All posts by Princess Sparkle

Goggles – Melissa Cahill

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The weather was encouraging.

Sophie had been dreaming about getting out of her room all morning and the sun pouring through the cracks in her faded window shears was beckoning.  The week with all its drama and emotion had taken its toll on her energy levels and she could barely keep her eyes open.  This morning she was as scared of the sunlight as much as she was drawn to it.  Would the brightness cause her brain to implode?  She knew she had to move her legs. Her mind relied on her, just getting out.

The doorbell rang.

‘Fuck’ she sighed with rolled eyes and her head thrown heavenwards.  Who did I forget to meet today?  Could it be Mum?  I hope it’s not John next-door, that always meant losing 20 minutes of her life to inane conversation about the minutiae of bin day, parked cars and local kids playing in the street. Couldn’t cope with that today, she thought.  “Should I pretend not to be home and play statues?”, she whispered like someone was listening. “Maybe if I’m really still the floor-boards won’t creak and no-one will see my shadow.”  She really needed to remain invisible, even in spaces with no-one around.  The Japanese have a saying, “eat fish for breakfast” she remembered ….. “maybe I should just get the hard stuff done and just fucking open the door.”  How bad could it be?

“Hey love what are you doing home?”.  It was Jane, Sophie’s best friend from Uni days.  “I was cycling past and really didn’t expect you to be home” said Jane. “Is everything ok?”.  She looked puzzled.  Puzzled in the way that only a true friend can sense the vibrations of change and trouble.  She knew that all was not as it should be. “I was just heading to the swimming pool, why don’t you grab your goggles and come with.”  I looked across at my swimming towel which was folded several times and sitting neatly on the hall bench with goggles nestled on top. I wondered whether I had the courage to share what was really on my mind and what had unexpectedly unfolded this week. What was holding me back from revealing all that has pinning down my heart and paralyzing my tongue from speaking its truth. ‘Let’s go’ I directed, not wanting to give my emotions away just yet or put myself in a position of having to explain a thing.  I packed up my swimming bag and threw it on the back of the bike. It felt good to be pushed. I was out of the house, and en route to a place which gave me freedom.  I needed that feeling today.  Let’s face it, I needed that feeling most days and some days were just easier than others to make that joy happen.

When we arrived at the swimming pool I was surprised to see the outdoor pool and lawn area vacant. I felt uncomfortable. There was something heavy in the air, something was up with Jane and it felt unexpected.  What could it possibly be?  I had been so immersed in my own drama and exhaustion and the ridiculous dialogue in my own head that I hadn’t said a word since we left the house. The silence was broken was Jane’s tears.  I hadn’t seen this expression on her face before.  I didn’t recognise the terror in her eyes and the translucent colour of her skin.  It was as if whatever she was about to share had sucked the life out of her and some other worldly presence had found a home within. What on earth was going on?

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I Am Blooming – Charlotte Boyle

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Through trauma burnt lips I tell the story.

Words fall through charred and crusted skin shedding itself, so fresh flesh can finish growing.

I must give it time

and space

and distance

and absolutely no interruption. 

This story is not my only story.

But it is one that hangs heavily from every part of me; I’ve never felt so weighted.

Ear lobes

droop

like thick custard spilt,

Fingers crouch in anticipation,

Fear chafes between my thighs with

a heat so wild that I think at times my uterus is going to…

thud beneath me.

There have been times where I have wished my reproductive system would cease to exist. 

And then no one would ever look at me again.

Gawking and clawing stops,

And the fog recedes,

Blurry visions glaze my eyes

As colour burst forth

I am blooming.

And then

the rain

draws

back,

The sun blesses the morning,

Desert blankets the earth,

Clay pots pepper my surroundings,

Each lip overflowing with water,

And though I am tired,

I bathe,

I drink,

and I dance in

every drop of

the Universe,

In the ripe falling rain I hold a little girl,

Burnt orange freckles peppering her face,

Bracken locks curling shyly against her chin,

I hold her and I weep,

“Look at how I saved this woman from despair”.

