a fledgling idea

This is a slightly longer version of a flash piece I wrote for the blog in June. Maybe it’ll turn into a complete short story one day!

You leave the hospital with your newly sutured equatorial line circumnavigating your midsection like a train track. You’re swallowing saliva. Too much of it. You know what it means and you stop. She looks at you.

“Oh my god, what? What is it, the stitches? It’s the stitches isn’t it? You’ve busted the stitches?”

You’d never heard her use the word busted before and you want to laugh.

“No, it’s not the stitches, I just feel a bit…”

Despite the train tracks embedded into your navel demanding that you stay upright, you throw yourself forward and throw up onto the brown hospital bricks. The sun throws its munificent rays across the top of your head and they strike the pile of puke on the paving, highlighting the red streaks like a king bejeweling a virgin. Your mother is horrified, terrified, and ready to pick up all 95 kilos of you and run with you on her bony shoulder back to those amazing doctors.

“Oh my god, oh my god, Kate! Blood!”

You straighten awkwardly. You feel as if you’ve swallowed several thousand pairs of tights and they’re wrapping themselves around your organs and running laps beneath your belly. You glance at the pile of vomit on the pavement.

“I’m sure that’s normal, post-op Mum. Besides, there’s not much there. I feel better now. Come on.”

“Oh, I don’t know darling, I don’t feel good about that, not at all, I think we better go back. Better safe than sorry.”

She grabs your arm and starts to turn you in little mincing steps like you’re a wardrobe on wheels. Inanities like ‘better safe than sorry’ have fallen from her lips for as long as you remember. They lost all meaning when you were six.

“No Mum, that last nurse said it was fine if it happened, it’s normal. Come on.” You lie to your mother’s face. You turn her around again in one movement; you’ve always had that advantage over her. She tsks. She likes tsking, it makes her feel better. It’s economical. It frees up her energy for ponderous head shaking and general dissatisfaction. It also gives her time to rustle up another cracking cliché.

“Yes dear, but there’s no time like the present, is there? We’re right here, if there is something wrong it’ll save us a trip in the middle of the night, won’t it?”

There’s nothing she hates more than a trip in the middle of the night.

Earth Whisper

“Night Waves” Samantha Hobson

River was lost. She’d strayed around a rocky outcrop. She’d jumped in a ditch and out again. She’d skipped around the everlastings and the gum trees. She’d meandered under the summer sun and now she was lost and night had come and she was cold. She looked up at Mrs. Moon and asked her where her mother was.

“She’s down around the bend,” said Mrs. Moon.

But River went down around the bend and she couldn’t find her mother, she only found another bend.

River was tired and decided to stop. She thought maybe her mother was close. At one point she was sure she’d heard her familiar crrr-shh, crrr-shh, the song she sang to put River to sleep at night. She’d sing the song and rock her slowly, forward then backward, forward then backward.

The next morning when River woke up she looked up at Mr. Sun and asked him where her mother was.

“She’s at the start of the beginning,” said Mr. Sun, but River didn’t think she understood what that meant and she sighed because she was hungry and tired. When Mr. Sun was right over River’s head she stopped to rest and a boy came to play with her. She tried to have fun with the boy because she liked how his dark skin grew shiny as they played. But soon River couldn’t play anymore and she was frightened because all her tears had dried up and her voice had gone away.

River sat and waited for someone to find her. The boy ran away after a while. His skin didn’t shine anymore, only his feet, and River wondered if he’d gone to find her mother. She tried to turn when he left, to see which way he’d gone, and that’s when she saw the crack in her skin. She’d heard about the cracks before, but she thought it was just a story to scare the children. River stared at the crack as it widened and she prayed and she prayed and she prayed.

River prayed so hard that she thought she must’ve brought the world to an end because soon she felt herself sinking into the ground. It sounded funny; the ground. It didn’t sound like the crrr-shh of her mother, it sounded different, like there were thousands of people down there and they were whispering. So River sunk into the earth and she whispered to her mother to come find her.

August Fiction Submission ‘Ticking Time Bomb’ by Romi Moondi

The August submission had the prompt ‘In my heart’ and we’re very privileged to have a work of art submitted by one of my favourite bloggers, Romi, from Year of the Chick. Romi describes herself as ‘nearly slim, almost busty, somewhat young, variably domestic, a little bit crazy, but…very sentimental.’ She’s also on the look out for a mate, but she has some criteria, so you may need to head on over to her place to see if you fit the bill…

I give you - Romi…

Ticking Time Bomb

Raise your hand if you’re a hopeless, pathetic, perpetual slave to your heart.

