All posts by Princess Sparkle

Rosie – Gian Wild

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Rosie was a physical abuse victim. She was quick to fear and even quicker to anger, but after the anger came abject terror. It was hard-wired into her. She couldn’t change it if she tried. She couldn’t try because she didn’t understand. It was patently unfair that the coping mechanisms she had learned in order to survive a physical attack were also the behaviours that made her intolerable to others. Although I would stay with her forever, our house was a no-go zone for the many friends I used to have. For Rosie had learnt to intercept violence with violence, and then to pre-empt it, and almost anything could set her off. She was an embarrassment. But most of all she was unsafe. The irony that she was replaying what had been done to her, and hurting others in the process was not lost on me. But I still loved her. I could never let her go. I didn’t think she could survive without me. So as our house became her sanctuary, it became my prison, and one that didn’t allow visitors.

But people told me there was a way out. I could kill her.

You see Rosie was a dog; a veteran of both a puppy farm and an abusive household, although I could never be sure because all I really knew was that she was a stray. Maybe she was born an angry dog, but the fear in her eyes was real. And it was fear for her life.  And I could not live in a world where an animal could be abused and as a consequence of the behaviours she learnt from that abuse, would be deemed a dangerous dog and killed.

“But she’s only a dog,” some people would say. But only people who have never had a dog would say that. She was part of my family, and unlike my family, she loved me unconditionally. And she never disagreed with me, other than about what was for dinner (she thought all human food was her food). She was always glad to see me, in fact she was often ecstatic. And sometimes all she wanted to do was cuddle. She was the best partner I ever had. And I had made a commitment to her. I don’t believe in marriage, but I do believe in adoption. She needed a home. I needed a family. We were perfect together.

But, still, I wondered if I was doing the right thing.

Last week she bit my friend. A bite that required three doctor’s visits and high-strength antibiotics, not to mention a week off work, and incredible pain. Again, people told me that I ought to kill her. Just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. What right do I have to take her life? We are long past the stage of anthropomorphising animals; I may not believe that animals have a soul (but then I don’t believe I have a soul either), but they have as much right to be on this earth as I do. And although I pay all Rosie’s veterinary bills, I do not own her. No one has a right to own another person or animal.

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A Sparkling Welcome to Australia – Barbara Hines

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time I went into a strip club was at the behest of my new sister-in-law who wanted me to see the costume she had made for her daughter’s strip show in downtown Melbourne, Australia.

The red sequined skimpy Santa’s helper outfit was stripped off bit by bit while the girl’s father, playing Santa, sat in a chair onstage.  There is a Japanese saying that fathers should not see their daughters naked past the age of 5.  Eventually, all that remained on the tanned body were high heels and a Santa hat!

 

This little piggy hastily retreated to the bar to wonder what family she had acquired.  Funny that the girl’s stage name was Brandy, which started playing as I reached the bar.  I know that song I thought so asked the bartender for a stiff one, a brandy that is.  Next minute, I was joined by my husband who, with an apologetic look on his face said, could you make that two please.  Joined by his sister, we settled in for the show, complimenting her on what a lovely, sparkling costume it WAS!

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The Lie of the Dice – Deborah May

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time I rolled the dice I left work, not knowing, beyond caring about lady luck or lord muck. I turned the key, locked the door, stepped outside and, for the first time ever, felt free.

‘You’re like a butterfly’ they said as I fluttered weak fragile wings. No longer squished, squashed, constricted in a cocoon that kept me safe. And small.

There’s a Japanese saying that when a butterfly flutters her wings she causes a hurricane somewhere else in the world. The hurricane winds of change blew reshaping the less fledged form of a previous life. A life shattered by the nuclear fallout of that first failed relationship, leaving me with a baby I barely knew, could hardly hold and came to love like no other.

A roll of the dice, this life, or so we think. We live on luck and chance for happiness, sorrow, love, redemption and salvation.

We barely notice our wings glued, clipped and cobbled or blinkers that blind us, bind us and keep us in shadow.

But eventually, surely, we learn that our lives do not depend on the roll of that dice. We won’t be rewarded by a sparkling red and gold and black badge pinned on our lapels on a podium in front of the flag of those whose land we think we own, oh, and the blue and red and white flag of those, us, who took it from them.

Neither will we be punished, caned or rebuked for our sins.