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SNOWGAN- Finding Love – Dee Cee

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The Japanese have a saying, “Only carry what you can lift”.
Yeah sure, but how can you pack for a two week snow holiday and keep it under 20 kilos. I mean seriously, that barely covers the first layer, all those lovely woollen long johns, that’s what they used to call them, bloody expensive tights, is what I call them. They do roll up small though, which leaves room for more gear, yeah.
Yes, the bag is getting heavy but, despite this, I managed to get in all the other things that I know I NEED. Like my speakers, cause my phone speakers just don’t cut it, and I want to dance up a storm après ski at the lodge, with that fabulous pink puffer vest, and my après ski boots with the white faux fur fluffy trim, yes yes I know they are a little bit heavy, but I need them, and my ski boots obviously. Look it all adds up
What I had almost forgotten was the space in my skis bag, brilliant. Now I can pack that book. What was it? “How Not To Give A Fuck”, yeah, that’s it.
And of course you need at least two of everything, in case you get wet when you walk back to your room after a few cocktails, like I did last time I went to the snow. I can’t remember much about Hotham but I remember that, wet bum and laughter. Ha. Can’t remember his name though.
Which reminds me I’ll have to buy some foundation and nail polish remover at the airport, and find a space in the bag. Gosh, it’s going to be heavy.
The purpose of travel is to broaden the mind, they say. So I’m so looking forward to the food, and the Saki and the Sapporo beer. I’m glad they finally let me on, and yeah the bag was heavy, thanks for telling me. And they put a huge orange tag on it, jeez.
Not sure what I will do when I get there, but I reckon if I smile and look helpless, someone’s bound to turn up.
That cake, that looked so good in the break room, was sitting lump like in his stomach. Loading the bags onto this flight was not helping.

 

“Mate, can you give me a hand with this one? What the hell is in there? Rocks?”
“25 Kilos? more like 30,” he grumbled, as they hoisted the bag onto the ramp.
“Hello? Hello? Um. Can someone help? Kon ich i wa?
Oh, finally, thank you so much. Oh, you are going to Sapporo too?
I’m Alice. Pleased to meet you Brownie. Good nick name!
No, really? I’m from Frankston too!”

Penguins don’t have bird flu, do they?

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Human Intolerance Disorder – Matthew Barker

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

My husband and I just spent two weeks away on holiday.  During that time, one of the most obvious things to me in my observations of people, aside from the realisation that I don’t actually enjoy observing people and would rather pretend they aren’t even there at all, is how spatially unaware people are.  This is just my grossly over-generalised observation and, it must be said, is probably significantly prejudiced by my anti-social tendencies.

People were just wandering about as if they’ve had some part of their brain cauterised or removed, or even just turned to mush by a long sharp needle stuck through their eye socket into the brain and jiggled around a bit.  Or is it some kind of slow onset zombieism collective governments are hiding from us? Or do they even know about it yet? But it was as if walls, fences, gutters and other human beings had never occurred to these people.

You don’t have to be at an airport or on holidays to see this bizarre behaviour for yourself.  Take a walk into your local shopping mall. People just walk towards you as if the idea of your being a corporeal thing that would essentially block their movement beyond a certain point was unfathomable.  Walking along the esplanade in New Zealand’s Queenstown, I wondered if people even conceive of the idea that you would get out of their way. I don’t think it ever occurred to them that there was a consequence of walking towards someone and not moving.  They haven’t thought that far ahead, which is probably one of the first symptoms of zombieism.

Of course I move out of their way.  I don’t even mind for the first few hundred times.  After all I’m literally oozing holiday vibes. But then I do it begrudgingly.  After that, I do it with a passive aggressive vehemence that is just short of my stomping my feet and screaming like a velociraptor.

