Curses

Now imagine I’d said the title in Disney Villian voice. Ursala, for preference; she always was my favourite.  WHY? Because it’s almost as fun as swearing and I’ve yet to set off a profanity filter doing it. More importantly, I feel it’s accurate.

Why curses?

Because today I was betrayed by the recliner!

That’s right, my chair!

How?

I made the mistake of trying to recline in it; forgetting once again that the tortured mechanisms now Fight to close back up. So I’m stuck there forcing all my strength into pushing it closed, hoping my brain doesn’t misfire, like it likes too when least convenient. The bloody thing snaps closed finally freeing me to stand up safely.

Drama over, I then retrieve my tablet, only to discover that in my forceful rocking of the chair I’d dislodged the magnetic charger, sending it straight into dangerzone, land of tired metal. I was so relieved when it came back with a gentle tug. We’ve had to fight cords out before, so it felt like a small victory.

I celebrated… too… soon…

Damn thing looked like my rats had found it; a neat slice through the casing then nicely frayed metal cords.

The biggest joke? I’d never even taken that charger into my room as I didn’t trust my rats. What would life be without irony?

Author’s note: so strictly speaking this is an auto-biographical blog post. I originally intended to write some flash fiction. As can be seen I got a little derailed…

I have been planning to get back to writing. I’ve started uni again and I’ve had success in the past using one to encourage the other; of course that was pre-craniotomy and may just spell a recipe for fatigue, I still think it’s worth a try.

Published!!

My News Article was published! They’ve cut off the last paragraph (which was just contact info for the playgroup) and have left out my by line; but that’s all they’ve done. The rest is unaltered – it was fit for press use. ^_^

Now to write this weeks one… bleargh… I now have a standard bar…

Molding our young.

And here it is, my second news article!  I see no reason why it shouldn’t be published in some fashion if The advocate can’t find room for it in the already full broadsheets.  My writing seems to have focused strictly on the non-fictional at the moment.  While this is a learning experience, I’m missing fiction.  I’m going to make myself do so flash fiction this week, damn it!  The following article is one I submitted last week for possible publication.  I’m currently working on another on behalf of Welcoming Interculteral Neighbours Inc.

Gladstone cultural diversity has seen a steep rise over the past few years, yet we only have one playgroup that reflects the changes within our community. The Multicultural Playgroup, run jointly by Playgroup QLD and WIN Inc., establishes a safe niche for children to learn and play while creating a place of mutual respect, and dignity for family groups. For these families, the playgroup makes a refreshing change from normal as children are encouraged to use both languages in the very same social activities provided by other playgroups. Through exploring the various cultures in a social context these children form an accepting community at an early age – preparing them for a future where communities are certainly going to become far more diverse.

The early years of childhood are important to the development of a child’s social awareness of their world. It is during these formative years that children learn how they should cope with others who are ‘different’ from them. This makes is the best period for forming healthy inter-cultural interactions. As such it would be a mistake to think that the Multicultural Playgroup is purely for those of different ethnic origins. Many Australians could benefit from a deeper understanding of our neighbours, and this playgroup provides a perfect forum. Any and all are welcome to join us. The Multicultural Playgroup is free and runs at the Neighbourhood Center on 105 Toolooa st every Friday from 9:30-11:30.

For more information please visit us at Welcoming intercultural Neighbours at 10 Tank st, Gladstone. We can also be contacted by email at admin@win-australia.org.au or by phone on 0487 422 142.

I feel that this one is an improvement on the last article; flowing more fluently with the structure of a proper news article.  This style is not a bad fit for someone already experienced with the concision of flash fiction.  Hopefully, practice will make perfect and I will be able to get fiction written.  Of course, I’ve been keeping myself busy with work for both WIN and the RSPCA and prep for my course starting in November.  I like to be busy, clearly.

Seven deadly sins V2.0

I’ve been nominated for ‘The lovely blog Award’ a second time. o.0 What is this? It has to be a conspiracy! ~sedatives and rubber room now on standby~ I’ve only ever been this popular with -bullies-! (Thanks Brooks)(V1.0 here)

Okayiess, I will used the cursed no. 7 again for facts but I’m gonna have to skip out on nominations this time (sowwies guys, there’s a lot of you I’d like to nominate but my brain’s in protest mode so trawling through the list of blogs I follow is a bit much right now.)

1) I’m as nutty as I seem, but I hide behind friendly, shy politeness until I’ve reeled in my prey. >.> <.< >.>

2) I was a grammar nazi. Once. Then I discovered how fun it was to bend the rules. 😉

3) I have had to be escorted of a property for my own safety.  The flatmates that my ex and I lived with were drug abusers. We had already had the police out on several occasions but one night he flipped out and tried to come through the door. By this point we had barricaded it and I was sat behind the door with a carving knife like a good soldier’s daughter.