Eventually we learn, surely, that our life is a story. One we inherit and shrug ourselves into, or make up and believe in as if it is true. ‘Our lot,’ all that can be expected because ‘this’ is who I am, all that I can become.

When do we notice the lie? When do we recognise that we are more than we ever imagined we could be? That we don’t have to rely on the opinions of others, or on what we have learned about ourselves, from those invested in keeping us small?

We hold onto our stories as if they are true. We have a beginning, a middle an end. When do we learn we can write our own middle, live our own end?

That we’re free to be ourselves, or this little piggy who squeals all the way home, who can build a house of straw or wood or brick or glass or whatever the fuck we want? That we no longer need fear the wolf at the door because that wolf is nothing more than the manifestation of our own mind’s imaginings. Minds distorted by lessons and lesions of lives and lies swallowed, digested and regurgitated as truth.

Aaah yes, you say, you know that song, the one you sing, the rocking rolling ballad of bullshit, the lullaby we sing ourselves to sleep with each night as we lie on a pillow wet with tears of yet another betrayal, another insight into our own foolishness.

Until suddenly we’re no longer able to stay inert, attempting to feign sleep. We wake up and remember from somewhere deep inside, that no one is always loving or kind, or generous or honest. And we notice the bile, the hate, the vitriol, the rage and fury that has never before been unleashed. And doesn’t it feel good, oh, so fucking good? No longer disguised or distorted by rationalisations that manifest as guilt, blame, depression, suppression of something we have hidden, forbidden: our internalised shame.

They say that even the things we brag about to others, the virtues we extol, our optimism and idealism, the self-righteous pride of working hard and exercising, are all just other ways to disguise what’s there, to keep us from knowing, from seeing what we’ve learned to hide.

Mere strategies to avoid the depth of our feelings, the truth of our knowing about who we really are, how we really want to be, what we really want to say. About our lives, our experiences, our treatment at the hand of another, the ravaged fragments we’ve salvaged from the tatters of a life.

How freeing it is to be unshackled, unbridled, unleashed!

To see beyond the lie, to feel the freedom of wings unclipped, unfurled. To become unstuck to a life that’s shaped by roll of the dice at the hand of another.

My turn to rattle and shake then throw the craps, and choose how many steps to take forward, backward or sideways. Or not. My turn to decide when to stop, slow down, jump over, push through or fly.

Fucking fly.

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It Had To Be – Catherine Lockstone

News
Gunna Catherine Lockstone has come in the top 15 of the first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2018.
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It Had To Be You – Catherine Lockstone

Synopsis: A memoir of a special day, replete with accidental juicing and a healthy dash of chaos.

Genre: Comedy

Location: Wedding

Object: Oven Mitt

As I fumbled into my lacy poof of a dress in front of the brocante mirror, Josephine angrily signed at me “You haven’t done THE FOUR THINGS”. My sister could be silent and still yell at me, one of her more irritating traits.

I can look back on my wedding day with several years of perspective and see it all very differently.  I’m not sure how I ended up in a place where I had closely held opinions about the color of the edging on the name cards for the reception tables.

We anguished over those tables for weeks on end.  What if Uncle Ernie were to finally tell Aunt Tabatha what he really thinks of her topiary obsession?  Cousin Walter’s well-rehearsed monologue on ills he perceives in society did not need yet another audience. The tables filled with friends of the Mother of the Groom.  My college roommate, his ex-neighbor, our cat sitter – the lists just went on and on. Tables one to fifteen, ten per table, peccadillos noted and catered for, all planned.  Pink sugar coated almonds or purple foil wrapped chocolates in the matte or shiny white boxes?  Should the table runners be sage green or lime green?  Should the bows on the chairs match the table runners?

When I agreed to marry my partner of nearly twelve years, it wasn’t clear that I would, a few months later, be standing in front of a mirror with an anachronistic symbol of the patriarchy perched akimbo on my too fluffy hair. My best friend and companion in many an adventure, our relationship is egalitarian and adoring and precious to us both. The reason I’m looking like Wedding Barbie is all down to his mother.  And to spread the responsibility, he can’t say no to her and I guess I got lost in trying to make everyone happy.

So there I was, trying to remember exactly what the “four things” were that I had forgotten.

“Number one – something old.  Number two – something new.  Number three – something borrowed.  Number four – something blue.” Josephine was trying to be patient with me but I could tell how important this was to her.  Josephine was always one of those girls who imagined this day to the nth degree.  I had hoped and prayed for my prince charming, but there was no “fantasy wedding” scenario end to my story.