I’m so conscious of other people, mainly because I don’t want to be close to other human beings.  I mean, bring me a herd of cattle and I’ll sit down and chat with them for hours about anything from which grass is the best to get that fine summer paddock figure to the pros and cons of consumerism.  But strange human beings? Fuck that shit right off, thank you very much! Especially people in airports. Or on public (or group) transport. And don’t even get me started on selfie sticks!

I could venture that all this says way more about me than it does random human beings.  Perhaps I envy them their oblivion? Perhaps I want to be as oblivious of the existence of other human beings as other human beings are of me.  How dare they live in such bliss? I know, when it comes to human values, it’s not a thing to aspire to. And I do want to be mindful of others.  But thinking about others is so exhausting. Especially for a nervous, awkward, anti-social introvert with a heavy OCD flavour such as myself. If I think about them, then I’m thinking about what they’re doing and where they’re from and if they’re happy and if they’re well.  And that stresses me out!

I don’t want to think about other people being unwell, because that invariably leads to me thinking about what could be wrong with them and if it is communicable!  I mean, have they come from a jaunt through some bird flu-ridden country? Is my proximity to them going to make me start bleeding from all my orifices? I don’t even know if that’s a symptom of bird flu or if bird flu is still a thing.  I just go to the worst case scenario and I don’t think (short of death) you can get a much worse case scenario than bleeding from your orifices!

Maybe I should just stay home?  Not for the first time did I exclaim, while on our holiday, that I hate people.  I mean, I don’t hate people as a race, even though they leave much to be desired.  Certainly, conservative voters aren’t high on my list of species to ensure the conservation of.  I don’t want there to be some mass extinction, although I am conscious of the good it would do the planet if humans were suddenly gone.  Although, thinking about it, sudden removal of the human species from the earth probably isn’t such a good thing. I suspect all the crap we’ve put in place, like nuclear waste storage, would start to fail if we’re not around to keep an eye on it, so that would all go to shit.

Maybe we need to go somewhere more remote?

Do they have great NBN in Antarctica?

Penguins don’t have bird flu, do they?

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Six Prompts and an Orange Ribbon – Michelle Wilkins

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The Japanese have a saying –  “Life is Like an Orange Ribbon That Floats on the Breeze”.
Where it comes from and when it ends up, is all up to you.  Many people live their whole life and never see it.  Others feel its thread from the moment they take their first breath.

Despite this, we all live our lives at our own pace and in the company of spirits, either visible or invisible.  I like to think that my spirits are with me always.  They pop in and out of my life when I need them or sometimes when I don’t.  I guess that is when I probably need them the most.

What I had forgotten about this magical orange ribbon was that it also affected those around me and sometimes to their detriment.    The orange thread might be silky and comforting to me but sharp and prickly to others.
It was the learning of this fact that took me on a journey that would change my life in an instant.  I had spent my life floating freely, wrapped in my soft, nurturing ribbon.

The purpose of travel to Japan seemed abundantly clear to me.  I needed to find a way to bring everything together but how?

“That cake looks good” crackled through that PA.  I’m sure the flight attendant didn’t mean to have the mike open, but she did and we all heard it.  Now we all wanted cake!  I quickly pressed my call button as did everyone else in turn.

“Please may I have some of that delicious cake”,   I could hear everyone in their various languages asking the same question.  All the flight attendants sprang into action and brought the morsel to each of us in turn.  Each piece of cake was exquisitely wrapped in a delicate thread of supple orange ribbon.

Finally, as I devoured my second piece, I could see that it wasn’t the type of ribbon that was important, but the things that the ribbon brought to each of us.  It was simply the ribbon that was the thread that held us together.

Today I was joined with everyone on QF 762, tomorrow, who knew.

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Mornings With Matt – Nicole Gurd

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

What would’ve happened if I’d stayed? The town was sucking me dry. If I think about it, my trajectory, it was all down hill.  I was drinking more after that night. I drank to forget I was unhappy. I drank to forget it hurt. I drank to forget who I was.   I was sure to have tried harder drugs, that was just how they rolled, my peer group. Harder and faster, every weekend was something new,  something explored. Every weekend boundaries were breached and new ones set, only to be tested and pushed again. We were bored. The whole fucking town was! We were desperate. We were delinquent. We were dying.

