All posts by Princess Sparkle

In the crack- Dashers Mistress

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Wheeling along the bitumen path dodging uneven surfaces, fallen branches, runners, prams.  Pale sunshine, little breezes, lap-lap of water.  Smiling with contentment.  Approach a fork in the path – see young woman with her arm across her grandmothers shoulder gently shepherding her towards the fork.  She catches my eye and smiles. Our paths cross – timing perfect.  Warmth of a fleeting moment lingering.

 

Acknowledgement : Partial Image of Mark Rothko Yellow and Gold 1956

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A Catering Nightmare – Janet M

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

A day out bus trip for seniors. Lunch is to be provided at a garden venue.  A list is duly completed regarding dietary requirements and is as follows:-

Stan Wilcox cannot eat ham, coconut or mandarins

Julian Bradbury and Sheila Snelling are diabetic

Steven Payne is on Warfarin medication

Gail Smith can only tolerate soy milk and is peanut allergic

Shirley Porter is lactose intolerant; she cannot have any food containing milk, butter or ice cream

Please have decaf coffee and organic teas available

As for the rest of the bus it would seem that they will have to be happy with whatever is left for them to eat after the dietary requirements sorted

And as for the caterers – what a nightmare.

 

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FEAR – Christine Wise

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time she saw him, he was standing on the opposite side of the street, a cap pulled over his head, staring in her direction.  The things she noticed, however,were his shoes which had 2” thick soles, one leg casually crossed over the other.
By the time she reached the bus stop, she became aware of the squeaking noise of his shoes as he stood closely behind her in the queue.  She was suddenly aware of the brackish smell of cigarettes and alcohol breathing down her neck.  As casually as she could, she edged out of the queue and made for the railway station a block away, the ground suddenly seeming sticky beneath her feet.  To her dismay she again caught sight of him.  “I have no idea who he is, or why I m suddenly so scared.
Seeing a cafe on the other side of the street, she quickly crossed over and ran, actually ran, into it.  “Please” she asked the boy with long blue hair leaning on the counter, “please can I have a coffee – I’m scared, someone is following me”.  “Oh yeah?.let’s see”, the boy detached himself from the coffee machine and sauntered over to the window.  ?Would you be imagining it?  Are you, like, Goldilocks, like someone has been sitting in my chair?’ There’s no one there.”
Perhaps, she thought, perhaps I was imagining it, perhaps I’m just a paranoid bitch, as James kept telling me.  I’ll have a coffee and go on to the station.  To her relief, Blue Hair accepted the $5 ringit note which was all she had beside her Myke card.
As she sat down to the low-fat Latte, the door of the cafe opened and the man walked in, leaned over her and said “This was not the plan”.  Her involuntary scream was answered as Blue Hair muscled, to the extent that his long bony form could muscle, up to the table:  “The lady…” he began as the man, without even glancing in his direction, felled him with a single blow to the back of his head.
“Is it human?” she thought, but terror and instinct made her grasp the glass pepper shaker, quickly unscrew its cap and fling the contents into his unblinking stare.  Next minute, on her feet, screaming and flying out the door she ran straight into the arms of her ex-husband james who carefully deposited her back in the cafe.  “
Get on with the job I paid you for, you loser” he snarled at the man.
But the man was doubled up, weeping, coughing sand sneezing, unable to croak out a word.  At his feet Blue Hair Boy was groaning and thrashing weakly, his feet finally connecting with the legs of her ex-husband, who loosened his grasp long enough for her to again make a break for the street.
The light was now fading and she hurtled down the alley behind the cafe, knocking over the array of overflowing bins.  The alley opened to a street where a passing bus had stoppedt the lights so she was able to pull herself on board, quickly hiding behind the couple clinging to the rail….
WHICH IS AS FAR AS I GOT.
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The thing by the pole – Darren

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time Bolivar died, he died hanging upside down, strapped to a telephone pole, on a Thursday afternoon.

It was cloudy that day. A hot wind blew with maddening persistence from the south-east. A ‘murder wind’, the local gauchos called it, because on days like this and with a wind like this, fights tended to break out over small things, and they tended to escalate quickly to violence.

Bolivar had been sweating as he climbed up the wooden telephone pole that held it’s piece of the 70km of wire that was connected the small town of Domingo and the rest of the world. “What’s wrong with it?” he’d asked the foreman as they’d both looked up at where the wire met the pole. The wire buzzed and whined strangely as it swayed back and forth in the hot wind. He’d never head a telephone wire make a noise like that.