I’m not just talking about love, but even the gift of ”life”.  The heart it seems, has us wrapped around its little aortic finger, from the first rapid beat to the very last tick.

It’s the sort of power that the heart will abuse, while laughing in your face along the way.

Of course, some might have a healthier relationship with Mr. or Mrs. Heart (and if you do I probably hate you), but surely we’ve all been “had” by the two-faced organ?

As for me, there are too many foolish examples, but one stands out in particular…

***

…He was a man of 18, and I?  A 14 year old ”woman” in search of love (call the cops!).  His hair was silky smooth, so blond it was almost white.  I would often stare at his locks to see where they started, as I strongly believed he had unicorn-extensions (unicorns have the best hair, hands down).  Either that or he must’ve been using a fabulous conditioner, like the kind infused with papayas and shit.

As far as his eyes were concerned, “crystal blue wonder pools” is all I can really say.  In fact, his eyes are the reason he won me over.  I hadn’t planned on falling in love, but when our eyes met up in the hall that day, I was done for.  That’s when the heart said “Go for it girl!”, and so I answered the call.

In the beginnings of my pursuit, it didn’t occur to me that ”Hello, my name is “—-”” usually precedes illegal intimate encounters.  It also didn’t occur to me that because he had a girlfriend, maybe the “hallway stare” hadn’t meant a thing.  Speaking of his girlfriend…I despised her immensely.  We had never met or spoken, but I didn’t like the look of her.  She resembled a country mouse, all miniscule and darty-eyed.  I also believed she was hiding a tail, but I never got the chance to publicly confirm it.

Though the girlfriend posed a challenge, I knew why our eyes had locked that day: he wanted ME instead.  I needed a reason to let him know that I wanted him too, and so I turned to the Internet.  It seems like an odd choice, but I was living in the mid-90’s, and the Internet was gaining steam.

My email account was two weeks old, so I wasn’t really sure what to do with it.  I’d been getting a lot of inappropriate forwards, and as I thought of each one fondly, I had my epiphany:

-I would send him a slutty and hilarious forward.  Upon opening the email, he would laugh and know I was game for some action…the ultimate “double whammy”.

The plan seemed perfect, so I sent the email and checked every day for a response.  I couldn’t wait for his “love confessional” reply!  In the meantime I busied myself with sexual fantasies.  Of course, I was only 14 and a little green, so the fantasies were rooted in making-out and grabbing boob (which was fine with me, since even today I have giant ”cans” in all my dreams.  In stark contrast, I always play the part of a confused “man-boy” in my nightmares, one who was jipped on the testosterone level…).

As I waited around in ecstasy, something terrible happened:

-My man read the email, and basically…freaked out.

Apparently this guy was very religious.  So religious in fact, that he reported me to the school for having sent a racy email (!).  During the inevitable “questioning period”, I played the “What’s the Internet?” and “Huh? I have an email address?” card.  It must’ve been an Oscar-worthy performance, as I skirted a jail sentence and walked away a free woman (in hindsight I realize that they must’ve felt sorry for the greasy and horny girl)…

***

…So what’s the lesson in all of this?  Well that’s the funny part: there are NO lessons! You might think that you’re learning a lesson from each and every failure (or psychotic interlude, as the case may be), but what have you really learned when you fall ass-backwards the next time?  Or the time after that?  I mean I’m 13 years removed from that psycho-quest, but I’m still just stupid enough to fall in love with someone who doesn’t notice.

And all this, all this foolishness, all just to feed the heart (that pig).

I think it’s time for a hunger-strike.

PS: for those of you who HAVE managed to find your love (and keep him/her around), I salute you

The Pitch

I saw a fabulous play on saturday night called The Pitch. It’s written and performed by Melbournian actor, Peter Houghton. Here’s a snippet from the review I wrote for Australian Stage Online, which you can check out here:

Sometimes I wonder if the difference between a film audience and a theatre audience is that a modern film audience is geared up to criticize and needs to be won over, and a theatre audience walks in already willing to suspend that disbelief, practically soliciting the actors on stage – come on, entertain me, you know I want it! The common thread of course is that both audiences want to be involved in a story. “It’s the story that counts,” my favourite creative writing lecturer used to say, “It’s all about the story!” …

… [Houghton] does the best damn Robert De Niro face you’re ever likely to see anywhere, possibly even on Robert De Niro himself. Even if you’re not a theatre fan, do yourself a favour and go and see the Robert De Niro face. Trust me, it’s worth it.

Happy Feet

My Grandmother is a puffer.