Perhaps I would’ve stayed with my sad boyfriend.  Perhaps I would’ve been one of the ones to encourage him to hold up the bottle shop with a syringe.  Or perhaps I would’ve been the one to talk him out of it. Perhaps I would’ve been a junkie, no job, no ambition, no hope –  just like the others. Perhaps I  would’ve been the one to OD. Maybe the first, certainly not the last.   Or perhaps I would’ve missed my girlfriends and moved to Melbourne anyway. They’d moved for uni – maybe I’d have gone to Uni.  Perhaps I’d have a degree. Probably means I wouldn’t be here right now. In this room, with these people, with Dev. Probably means a lot of things. Who fucking knows. Who fucking cares.

If I  had 6 months to live, I wouldn’t change a thing.   I’ve not often had idealistic futuristic thoughts or pondered my lifestyle’s sustainability.  It’s always been one foot in front of the other. Which door, which path, which adventure next? I’ve been forced to face my mortality head on several times already so I’m convicted in my choice of no change.

I’m pretty fucking happy with my lot,  which is not through luck, it’s through good decision making.  Right now, if my husband could not leave so early and have a cuppa with me in the morning I’d say things are pretty fucking close to great!

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Seasick – Pussyfoot

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time Lily travelled on a boat she became desperately seasick.  She clutched the rail of the boat and vomited until she was turning inside out.  The only thing making her feel any better was the seabreeze on her face, cool and salty. Her hands felt frozen to the rail. Her nose stung and dripped.  This would be six days of hell.  Six day of island cruising hell.

“Not feeling too great, huh?” it was a male voice, but with her chin now resting on the rail between retches, eyes closed she was unable to turn and look, or to answer.

“First time?”  She nodded in response.

“Sucks.”  She nodded again.

“It gets better.”

“Promise?” she croaked.

What she had forgotten was the stupid bracelet she packed, the just-in-case one she never thought she’d need but which was however languishing in her suitcase below decks.

“Would you,” she stammered, “do something for me?”

“Course.”

“Would you get my seasickness bracelet from my suitcase?”

“Sure.  They don’t work but sure.”

She managed to describe the bag, only retching once during the slow gulping description.  He disappeared.  She still hadn’t seen his face.  Lily felt a panic in her gut, over riding the nausea.  What was in her bag?  Anything embarrassing?  Valuable? She retched again and turned her face to the side, the metal rail cool against her cheek.  She didn’t care.

A pair of thongs under ragged jeans came in sight, and the bracelet appeared inches from her nose.  She took it and gingerly pushed it over one hand.

“The Japanese have a saying.”

“What?” she wanted him to leave now.  She had the bracelet.

“Choice is a roll of the dice.”

“What?” she repeated, with some irritation.

“It means we’re never really choosing, everything is chance.”

“How is that relevant?” This guy was either unhinged or stupid, and annoyingly the bracelet wasn’t doing a thing.  She retched again.

“Well everything is chance really, it’s complex but trust me.  Minute by minute you think you’re making decisions but everything is chance.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Let the dice decide whether you should be seasick.”

This guy was definitely stupid.  “I didn’t decide to be seasick.  Christ.”

His face appeared a hands breadth from hers.  He was nice looking, sandy haired, tanned, looked like he was born on a boat.

“Wanna try it?”

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Proscrastinator!

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time I went to a remote community in the Pilbara was to cut an old lady’s hair.  I’m not a hairdresser by any stretch of the imagination but I can wield a pair of scissors and had cut my own dear old Nan’s hair plenty of times (I come from a long line of thrifty hoarder food obsessed photo addicts!).  My friend Beck had asked me if I could cut hair and I had responded with that bit of personal history and my usual positive ‘tude which was good enough for her, apparently.  What I had forgotten was that I had never been much good at it, but no matter, I’m nothing if not hopeful.