Bolivar’s foreman, known to his crew as El Serpiente, had once mutilated another man’s face with a bottle opener for the crime of sitting on his favourite barstool. El Serpiente was a big man, with a mixture of fat and muscle that made him look like a bear – bulky and dangerous. His face was a tree bark of scars, and his hands were short one pinky.

El Serpiente surveyed the wire, his face frowning and blustery. “How should I know?” he spat. “Climb the damn pole and find out.” He stomped off, while Bolivar dipped his head to hide a scowl.

Two minutes later, Bolivar was being electrocuted at the top of the telephone pole. The part of his mind that was not being flayed by voltage thought regretfully, “This was not the plan. I was supposed to be playing soccer today-“ And then, hanging upside-down on the pole by his safety leash, Bolivar died.

A minute later, Bolivar was alive again. Eduardo, one of the other crew members, was giving him CPR on the ground by the pole. Bolivar’s eyes flickered open. Eduardo shouted, “Boli, Boli, you’re alive!”

Boliver mumbled something.

“What, Boli? I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

“Is it…is it human?” Eduardo’s eyebrows raised in puzzlement. Before he could respond to Bolivar, the rest of the repair crew picked the electrocuted man up and carried him to their truck, while El Serpiente watched impassively, his hands on his hips, face hovering between amusement and annoyance. As he was being carried, Bolivar stared into the scrubby bushes on the side of the road. “It’s watching me, Eduardo,” he whispered, with a fear in his voice so intense that Eduardo felt a shiver work its way down his spine. “It’s watching me.”

Eduardo followed Bolivar’s gaze. For a moment, he thought he saw something. Something thin, dark, shaped like a man but as tall as three men, crouching in the bushes in a way that a human spine would make impossible. And then the vision was gone, and Eduardo saw only bushes and the desert. Bolivar began to sob.

Soon, the truck roared and dusted and drove away, and the only sound was the murder wind and the strange whining and buzzing of the wires as they swung, ceaselessly, back and forth.

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Rock Bottom – Mabel Duckworth

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

There was another thump, his body flew into the air and returned to his seat with a bone shuddering judder “For fucks sake!” he yelled. Sam closed his eyes trying to recapture the magic of his day-dream, In his mind the tall muscular rugby player leaned across from his poolside deckchair gesturing to the book in Sam’s hands, “I’ve just finished that one, such a good book, looks like we have the same tast-“ thud Sam went flying again, he came down hard on his tail bone, his eyes flew open, “fuck fuck fuck fuck!” he yelled, slamming his hand against the wall of the truck with each profanity. Sam was not one for dramatics but since he was sitting on metal bench in the back of a rattling truck barrelling down a potholed highway in search for his missing boyfriend he really felt he deserved to indulge himself.

Ironically this wasn’t Sam’s rock bottom. That had come two days earlier when he had come too lying in a pool of his own vomit on the hotel room floor. Eyes blinking as he slowly came to his senses, wrinkling his nose trying loosen the crust of vomit from his nostrils wiping has hand across his face and realising that Mick was missing.

Arriving back in the present with a thump and a rattle Sam shook his head trying to rid himself of the memory. Sam wasn’t sure who he was trying to fool, saying he had hit rock bottom was just to try to convince himself that something was going to change. Sam didn’t really think he had hit his rock bottom, more like he was hanging three quarters of the way down a cliff, gazing down into the crevasse and feeling his hands slipping. Sam knew there was a lot further to fall. If it wasn’t so serious it would be entertaining, a guessing game to decide what would his rock bottom be.

The worst part about rock bottom was the expectation that he would want to claw his way back to the surface. Everyone assumed that rock bottom meant you wanted to change, needed help to become a better you, they all wanted you to want to be a better you. Sam had seen it many many times. One of his friends after a few too many binges or one too many lines, would crash and burn, they’d retreat and curl up in their flats while hordes of friends streamed in with casseroles and muffins, as if there’d been a death in the family rather than just a sad man who was having more fun than was appropriate ‘at his age’. The casserole bringers would give rousing speeches about getting back on one’s feet in between issuing re-heating instructions. Sam had been one of these motivators, attending the bedside of hungover and bleary eyed friends, “Come on mate,” he’d say, shaking them gently by the shoulder, “You’re better than this, it’s time to take your life back”. Anyone who already lives at rock bottom is allowed to stay there but if you fall from grace and hit rock bottom everyone teams up to try and drag you back to the surface.