Maybe I should extrapolate on that?

Nah. That’ll do. ‘My Grandmother is a puffer.’ It’ll keep you guessing:

She knocks back the odd spliff? She’s actually a big bomber jacket masquerading as a Grandmother? At night she morphs into the masked crusader; Blowfish Grannie!?

Okay, this feels really blasphemous now.

What I mean is that my Grandmother sighs a lot… and groans… sighs and groans… like, all the time. I went to visit her today and I massaged her feet and she huffed and puffed all the way through it. I just assumed that she really liked it. (I am a professional after-all, let’s not forget that people.) But then I got lunch ready and she huffed and puffed all the way through that. No problem, eating is a big deal for some people. Then I did the dishes and she sat at the table and talked to me and yes, you guessed it, she huffed and puffed all the way through that. I looked at her after one particularly loud huff and she smiled at me and said:

“I know I huff and puff a lot dear, it’s just so I can hear that I’m still alive.”

True story.

God love her.

‘Beat’ excerpt

An excerpt from ‘Beat’:

Dan’s hands were deep inside Adam, wired to his spine and pulling gently up and down, up and down, lifting him up from the bed and down again, rhythmically, like a pulse. Adam called to the earth. Tendrils of him, of his skin and his flesh, coiled down through the bed, under the floor and sunk deep into the ground. He cooled off in the dark soil. He fanned his fingers through the moist earth and laid his legs against the black loam. He curled into a ball and breathed in the damp closeness.

He was curled on his father’s lap, his shoulders resting on the hardness of his belly, his ear pressed to his father’s chest, covered in thick down. His blood pumped to the rhythm of his father’s heart. His father stroked his hair as he watched the news on TV. And then he was peeled off him like a Band-Aid, ripped from his lap and carried, screaming, to the bath by his mother.

“No Mamma! I wanna stay with Pa!”

“You can’t Adam, you have to have a bath.” She yanked the clothes from his body. “You have to have a bath!”

“I wanna stay with Pa!” and he wriggled free of her and ran down the hallway back to the family room and threw his tiny naked body on his Pa and clung on tightly. He lifted his tear streaked face up to him, “Pa? Can I stay here and watch TV with you?”

His mother came screaming down the passageway, her arms outstretched as if to catch him. “You don’t have anything on! Get up! Get up Adam, now!” and she was pulling him by the arm, dragging him down his father’s legs and onto the floor. She hauled him to the bathroom and lowered his bucking body down into the hot water. Adam screamed.

“For Christ sake Claire, stop it! It’s too hot for the boy!” His father stood in the doorway, his face crumpled like paper.

“Get out!” Claire, on her knees, stretched her arm out as far as it would go and slammed the door shut. She turned back and plunged her hands into the hot water and held Adam down as she scrubbed at his skin with a hard coconut fibre brush until he was red. When Adam woke up the next morning his father was gone. And now he was coming. He was five, in the bath and screaming for his Pa, and now, thirty years later, he was coming. Adam could see his face. He was in a car and he wasn’t far away. He was coming.

© Simonne Michelle-Wells

Bridget and Blockhead

I’m stealing a story. Yes. Stealing. Most of my friends do realise that their stories are fair game for my blog. What? Is it my fault that I said it once, years ago, and they’ve forgotten? Pfft. Get over it people.

So. The story.

I had lunch with two girlfriends yesterday and one of them - we shall call her Bridget - told us a tale that I’m sure all women everywhere would nod their heads sagely to in a solemn indication of their own experience. Bridget had been introduced to a worldly and handsome man. No, this isn’t a Jane Austin novel. We shall call him Blockhead. See?

So, Bridget and Blockhead are introduced and they have a nice chat for about ten minutes. In this time Bridget has ascertained that Blockhead is gregarious, rich and handsome, not as smart as she is, but generally a fairly good guy. Blockhead has worked out that Bridget has nice boobies and he would like to squeeze them.

Bridget, feeling amorous after several glasses of champagne, decides to go back to Blockhead’s place. Blockhead is ecstatic that he’s about to squeeze her boobies. Bridget and Blockhead get it on. Bridget isn’t horrified, which, as we know girls, is a wonderful first step. Blockhead actually knew what he was doing. Bridget, being a woman of the world, in charge of her own company, her own children already making their way in the world, doesn’t stay the night.

Bridget and Blockhead meet a few times out socially. Bridget and Blockhead also bone each other a few more times. It’s all good. Bridget has no need nor desire for a relationship and is happy with her booty calls. Blockhead tells her he doesn’t want a relationship and seems unbalanced by her pleasure about this. He needs to sit down.