“You’re late Charlotte.  You’re really very late.”

“For a very important date?” I don’t think the charming twinkle in my eye had the desired effect on my sister as a flurry of irritation came back at me.

I could hear the music starting in the main hall.  I could hear people gathering.  And I was supposed to indulge in a superstitious scavenger hunt?  I did a second check that everything that was supposed to be buttoned was buttoned, and took off for the only place I could think of – the kitchen.

Can you imagine the scene?  A kitchen full of focused people prepping for a fine-dining wedding reception for 150, and in bursts a frantic meringue, red cheeked and out of breath.  I was panicked and rushing and if I’m honest I was pretty damn hungry too.  The first thing I saw was a tatty blue oven mitt – and I knew in a flash I had something old, borrowed and blue all in one hit.  I grabbed it off the oven rail and rummaged under my skirts to position it as a makeshift bustle.  Now.  I needed something new.  I saw lots of things way too bulky – mixers, new pans, platters – and I could hear the first strains of Mendelssohn on the organ.

Perhaps it was fate, who knows, but as I desperately looked for options I spotted a bowl of ripe, freshly picked plums. All that meal planning – they’d be heading in to roast and serve with a cheese tart as part of one of our meticulously thought through starters for dinner.  I grabbed a plum – something new! – and shoved it down into my bra, nestled in nicely.

I ran out and reassured Josephine of my success as we tumbled to the door and she started her walk up the aisle.

The ceremony was a blur.  I didn’t promise to obey.  We had tried to edit as much of the antiquity out of the service as possible.  I remember Andrew’s face when he saw me – even though I was ruddy cheeked and my hair wasn’t quite right and my dress was a bit tousled and I know I looked like a deer in the headlights.  His hair was on lock down, no doubt his mother was seeing her little boy on his first day of school. Andrew’s eyes told me why I was doing all this mess – I saw my love reflected back at me.

Once conjoined in matrimony, we ran the gauntlet of well-wishers.  I felt like I had almost made it through whatever this day was destined to be when my new mother-in-law pulled me in for a hug.  Every second went into slow-mo for me as our chests made contact and I remembered the plum.  As the embrace tightened I felt the squish and release of the plum and looked down to find juice staining the front of my dress, and hers.  I looked up and saw Josephine’s face stretch into a gasp – as she realized what my last second innovations in the kitchen had yielded.  My very prim mother-in-law pulled out of our hug to find matching stains on her carefully chosen ensemble, and at that precise moment I wanted nothing more than to be swallowed whole by the dance floor.

I could see my mother-in-law start to take full measure of exactly what her family had bargained into when Andrew stepped in between us.  He tenderly placed a kiss on his mother’s head. “I’m sure there is a story Mum, there always is.”

Oh Andrew, there is a story.

 








		
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                TUPPENCE A BAG – Kristine Kennedy
            

            
		        
        
        

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Gunna Kristine Kennedy has come in the top 15 of the first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2018.






SYNOPSIS: British Conservative MP Henry Holt finds himself in a backwater brewery with his bossy spin doctor and a mysterious skateboard that will absolutely not be a problem.










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TUPPENCE A BAG – Kristine Kennedy


The hardwood door flew open with as much force as a solid oak door can. Several people in close proximity turned their heads towards the intrusion. A man stood in the doorway, his eyes darting frantically around the room, tie askew and the sleeve of his suit bunched up under his armpit where a skateboard was wedged. He finally found what he was looking for and strode over toward the bar, where another middle aged man was perched, looking rather more appropriate in a well-pressed suit, orderly tie and, importantly, sans skateboard.


‘What in shitting blazers are you doing with that skateboard Henry?’


‘What? Oh. This? Nothing.’ Henry dislodged it and leant it up against the bar as naturally as he could muster. He ran a hand through his hair.


‘Nothing? Don’t be stupid. You look a damn fool with it. Why do you have it? You didn’t ride it here did you?’


‘How long have you bloody known me Jarvis? Do you think, at any time in life, I’ve suffered an inclination to ride a skateboard? For God’s sake.’


‘Well! Explain yourself man. Before I, along with every other deadbeat and rubber-neck in this place start concocting our own ideas.’


Henry smoothed his hair again and carried on to his neck, tie and brushed down the front of his suit. ‘There was a minor incident on the way here, is all.’