Sam did not have time for the self-indulgence of climbing up from rock bottom, he needed to find Mick.

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Being a mother is not the most important job in the world

COLUMNS

Being a mother is not the most important job in the world. There, I said it. Nor is it the toughest job, despite what the 92% of people polled in Parents Magazine reckon.

For any woman who uses that line, consider this: if this is meant to exalt motherhood, then why is the line always used to sell toilet cleaner? And if being a mother is that important, why aren’t all the highly paid men with stellar careers not devoting their lives to raising children? After all, I never hear “being a father is the most important job in the world”.

The deification of mothers not only delegitimises the relationship fathers, neighbours, friends, grandparents, teachers and carers have with children, it also diminishes the immense worth and value of these relationships. How do gay dads feel about this line, I wonder? Or the single dads, stepdads or granddads? No matter how devoted and hard working you are, fellas, you’ll always be second best.

I’m also confused as to what makes you a mother. Is it the actual birth? Or is a “mother” simply a term to describe an expectation to care for children without payment? Is this empty slogan used to compensate women for gouging holes from potential careers by spending years out of the workplace without recognition?

Enabling this dogma devalues the unpaid labor of rearing children as much as it strategically devalues women’s worth at work. If being a mother were a job there’d be a selection process, pay, holidays, a superior to report to, performance assessments, Friday drinks, and you could resign from your job and get another one because you didn’t like the people you were working with. It’s not a vocation either – being a mother is a relationship.

Even if it were a job, there is no way being a professional mother could be the hardest when compared to working 16 hours a day in a clothing factory in Bangladesh, making bricks in an Indian kiln, or being a Chinese miner. Nor could it ever be considered the most important job in comparison with a surgeon who saves lives, anyone running a nation, or a judge deciding on people’s destiny.

There is also a curious sliding scale to the argument. “Working career mums” are at the lower end of the spectrum, and stay at home mothers are at the highest echelons, with ascending increments for each child you have. The more hours of drudgery you endure the more of a mother you are and, therefore, the more important your job is. The more you outsource domestic labour and childcare to participate in the workforce, the less of a mother you are.

It really is time to drop the slogan. It only encourages mothers to stay socially and financially hobbled, it alienates fathers, discourages other significant relationships between children and adults and allows men to continue to enjoy the privileges associated with heteronormative roles in nuclear families (despite men sucked into this having their choices limited as well).

It’s fine to use “motherhood” as a credential if you’re talking about something related to actual motherhood, like vaginal tearing during birth or breastfeeding (despite not all mothers experiencing either). But if you’re using “motherhood” to assert that you care more about humanity than the next person, if you’re using it as a shorthand to imply that you are a more compassionate and hard-working person than the women and men standing around you, then feel free to get over yourself.

You may also like Why I Am Against Step-Parenting  and Mothers Day Is Bullshit

Gunnas Writing Masterclass and 20 free online writing classes! 

Gift certificates on sale.  All here.

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Foreigners – Claudia Medway

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time I arrived in Bolivia I stuck out like a sore thumb. A place completely unknown. Looking down at my twiddling thumbs, I hold the foreign currency, to this foreign country – as I stood amongst a gush of people bustling out of the arrived steam train. Thousands scattered pouring out of the train. I had arrived in Bolivia after traveling a week by train. It cost $5000, for myself, the foreigner, and my outrageously vibrant luggage. Now, contrarily, I stand still, at the station with a slightly overwhelmed feeling pooling in my stomach. The money in my hand stared into my confused eyes. Even its look at me like a foreigner. My appearance, well, an outfit much too out of the norm. Bolivians were working class people of browns, nudes, and neutrals. With my red coat, frills, and heels I was not a Bolivian even if I tried. Flicking my blonde locks behind the crease of my ear, I just didn’t understand this place. The station had a tacky veranda, it was only little, although it accommodated for much too many travellers. Just not like me, though. I shuffled around, grabbing my luggage and decided to wade through the masses in hope of direction – to my apartment that is. Pushing and being pushed – these stilettos – they killed. Usually, i would never be in a situation like this. I reached an exit, a paint peeled arch way that leads onto a street of excitement which was contagious. It’s busy bee hive had my sense switched on immediately. Flicking my head left right up and down, I peered around for a lift. A grubby, groaning taxi swerved into the curb in front of me. A curly headed Bolivian was eager to make use of his taxi assisted me. I took the chance, piling my bags in and shuffled over in the backseat, listening to the obnoxiously loud radio, screaming some language to an annoying beat.
“Can you turn this down?!” I demanded, he looked at me but didn’t comprehend until I swung my hands around until he got my gesture. Finally. Some quiet space. The car rolled away from the gutter, joining the busy traffic. I sunk into the obviously worn fake leather and left my eyes to drift. I looked up to an array of stickers on the car roof. Random patriotic country stickers of flags and what not. Until one made my heart jump into my throat.
Shit. I wasn’t in Bolivia.
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Writing – Mary McSpadden