“Why’s that?” I asked. And so the savagely unfair tale of Old Nell’s haircut emerged.

Beck was working as a support person for the aged residents of the community about 2 hours out of Port Hedland and the day before had brought a bus load of old dears into town for shopping, errands etc.  Nell, at age 60ish, was a very dark skinned, reserved woman in a bright hued floral skirt, braless and barefoot with passable English, but like many indigenous Australians, no urge to speak up or at all.

The Japanese have a saying – two ears, one mouth – Nell was a fully paid up subscriber of that club. She had presented herself at one of only two hair salons in Hedland at the time wanting a wash and trim, a simple enough request.  She was refused service.  No actual specific reason was given, in fact there was a wishy washy white lie about needing to make an appointment first, even though the place was practically empty.

Beck tried to argue that they’d come a long way, it wasn’t practical or possible to come back tomorrow, they didn’t look busy, etc etc… all to no avail.  During the exchange it became evident that the staff were simply unwilling to touch her, there were two outspoken staff that finally admitted: “because she’s dirty.”

Standing silently hearing herself be discussed and argued about minute by minute old Nell shrank more and more into her quiet steady centre in that busy shopping centre.   So that’s how I found myself heading out bush in Beck’s beaten up Patrol for my first ever experience of a black community on country.  The Pilbara is a harsh but beautiful landscape that one gradually comes to appreciate for its still starkness, we cruised along red dirt roads pluming dust from our wheels dodging potholes and shooting the shit in between indignant reactions to what had happened to Nell the previous day.  Then we arrived.

A few broken down car husks marked the start of the settlement, dogs roamed around freely and kids stared openly.  Small groups of people were scattered about sitting in the dirt in the shade of trees yarning, or to my city eyes not doing much of anything.

We pulled up to a house with a ringlock fence with rubbish laying against it.  A bare red yard, except for a few clumps of spinifex, a cold fire with a shabby foam mattress alongside it were the only ornaments.  A young girl came out and stood on the verandah staring silently at us as we came up the path, she trotted back inside without saying a word.

We entered the house, which felt gloomy and dim compared to the bright, clear, warm day outside. Beck spoke to a woman and introduced me, saying I’d come to cut Aunty Nell’s hair.  She nodded seriously and went to get her.
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Slow – Erin M McCuskey

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time was awful. The pressure was great, but it was cold. I had to put up with it because the day I got married, I didn’t realise but, I gave my entire life away.

In some way it was a relief. I didn’t know my own mind. I felt okay with it being shaped by better people.

What I had forgotten was the story of my mother. She had given her life away too. As a teenager I railed against her complicity in a secondary life. She accepted everything he threw at her. I would never be like that.

I did exactly what she must have. Married. Made things possible. The peacemaker. Anything for a happy home. I became complicit. Giving over, giving up, accepting. Each small thing was just a small thing.

It didn’t look like anything from the outside. A great couple. Terrific. Entertaining. It didn’t look like anything from the inside either. For a while. You can’t see a gnawing for joy.

There is a saying that flowers cannot grow in the dark. I always thought it was about love. I know now it’s about respect. Minute by minute it had gotten dark. I hadn’t registered it.

There were two times I remember telling him I thought it was dark. But he didn’t see it. It wasn’t dark for him.

The first time was that day in the shower. I said we should check the hot water service was working properly. He put his hand under the water and said no. It’s not cold. It’s fine. Maybe take shorter showers.

The second time I told him about how a guy at work had rubbed my arse at the photocopier. He said you sure? It was probably an accident. I was overthinking it. Blowing it out of proportion.

Maybe I was. I stayed in the dark. Willingly. Questioned my motives, my worth. Made him comfortable. Hid my light. Didn’t know my own mind.