‘Minor?’ Jarvis narrowed his eyes in a look Henry knew all too well. It meant – what the shitting shit have you done now you useless bloody ball-bag?


‘Yes minor. Nothing really. But why a grown man would ride a skateboard? Honestly. Nevermind. Forget it. Tell me again why we’re here please Jarvis? A bloody brewery in the arse end of nowhere is not my idea of a good time or good networking.’


‘So help me Henry, if I have to extinguish any fires relating to a ‘skateboard incident’ you can consider your trajectory within our party as straight, bloody down. You got me?’


‘Yes. Noted. Now. What’s this all about again?’


‘It’s about…’ Jarvis exhaled as a patient parent would when explaining something to a toddler, ‘celebrating job creation in the service industry. It’s about how our leaving the EU is bringing more employment opportunities to actual British people.’


‘I tell you what,’ Henry gestured towards a bartender who was skilfully carrying 4 pints, ‘she doesn’t look too bloody British to me.’


‘British people can actually be black Henry. In fact, quite a lot of them are.’


Henry grunted. ‘So what do I have to do?’


‘Simply read this speech I’ve prepared for you and then get off the mic. I do not want you answering questions today. I do not want you commenting on Trump’s visit to England. I do not want you commenting on any protocols re. meeting the Queen. In short, I don’t want you to say a single fucking thing that I’ve not written down here for you.’


Henry cocked his head to the side and smirked in a way that would lose countless votes. ‘I bet no-one speaks to Trump like that.’


Jarvis groaned.


‘No. Seriously. Everyone is terrified of him and so, they respect him.’


‘No Henry. No they don’t. Everyone thinks Trump is as dumb as bag of hammers. Why you would ever want to be held in the same esteem as him makes me wonder if you’re not also an enormous arse-trumpet.’


‘’Scuse me gents,’ the proprietor interrupted. ‘But the stage is ready, if you want to crack on with this?’


‘Thanks Nick.’ Jarvis said as he slid off his bar stool and gathered his briefcase. Henry slid off his barstool and gathered his skateboard.


‘Give me that you damn twat.’ Jarvis said while ripping the skateboard out from under Henry’s armpit.


‘Ow! The bloody wheel hit my nipple.’ Henry rubbed his chest.


‘Get up there.’ Jarvis ushered him up onto the small stage, which blocked the punters’ view of the microbrewery behind.


Henry fiddled with the microphone tapping and blowing into it until a piercing sound captured everyone’s attention. He ran his hand through his hair again.


‘Welcome, welcome. Thank you ever so much for joining us here at…’ Henry examined his paper, ‘Tuppence A Bag Microbrewery. I’d like to take this opportunity to firstly thank Nick, who has kindly offered this striking space for us all to come together and celebrate the return of service industry jobs to those who truly deserve them. The British people!’


Jarvis cheered heartily at this point, encouraging the beer-swilling throng to do the same. But it seemed that whatever reasons had brought them to Tuppence A Bag today, it wasn’t to hear a conservative Brexiteer spruik the upturn of national employment.


‘Before leaving the EU, our country was struggling. No. Not struggling. We were in crisis. A deep, morale-sapping crisis. Good, hard-working British people could not find jobs and times were lean. Well I’m here to say this: not any more my friends. No longer will we sit by while our jobs go to visiting foreigners. No longer will…’


Jarvis heard a commotion developing outside. He allowed himself a moment to peer out the window and saw a number of men, some sporting beanies, some sporting beards, all with skateboards, forming a tight, loud circle around presumably the instigator. More men arrived. More skateboards. Jarvis noticed the gang leader, the only man without a skateboard, pointing furiously at the Tuppence A Bag window.


He turned back towards Henry who was still holding court.


‘I’ve lived here all my damn life and I could never hope to know every protocol surrounding walking with the Queen. He’s a target for the left-wing propagandists is all. Fake bloody news as they say.’


The door burst open.


Jarvis slunk out.


 


 

		
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                Sacrificial Tears – Jules Livingstone
            

            
		        
        
        

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Gunna Jules Livingstone has come in the top 15 of the first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2018. 