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

 

I want to write,

I need to write.

Writing is in my brain.

People like reading and

People read the written.

Reading is fun and

Reading teaches us.

I love people who read and

I love people who tell stories and simply,

I just love people.

I want people to be well.

And happy.

And have amazing lives.

And I want people to learn from others and

To appreciate each other.

I want people to know

There are all kinds of people

in the world and

I want people to know

They can be just who they are.

They don’t need to listen to the voice in their head

Which makes them be like everyone else or

Makes them be a person they’ve been instructed to be.

Life can be shit.

Life can be hard,

Life sucks (too many times)

And writing helps me to see

Through the storm

The rainy, hazy sheet.

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Friends – Johnno

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time that I saw the framed, black and white photo I thought I saw a resemblance to my great aunt’s next door neighbour. how on earth do i know what they look like? In fact, i thought it WAS my great Aunt’s neighbour. it cost me $500 to find out actually; in the archives of Wellington’s State Library.

The photo was of three men – all wearing top hats and looking very earnest.  100% pure New Zealand, i can hear my grandfather say.  i’m not sure what makes them look so, because they looked like every Caucasian male of that era; circa 1920s.

Anyway, the smaller of the three looked like the person in question. He was the size of a small child, yet he was clearly a fully-fledged adult, standing in a three-piece suit and pointed black shoes. Actually, I’m guessing they’re black as it is a black and white picture.

But I don’t understand why this picture is hanging on my neighbour’s lounge room wall. i was baffled. And I would have to stay baffled because my neighbour was dead.

These shoes hurt, i thought. In fact, everything seemed to hurt these days.  i sat down on my comfy velvet couch and rub my heels as I stare up again at the photo, that is now hanging on my lounge rom floor.

I was turned on by the though of discovering the strange, coincidental relationship all those years ago.  That feeling was overtaken by frustration, angst and …now …what do i feel now? Meloncoloy?

Oh, can you please turn that off Doris. I can’t think with that wireless droning on and on. She should listen to real music if she wants us to cooperate.

Where was I? Melancholic, apparently. Maybe I’m reflecting the feelings on show on the faces of these three gentleman.  These three friends. They’re all I have now.  They’re all I have.

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Egoic pleasures – Willow Newman-Saige

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

This course, this writing course. Revelations. Expectations. Degregdations of Self. The eccentracies of ego. Egoic pleasures and egoic destructions.  The truth reality of any given moment. The most precious time we have is in the now. Yes. It is and then within spacial mili-seconds it’s dissapated, but has yet burst into shards of hope, visions, fragments of what was that metamorphisises into a branded bubble of nothingness and something precious webbed together by collective and chaotic collisions of new information that, becomes redundant once spoken but with explosive potentials, to stick into the perception of an audience consciousness, thus influencing their perceived truth reality, changing thought processes, rewriting conscious blueprint, enabling physical response.

The point is, since thoughts, ideas, truths etc, are less than a second in time true, at any given moment, then the whole process is an illusion and it’s very real illusion that births a desire.  The desire once birthed, comes with choices and those choices are inspiration – whether to pursue the collected and collective of fusions or to exhaust the moment by squashing the oxygen out of it because of learnt fear and negativity.  All that remains are ashes and voided hopes and dreams that birthed question marks of the ‘what if?  It wasn’t meant to be”.

The alternative.  Co-creation with your minds eye, tabling the tangents and touring the spaces where the gaps reside.  Touch, feel the tangible trade of the tango in the mind.  Observe and witness the translation of mind to hand to paper.  Watch the ink make shapes on the paper and focus on the sobriety of making love to pure ambiguity, just being present, being you, just being.

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