By the time I realised it was dark, I worried it was too late. Why do I deserve joy more than anyone else? Because everyone deserves joy, real joy. I grabbed a polished gold stone he kept at his bedside table and put it in my shoe. I felt it press into my foot. Reminding me to remember me.

What do you like? Pancakes for dinner. How do you feel? Warm to the touch. How do you know? Because I can feel myself turning towards the sun.

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It Tastes of Australia (apparently) – Gabi Brown

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time I came to Australia, an innocent little Brit abroad, absolutely everyone said I should try Vegemite. Before they even said, “What’s your name?” Or “Why are you here?” Or “How do you like Australia?” No – the very first thing people talked about was Vegemite.

(All the other questions came later … I particularly warmed to the “How do you like Australia?” which was asked within days of me arriving. “It’s lovely,” I’d say, not having a clue as to whether I thought it was lovely or not.)

Also, “the V question”, as I came to call it, seemed more than a bit odd. I know that a nation is built on all sorts of things, but a savoury spread, the colour of tar, the consistency of boot polish, the smell of … of … well, exactly how would you describe it?

What I had forgotten is that I’d met the English version of this when I was a child – Marmite. I’d also forgotten that as a toddler, one mouthful of the “lovely lovely Marmite soldier” as my mother described it, aeroplane-ing a finger of toast into my mouth, had made me projectile vomit so impressively that there are still marks on my parents’ kitchen wall.

As time went on, I learnt to divide people into two distinct groups – those that loved Vegemite and those who hated it. And it’s not that I despised the Vegemite lovers. It’s more that I tended to gravitate towards those that weren’t.  We bonded over this – oh, and red wine. Lots of red wine. It was quite a little club.

But that didn’t solve the question of why on earth Vegemite was so beloved? I began to research it. It became my specialist subject, ie I now know that:

·         It was invented in 1923 as a “delicious nourishing spread”. The name came from a competition where the winner won £50.

·         Approximately 80 per cent of households across Australia have Vegemite in their pantries, with more than 22 million jars of the stuff manufactured every year.

·         The Vegemite website lists over 50 different recipes that include the stuff, including such unlikely treats as Vegemite brownies, Vegemite hot cross buns and even Vegemite icy poles.

·         Australians spread about 1.2 billion serves of Vegemite on toast, bread or biscuits every year. If this was all placed end to end, it would go around the world three times.

·         It’s certified kosher, halal and gluten free.

·         Oh – and it’s got almost zero kilojoules.

Who could resist it?

The recipe is a closely guarded secret (aren’t they all?) but it’s basically brewer’s yeast blended with ingredients like celery, onion, salt, and a few “secret ingredients”.

Aha. Brewer’s yeast. This totally explains the Aussie passion for the stuff.  Aussies fill the gaps in their day when they aren’t drinking some shockingly cold beer in tiny glasses, with consuming a non-alcoholic residue. It’s kind of a form of recycling, when you come to think of it.

The Japanese have a saying: 蓼食う虫も好き好き. Which loosely translates as “There are even bugs that eat knotweed” ie “there’s no accounting for taste”. And indeed, Vegemite does look like the kind of thing you’d smear over a petri dish to see what microbes might bloom and blossom on its surface.

It turned out I did like Australia. A lot. Years passed. But minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day I was inundated with people asking what I thought of this national delicacy. I managed to bluff my way through, mumbling and stuttering. But I knew that eventually I would have to try the stuff.

There were two ways this could go. I could taste the brown goo, and find that my tastebuds had matured, that my time in the country had made me Australian enough to rejoice in its savoury loveliness. Or I could leave my mark on someone else’s kitchen wall.

I was at a stereotypical, unassuming Aussie barbecue when I discovered which it was going to be. Someone handed me a Vegemite sandwich and everyone stood around chanting “go, go, go, go, go”.

You know what the song says? Well I proved it. (With apologies for the slightly altered lyrics.)

“I live in a land down under

Where women eat Vegemite and chunder.”

The marks are on the garden fence to this day.

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