1000 words, a random genre, two elements. A fairytale, a children’s hospital, a thermos. Here’s his cracking piece 






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Sacrificial Tears – Jules Livingstone


Himari slumped herself down on the curved plastic waiting room chair resentfully, all arms and legs, with a heavy, defiant sigh. She knew she would have to sit, for however long – in this boring room, grey and grotty, until her parents emerged from the wide swinging door. Each night they did, looking more worn down and stressed, the lines of worry on their faces, less fleeting and more etched in.  Shooing her up from her sulky slouch with words weak in their anxious sweetness and thinly guarded fear her mother hissed:


“Quick Himari, we can’t keep waiting here all night, the doctors wouldn’t want it. Your sister is feeling better and wants you to come to say hello soon, so now come along quickly, we all need dinner.”


She slid off the now warm chair and looked absently at the old wooden curio cabinet, her silent companion, before reaching down for her bag, trudging obediently behind her parents to the car. The sliding doors whirred closed behind them and she knew that tomorrow would be another day after school spent here, just the same.


The next day, sitting there absently, she felt numb from the routine and her own unspoken fear; she couldn’t remember a day when they hadn’t come to the hospital, she had to sit alone and could not even get near the room to touch Yui’s leg under the sheet.  The wait seemed longer and there was a new, haunted look in her parents’ faces. She slid of her seat silently, coiled the handle of her dragging schoolbag around her wrist and followed them to the car quietly, her eyes watching their feet.


Yesterday something felt wrong, the waiting room looked somehow more grey. Her parents were gone longer and the noises of the nurses and the trolleys and ward patient’s call buttons, were fewer. They had been a sort of comfort, now that they were missing. Searching for distraction, she looked more closely at the cabinet. An old memorial plaque from the foundation of the original children’s hospital building, bronze, more modest and friendly than the steel one outside – she imagined the bustling and caring nurses before machines that beeped. She also noticed, sitting in the middle of old thermometer jars and medicine bottles of thick dark glass, a battered silver-coloured old flask. It seemed a little out of place –like something from the war, not medical or important, just like something to take on a hike or to work in winter. Up close she saw some old scratches and marks on it.


“It’s really very old you see,” said a new voice behind her. Taken off guard – after all wasn’t this really her waiting room so far unshared – Himari saw an old man, quite small, a little hunched smiling gently.


“I am waiting here too”, he said shaking his head sadly, “it is very hard for an old man to see a young one so ill.”


Himari didn’t know what to say – she thought it was hard for anyone but saying so might sound rude.


“I’m waiting for my sister Yuki to get better – she has been here for a long time now and I miss her. I come every day.”


“Perhaps she will soon, here special things can happen.”


“What do you mean?” asked Himari . Perhaps he had some news of her sister.


He nodded towards the thermos gently.  “Once upon a time a young girl was healed and that thermos holds the secret.”


“But its locked away! In the cabinet” cried Himari in a tone that suggested it wasn’t fair. Less than fair, cruel even.


“You don’t have to open it – in fact you must never do that. All you have to do is wish as hard as you can for the right thing and the thermos will make it happen.”


“Hmmm” said Himari, doubtfully, thinking, its not very nice to say something impossible that’s probably not even true!


She hoped her parents would come soon and that the old man might go away.


“Come on, Himari” sighed her mother in a dry slow whisper, “we all need to go now” and nudged her shoulder towards the door. Her eyes were red and dull.


Tonight the room seemed darker, without any corridor noises. Her father had stayed with Yui all night and Himari was scared.  She almost wished for the old man but felt sad when she saw the cabinet. Looking inside and thinking of all the sick people who had died here, she thought it wasn’t fair. Why shouldn’t she be sick instead of poor Yui? She began to cry, big salty tears.


As she did she noticed the marks on the thermos shaping into words. Only half thinking, she began to mumble them over and over through her tears:


“Hot tears of love,


Cold tears of sorrow


Sealed in shiny space.


 


Liquid sacrifice


To redeem health,


Unfreeze threatened tomorrows.”


Out of nowhere, seeming out of time, there was a crash – three adults came through the ward doors. Her parents and the doctor. Her mother was open faced, shining, arms outstretched.


“Yui is awake, she is almost talking, she smiled at us, looked for where you were. Our baby has come back!” She clutched Himari to her waist.


“We are very pleased for your family”, said the doctor less smiley and cautiously relieved. He sat down next to Himari and asked how she was.


“I’m OK, I’ve been reading the old thermos while I wait.”


“Aah, that’s old Haruto’s humble token to a doctor he was too poor to pay. Desperately he asked the ancestors to exchange his life for his granddaughter’s. He begged the doctor to accept his old Thermos promising that if he did, others who made the same wish could exchange his sacrifice too. Some say the magic words appear through tears.”


