’t give the FUCK YOU much more thought, instead I couldn’t believe how big the suite was. It’s always a dilemma when travelling — how much do you shell out for a room you hope not to spend too much time in. But we were in love, he was loaded and I figured a substantial amount of fucking would need to take place in there for him to feel like it was a good investment. Me? Well, it didn’t matter what I thought.

Next minute, or at least that’s how it seemed, husband-to-be was on the phone in the bathroom speaking low and slow. Why would he need to make a call? He had insisted this be a “turn the phone off” weekend to celebrate the moment we were to pledge our troths in front of Elvis and embark on the happiest life EVER together.

Why the fuck was he on the phone right now? I mean shouldn’t we have been christening that gigantic bed? I had new undies on. New bra. Not cheap and now maximum impact had been wasted. Ugh whatever. I went to take in the view. Usual Strip, slowly starting to twinkle as the day came to an end.

Time to frock up, and get out there. If he wasn’t going to take advantage of the new undies then I wasn’t about to wait until he got off the phone. Dress on, “see you downstairs” whispered through the bathroom door and I left. Next time I saw him he was gagged, crying and minutes away from getting his head blown off. Like I said, brutal weekend that could have been entirely avoided if I hadn’t bought the damn lingerie from that stupid fucking bitch back home.

To be continued….

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The splash – by Angela Sidoti

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`

What surprised me was the splash, for that is all I remember of what happened. My next memory, as misplaced as it may have been, was the glitter of water across her neck as she lay cold and childlike on the weathered boards of the dock. She was waiting ; waiting to have her diamonds returned to her neck or waiting to be resuscitated. I couldn’t tell which.

I found myself stumbling along the road which led from the dock back to my house. It was rough and irregular. I wouldn’t have been the first to trip on it, but to trip so continually without so much as a solitary pint in my belly, was testament to the shock I was in. All I could think of was the glint of water beads and then the bare sickly coloured skin  of her neck, and as those images rose to my consciousness so too did the cobblestones, again and again, to trip me all the way to my front door. With my head in my hands I crouched down to wait against it and as I did so, out of my pocket spilled that lady’s jewels, grotesque and innocent as they hit the sandstone threshold and glinted up at me.

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Flying – Emma Kirkwood

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`

It was brilliant! Today was going to be a sunshine day, a day of usefulness and warmth. I knew it was going to be like this as soon as Kat opening up the cupboard first thing in the morning and loaded up the washing machine.
Wallace grumbled and groaned as he always does when he’s loaded up with towels and jeans but we all knew that he really loved the days Kat got him going and he could do his thing, twisting and turning, soaking and removing dirt, sweat and general living stains before finally finishing with squeezed out, clean and fresh smelling finery.
Originally, I thought that the day was going to be quite boring, a usual Wednesday, where Peg Leader gets us all to stand up and move into formation, allowing him to check on our springs and the tops of our frames. Any loose springs or cracks in the frame and we were shipped off to the Chiro Pegs for adjustments and general upkeep.
Clara, the head Chiro Peg is pretty cool, she’s been around for a while and knows her stuff. She also makes sure her team does everything they can for us so we can return to duty and it’s a very rare occasion when one of us is retired or pulled from duty for too long. Whilst it doesn’t happen very often, the thought of not returning to the fold is quite frightening for all of us and Wednesday’s can be a bit of a nerve wracking day.
So when Kat opening up the laundry door, I felt a lovely flute of excitement that this Wednesday was now a washing day and formation day would be put on hold. My excitement couldn’t be contained and before I knew it, I found myself jiggling around in expectation. Sam, who was next to me started jiggling too and all of a sudden the contagious jiggle had spread through all of us, perfectly in time with Wallace firing up his engine and getting the water rolling in.
Today was going to be a great day. There is nothing quite like holding washing up for it to dry. oh, the conversations we have! With the T shirts, jeans and pants. The tea towels, who always have the most delicious and entertaining kitchen gossip and oh boy, can those socks and undies tell a tale or two!
I particularly love the days when the wind picks herself up and joins in the conversation. She has such a wide range of stories from everywhere she’s travelled to and from since her last visit, it really is quite inspiring. All the while, we’re sitting under the glorious sun, with warmth, love and camaraderie. That’s when the fulfilling sense of well being sinks in and contentment abounds. Then, just before dark, Kat comes and gets us in, we’re all happy and the clothes are clean, fluffy and well satisfied with the days work and sharing.
It was expensive, now that I think about it, flying away with Mr Kookaburra that day, but so, so worth it. What cost me in terms of safety and certainty, has come back to me tenfold and over through connection, learning and helping others fulfil their purposes.
I remember him sitting on the line and asking if any of us were adventurous enough to fly with him. Immediately I piped up, ‘yes please. Oh, do pick me’.
‘And what about the sock you’re holding?’ Team Leader Peg asked me.
‘Oh yes, you’re right’, I replied. ‘I am sorry Mr Kookaburra, not today, I’m on duty and really won’t let the team down’.
‘Nonsense’ called out Sock. ‘My other half is still in the laundry room, they missed her in the pick up so it’s really no problem if you drop me and I’m washed again. Be lovely to see the old girl again’.
‘Finally!’ I thought. I can fly, explore the world and this time with the team’s blessing. Not one of my rebellious flies that always caused more problems than they were worth. The days of flying with Crow, needing to stretch my frame and escape day to day life but often resulted in repercussions that lasted for months.
This time, I’d be flying with Kooka, my friend, with heart as well as wings. He has taught me so much about responsibility and freedom and stuck by me during those terrible months after the last disastrous fly, when, in an attempt to become who I really am meant to be, I pulled the line, worked with the others and put my faith into the belief that the hard work would pay off and unknown benefits would come.
And now, that’s exactly what I’m experiencing. The magic, the trust and the rewards – finally being able to fly with Kooka. He’s sharing his world with me, the two of us travelling to all the other backyards, introducing me to the other pegs, the clothes and of course the stable and steady clothes lines. They’re sharing their knowledge and wisdom, their laughter and at times the tears and heartaches. In return, I’m sharing our stories, our lives and together we are learning about each other and healing past wounds and misbeliefs.
All these beautiful stories from all over the yards have given me such a gift. To truly acknowledge how our lives are all intertwined and that through serving in my new role, Story Teller Peg, I am now honoured to be able to connect these amazing, wonderful and inspirational lives both inside and outside our backyard.
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