All posts by Princess Sparkle

The Duncans of Salty Creek – Emma Scholz

Gunnas-Masters

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.

 

 

 

Go Back

Better Me Than You Love – Tracy Robertson

Gunnas-Masters

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.”

Go Back

Life – Linda Walker

Gunnas-Masters

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.

Go Back

Just a Girl – WendyJoy Smith

Gunnas-Masters

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?

Go Back

Big Fat Announcement!

News

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 

Go Back

Dice Roll – Shauna Stafford

Gunnas-Masters

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….

Go Back

The splash – by Angela Sidoti

Gunnas-Masters

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.

Go Back

Flying – Emma Kirkwood

Gunnas-Masters

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.
Go Back

My Dad – Carolyn Penfold

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`

– a story from props and prompts 

It was brilliant, the letter my Dad wrote just before he died. ‘We’ve had a bad year health-wise’ he wrote, and went on to list all the children’s’ ailments. ‘And for me it’s been even worse,’ he wrote, ‘I have advanced cancer.’ Three weeks later he was dead. When I asked my mother if Dad had known he was going to die, she said he always hoped that he’d get better. But he didn’t. The hope however kept him going to work each day, across town, an hour and a half each way until the very last minute.

Originally he’d gone to the doctor with symptoms which the doctor thought may have been the mark of something serious. Dad was sent off for chest X-rays, on which nothing bad could be seen. But he didn’t get any better. Instead he continued to go downhill, until eventually his doctor ordered a second chest X-ray. By this stage it showed a lung cancer so advanced that nothing could be done. ‘Riddled with cancer’ as they used to say. Dad’s letter said he was ‘hoping for the best,’ but the best turned out only to be a quickish death.

One minute he was there, next minute he was gone. Dad was admitted to hospital the night before he died. We kids gathered out in the street, surrounding the ambulance, and watched as they loaded him in. It was the third of January, and Andy had been admonished for buying Dad a cigar for Christmas. Why? What’s wrong with giving a cigar, the traditional Christmas gift to father from son, to a man about to die from lung cancer?

Fiona wasn’t there as part of the little posse surrounding the ambulance, so she got to go and visit Dad in the hospital that evening. For the rest of us, that was the last time we saw him. Into the ambulance, then dead. The hospital rang early next morning to say he had died.

I imagine it was expensive to have the after-the-funeral-drinks at the golf club, but there was no way we could have had them at home. Our place, in my memory, would have been a tip – abode of numerous children, depressed mother, dying father. So after the funeral the adults headed off to the golf club, presumably for tea and sandwiches. Perhaps a sherry? Or as I’ve learned more about Dad, perhaps a beer or a scotch?

Finally, Dad was gone and life went back to normal. Or did it? No, a group of his friends and colleagues decided they’d help us out, and spent quite a few weekends trying to get the neglected house and yard in order.  One even had us over for a regular Sunday roast.

In later life I’ve found out more about Dad, which often leads me to ask ‘who is this man, really?’ To me he was a great Dad, built up to perfection by the fact that he was dead, and hence ill could not be spoken of him. All was memory, reminiscence of the good things. His powerful intellect, his humour, his interest in people.

It’s only as an adult I’ve realised he was, in fact, just a man. So many good points, so many bad. It seems he was a drinker, a womaniser, a gambler, an intellectual snob, and not always kind. But he was my Dad.

Go Back

Take the Red Pill! Fuck it! – Lilou 

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER`

In the beginning…… Well, I don’t know where to start, but that’s kinda like how everything starts, with the first step. With uncertainty, and when you start, instead of planning what you will do, thinking about what you will do, talking about what you will do and feeling good about what it is that you will do, actually do something. Anything is better than nothing. At most and at least – you will learn. And then, you can say, I’ve done it. 🙂
I still don’t know where this thing called life is going, but hey, I am on my way. I’m writing this, because it matters. It matters cause I changed my life and people come up to me now and say. “Hey, how can I be more like you?” And then I tell them a bunch of things about what I believe and the models I use and one of two things happen. Either peoples eyes glaze over, because they realise that being like me, requires for them to change and actually be and do something different. That’s effort and involves pain. I might also totally freak them out with what I am telling them, so that’s something to consider.
Or the second thing that happens, that they get really emotional, excited and a lot of the time, also sad. It’s not always outwardly visible, but I can feel it. They realise how far away they are from living their best life, from being connected to themselves, from knowing who they really are.
Cause when I speak, I lift the veil, I give the red pill, reveal the matrix of life. And just like Neo, who, when he woke up realised that his life had been a lie. He had never ever ever used his body, never ever been in a real life situation, the reality he discovered wasn’t that glorious, the food was terrible and there was a war going on. But for the first time, he could experience himself, and that’s worth something, isnt’t it?
But once you have seen behind the matrix, you cannot unsee it. Cypher – the one that betrayed Neo, wanted to go back into the Matrix, wanted to forget.
We don’t have that luxury and if we don’t move forward with the knowledge we now have, the pain that is created through non action, knowing there is a better way, and not using it, gets bigger and bigger.
Cognitive Dissonance is what creates the pain. The difference between where we think we are and where we actually here – which is usually worse and hurts.
The awareness that we are not who we think we are, that we tell ourselves a lie that we defended as true, hold onto, the thing that is part of our identity, starts to crumble. It’s then that we tell ourselves stories to placate our lack of action, our feelings of inadequacy, or justification why we cant to the thing we’ve always dreamed of, and then we sit back and feel good about ourselves for giving up our dream. But deep down we know, we always know, that we have just acquiesced ourselves to numb the pain. The emptyness of not living our best life is still there, and so we try to fill it with “things out there” . Addictions, shopping, working, drama in relationships. Don’t be a Drama Lama. Have that image in your mind next time you throw your hands up in the air like a contestant on Married at First sight.
Yet, is there a way out of this, yes, there is always a way!  Its action, learning to trust yourself to do the thing you cannot do, you are afraid of doing, you don’t know how to do, the thing that scares you little and is outside your comfort zone. The thing when you think of it, a whole other story of why you cannot do it comes up. Yep, that thing? The one you’ve procrastinated on? Do it! What will others think, what if I am not good enough, what if I will be judged? I don’t think I can handle that? I don’t think I can defend that? Being me is not enough? Do it!
Let me give you some wise sage advice. The one thing that will solve all your 3 P’s. Procastination, perfectionism and processing. Do it! That’s it. Do the thing that scares you, cause that’s where you biggest growth is. You know you are hungry to know what you are made of, that song that is yet to be sung and is inside of you, what you want to shout from the rooftops, the thing that matters. Do it!
Take the red pill! Fuck it!
Go Back