He slowly raised his finger to his lips and with a gentle smile reflected; “Sometimes patients suddenly get well.”


Jules Livingstone, 


Copyright 2018


jnlivingstone@gmail.com


Gunnass Grad 2015


Gunnas Masters 2016


Gunnas Standup 2016


Gunnas Self Publishing – 2017


Gunnas Retreat 2018



		
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                My piece From the book Dear Dad edited by Samuel Johnson
            

            
		        
        
        

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Dear Dad,


I’d like to take back the Father’s Day gift you received in 1968.


I was born on Father’s Day September 1st 1968. It appeared I was your Father’s Day present. I wasn’t. You did not deserve me.  You did not deserve any of us. You were not a good man. You were not a good father. It was deeply unfair you were given so much and we had so much taken away.


You died a few years ago. I don’t know what year nor do I know the date. I was working when I received the text from my sister ‘The cunt’s dead’. I simply glanced at it and continued to address the writing masterclass I was running. I felt happy, relieved, liberated, at peace.


You were a horrible man. A messer. A narcissist. I am glad you’re dead. I never let you meet my kids because you were not worthy of them. I didn’t go to you funeral. Every Father’s Day without you is a celebration for me.


I liberated myself from you and the myth of the father I should have had decades ago.


Father’s day is hard and complicated for many people. And on that day those people are in my thoughts.


Everyday I pay tribute to the amazing parents I see around me. Parents who are doing their very best despite being poorly parented or having challenging children.


I cheer for the children who are doing incredible things and living amazing lives despite being poorly parented by horrible people.


Someone said to me yesterday ‘Your boys are great. You’ve done a great job’. I said ‘I take no credit. They are who they are. They got lucky to be born who they are.’


She tried to argue with me a little. I said, ‘You and I both know amazing parents with horrible kids and horrible parents with amazing kids. As a parent I decided to have children. I live up to my own idea of what that commitment and responsibility is. How they turn out they turn out. I just need to know I have done my best. Lived up to my standards. The rest is up to them.’


Who or what your parents are is no reflection on who you are.

Who or what your children are is no reflection on who you are.


Loving someone for how they make you feel or what they do for you is one thing. Loving someone for who they are is something very different.


Being loved for how you make someone feel or what you do for someone is one thing. Being loved for who you are is something very different.


Clinging to the idea of the perfect Disney father is very damaging. For everyone. But particularly for those people who experienced abusive relationships. Trying to round an abusive or dysfunctional relationship up to normal creates cognitive dissonance, damage and sets a terrible example of what love is, what relationships are and what ‘normal’ looks like.


I raise a glass to all the humans out there doing their best.


I see you and I thank you. You are making a difference to people who are not even born yet. How do I know that? Because I was born, I was born on Father’s Day.


But it was also my birthday.


I choose to celebrate that.


Love conquers all x


Classes here. Mailing list here. Testimonials here.


 


 

		
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                My response to a Catholic school asking me donate to their fete.
            

            
		        
        
        

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Dear Nicola,


Thank-you for your email asking me to donate a ‘voucher, product or service’ to the Holy Virgin Mary Primary School fete.


Unfortunately I am unable to help as, unlike you, I do not support wealthy powerful international child sex rings. Supporting a corrupt organisation that promotes misogyny, homophobia, racism, violence, discrimination, sex negativity, body shaming and hypocrisy is also something I find morally repugnant. But each to their own.


It’s curious you did not mention the words ‘Catholic’ ‘Christian’ or ‘religious’ in your email asking for donations. One would assume these core tenants of your school’s values would be proudly promoted, not excluded, in order to attract donations from businesses that align with abusing children, shaming victims, protecting child rapists and other ‘traditional Catholic values’.


Supporting an organisation that has systematically and unapologetically sexually, physically, emotionally and financially abused children and adults for thousands of years, and continues to, would damage my reputation and impact negatively on my business. Unlike the Catholic Church, I pay tax, rates etc and have not lied to the poor, manipulated the ignorant, stolen from the the powerless, and sucked up to the powerful in order to accumulate immense wealth.


May I suggest if you a running low on funds you approach the Melbourne diocese for cash. Despite grossly and intentionally undervaluing its property portfolio (under oath) to the

Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse, the Catholic Church is valued at over $9 billion in Victoria, over $30 billion in Australia and more than $200 billion worldwide.