Sometime later…

Blockhead sends Bridget a text in the middle of a meeting. He must see her. Bridget, who is simultaneously dealing with millions of dollars, saving the world, organising her next pilates class, finalising a dinner party for the Governor General and reading bedtime stories to orphans, is annoyed.

Bridget meets up with Blockhead in a fine dining restaurant. She cradles his hand, concerned, ready to tell him that cancer isn’t a death sentence, that his mother will be fine, that brankruptcy is temporary, when Blockhead stares into her eyes (after a quick glance down at her boobies) and says, “Bridget, I’ve met someone, I’m falling in love, I’m so sorry, I hope you’ll be okay.”

Bridget tries her upmost not to guffaw uncontrollably in Blockhead’s earnest face. The urge to explain the definition of booty call to him is high. He’s waiting. Earnestly. For her reply. All Bridget can think about it how badly his nose-hairs need trimming. But she looks forgivingly into Blockhead’s tortured face and assures him she’ll be fine.

“Oh, that’s a relief,” sighs Blockhead. “Of course, you know Bridge, she’s not as good in bed as you are…”

The Bridge

I crossed the bridge to over there the other day and now I don’t know how to get back. Not that I don’t like over there, it’s just that that’s not where I’m from and I’m beginning to miss here and now. You see here and now seems to be - I don’t know - somehow more real, and here in over there I feel a bit disjointed. When I’m in here and now I feel connected to, you know… stuff. But here in over there I keep feeling like something is about to happen, but it never does. It doesn’t make me feel very, I don’t know, switched on. I hope I can make my way back soon, because there’s something important I need to do and here in over there I can’t seem to do it, I can only wish that I was doing it. Weird huh?

Tapped Out

I had all of yesterday to work on the novel. Yes. An entire day. After sleeping-in, I got up and read the paper while I had breakfast. Then I dealt with some emails and did a few bloggy things and it was time to start.

I have a 1000 word a day target, which, when I have a whole day to write, is obviously not a difficult one. It was only about 10.30am and conceivably I still had about 7.5 hours to achieve my goal. Easy.

I wrote about 300 words. I read over them. They weren’t terribly inspiring. Which got me to thinking that perhaps the entire book isn’t inspiring. This was a sobering thought for a writer still in her pajamas at 10.30 in the morning and only one coffee in her system.

So I did what any self respecting writer should do. I panicked. I fired off an email to CJ, lamenting that the entire book is rubbish and the whole idea behind it, stupid. CJ, smart man that he is, decided that rather than email me back (on top of designing the world, okay maybe not the world, but, you know, stuff, important stuff), he’d call and placate his dramatic, half-Italian wife in the midst of her mini-breakdown.

I say mini, but it wasn’t until he spoke to me that he realised how maxi my condition actually was.

“Honey? You ok?”

“I’m cleaning the taps.”

“What? Which taps?”

“The kitchen taps.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re dirty.”

“Honey? Are you writing?”

“Yes. No. I’m cleaning the taps.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No. Yes. They’re really shiny now.”

“That’s great honey. Do you need to talk about the book?”

“I think I’ve hit a wall.”

And I had. Hit a wall. So I sat with a big piece of butcher’s paper and plotted out where I was and where I was going. And then I took my laptop outside and sat in the fresh air and picked up where I’d left off hours before. I’m getting through it. I’m writing through the hump. And you should see my kitchen taps. They’re friggin’ awesome.

Female of the Species

After all this time as a female of the species, I seem to have only just discovered that when I have pmt I turn violent. Yes. Violent. I know what you’re thinking. Yes. I do. What can a little 5 foot pip-squeak of a thing actually achieve in the violent stakes?

Aye. There’s the rub.

Not a lot. But that’s the point you see. You don’t see, do you?

Ok. So CJ, my husband, is 6′3″ and over 100kg. Now you see. And it’s fun: Turning myself into an estrogen-fired human cannonball and launching myself at him when he least expects it. Throwing punches at shoulders that are wider than I am tall. Doing commando rolls over the bed… and across his face. Flinging myself through the air - like a tiny flying squirrel - and landing flat on top of him as he, unsuspecting, is watching TV. FUN.

It sounds cruel. But it isn’t. No really.

Okay, maybe a bit. But maybe in the grand scheme of things - you know, the Divine Plan - maybe that’s why I had to marry a giant. (Okay, he’s not a giant to normal people, but he’s most certainly a giant to me.)

FUN. Being a human cannonball is a hoot. Trust me. And, jeez, it’s only once a month. Quit whining.