These figures are not surprising considering the average pay out to the handful of brave child sex abuse victims who have had the courage to speak out is only $45,800. As you know this pathetic and pitiful amount is due to skilled, expensive and determined lawyers (funded largely by people who pay Catholic school fees) and a victim blaming culture that has indoctrinated followers with culture of fear, shame and secrecy, which you enable and are asking me to support. I’m afraid it’s a no from me.


As a feminist I most definitely could not in good conscience donate anything to a school that bases it’s values around a book that considers women only virgins, whores, martyrs, slaves and incubators and instructs them clearly “Wives, submit to you husbands as to the Lord” Ephesians 5:22.


I won’t keep you because I’m sure you are busy tending for your dozen or so children as a consequence of not using contraception or fertility control keeping in line with the teachings of the Catholic Church.


Although it’s likely you have slaves to help you run your household considering not only does the the Bible approve of owning people but clearly instructs how slaves should behave, “Slaves, submit yourselves to your masters with all respect, not only to the good and gentle but also to the cruel” – Peter 2:18.


I assume you don’t work either as I can’t imagine it would be easy to find paid employment when the Bible says “I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man, she must be silent – Timothy 2:12. But perhaps you work as a presenter on Channel Nine.


Your offer to promote “kind contributions through our Facebook pages, our newsletters (school and parish) and our sponsors’ honour board where business flyers and promotional material can be displayed” would bankrupt me over night.


As for your assertion that donating to your fete “is a great way to get your business’ name out there further in the local community! ” having my support would look great for you but would lead to a total collapse of my business and self worth. I rely on my values and reputation to run my business and sleep peacefully at night.


May I share with you one of my favourite psalms that I am sure, as someone who has read the Bible, you’ll be familiar with,


“Happy is the one who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks” – Psalm 137:9


Peace be with you.


Yours in the fellowship of Satan Prince Of Darkness,


Catherine Deveny




If you liked this you’ll love this….


Pell. Deveny. Defamation. Twitter. Q&A. 


 

		
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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER










Motherhood makes you fight for your identity. Yes, I love my child. Yes, I can’t imagine my life without him. But I never agreed to swap my messy, energetic life for a template.


Pregnancy kicks off the identity drain with every healthcare professional who smiles too brightly and asks, ‘how’s mum today’? Pamphlets tell me to grind my placenta and eat it, and pregnancy blogs advise me to book a doula to realise my dream birthing.


Childbirth pushes control of your body out to others. I can still feel an intense violation of self as I lay naked on a trolley, paralysed from the waist down with drugs. A male orderly staring. An anaesthetist nurse who tells me “we like to spread ‘em all out here,” making jokes about catholics as she pins down my arms and my legs. The consultant who declares “I’m going to do an experiment on this girl” as I lay open and bleeding.


Elderly midwives who grab at your girls, violently clamping on your baby. Midwives who claim you’re putting your child in grave danger because you don’t want to use formula. Midwives who knock your baby’s head hard against the plastic crib as they whisk them away without reason.


And then time. I love daydreaming, but motherhood takes that away as minutes churn into hours and then days. My breastfeeding diary meticulously recording the drudgery. My netflix habit turning my brain foggy with cake design and b grade movies.


Mamma! Maybe I should have swallowed my placenta. At least I’d have an amusing anecdote to share.









		
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                Mental!
            

            
		        
        
        

			Book News, Books, News					

        
        
        
        		
            

                            


		

	
	


		

		
		
                	

                
        
        
		
Mental: Everything You Never Knew You Needed to Know about Mental Health








Buy here


Psychiatrist Dr Steve Ellen and comedian Catherine Deveny combine forces to demystify the world of mental health. Providing an insider perspective, they share their personal experiences of mental illness and unpack the current knowledge about conditions and treatments. What do we know? What don’t we know? How do we get help? What actually works?


 


Punctuated with anecdotes, real-life stories and reflections on the cultural and historical context, Mental is an irreverent and entertaining guide to the full spectrum of mental health issues – from depression and anxiety to schizophrenia, personality disorders and substance abuse.


 


Set to become a go-to guide for anyone with a mental illness or supporting someone who has one, Mental breaks the taboos around mental health and offers clear practical advice on how to live successfully.










1. Buy here


2. Also available at Audible



		
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