4) Same housemate, earlier on in our stay. Tried to burn me in shower by suddenly raising the boiler temperature (the kind of boiler it is will cause scalding burns too!) I simply pulled on my robe, marched to the kitchen, and turned it down right in front of him.  Next time he was in the shower I pulled the same trick. It never happened again.  This was just one thing in a long line of harassment.  Never Piss Off an Aussie.  We stand our ground and we mean business.

5)  I migrated to the UK with only £1000 pounds to live off.

6)  I lived in a hostel for almost half a year above a club on Brighton’s busiest party street.

7)  I lived in a house without a working shower/bath, a toilet we had to flush with a bucket, and no working central heating in ENGLAND. Rich country, huh? Bullshit on that count, I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve shared a room/flat or lived in abusive situation because of lack of a living wage; a problem that still existed when I was working 50+ hours a week.

Yeah, I’m a tough nut(ter).

Pro-kidnapee

This one did not go where I wanted it too.  I had idea then got frustrated half way through because it did not want to write in that direction.  I almost gave up on it but then I looked at it again today and decided it could easily be finished, just not the way I intended.  It was bloody typical; I got frustrated and set up a twitter account and reclaimed my linkin account all to distract myself from a story that was tied up really quickly.  I borrowed the prompt from Monday Madness.

Trisha: Teen (wannabe) Detective.

“Oooo, Space,” Trisha felt herself saying. “Wait… no stars?…” Trisha stared up her dark universe. “Bummer…” she muttered as the world became less disjointed. A minute later it occurred to addle-brained teen that the world was not actually spinning. Then, by unfortunate hap-stance, the world stopped.

“I was Enjoying that!” Trisha flung at the universe. Bored and pouting, she decided it was time to deal with reality. “Right, 58^th time I’ve woken up in this position. Protocol 1) Injury!” Trisha proceeded to pat herself down while singing ‘Head, shoulders, knees, and toes.’ Left ankle: twisted. Right elbow: gash running up to shoulder, likely bruised. Wet substance on head? Blood or other liquid? Trisha rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. Not water. She licked her finger. Coppery. “Blood. That will be why my memories fuzzy. Protocol 2) Sensations?” Cold. Wet. Slight mildew smell. So far, so standard. Whistling, puffs of earthy-scented air, coming from same direction as the sound of rain splatter: open or cracked window, likely basement level. Shallow breathing from my right, scent of strawberries mixed with cheap deodorant; only one person that could be. “Oi, Dick!” No response. Likely unconscious, no help from him. “Protocol 3) Explore environment; prioritise light, escapes routes, and unconscious fools,” Trisha rose gingerly, relieved that she hadn’t hit her head this time around. She figured the wince-inducing pain in her ankle was enough of a handicap. With care she felt around, at switch level. “Oh, well, what do you know? Found you quickly, my pretty little circuit!” Trisha covered her eyes, flipped the switch and waited for her eyes to adjust.

This was too easy and on opening her eyes Trisha discovered why. “Geh, Dick’s basement! Is it too much to be kidnapped, GodDamnit!” she exclaimed as she bolted up the stairs to confirm her deepest fear: the door was indeed unlocked. Grumbling she returned to basement level to prod Dick with a bare toe. “Good morning, Sunshine! Time to get up,” Trisha ordered as she examined his crumpled form. Fair few bruises, and nice looking cut; these were of no immediate concern. Dick’s leg was definitely bending the wrong way though. In a flurry of practised first aid Trisha simultaneously called 000 and wrapped him in a blanket. By the time the paramedics arrived Dick had yet to regain consciousness and, for that, Trisha was sure he would be eternally grateful.

Good kids

This one is for Monday’s finish the story. Not much to say about this one; I’ve a bloody headache and several real world problems to sit in the corner and grumble about. Much rather write though.

“They finally made their escape.”

Tires screeched and gears grinded as Dan developed a sudden case of lead foot. Houses whipped past he broke several road laws in desperation to leave suburbia behind. Hazel hung on for dear life as they drifted around corners.

“Why the hell did I let you talk me into it!” Dan cursed, narrowly avoiding a collision with an SUV. “What was I supposed to do?! They’re my Family!” Hazel retorted, slamming her palm into the dashboard as she jerked forward. “Family?! Switch them with raccoons and it would be an improvement!” He grumbled.

“They can’t help it! They don’t have your posh background!” Hazel shouted defensively.

“And, that excuses their sniping about my job?-” “Dan.” “-While your mother drinks their money and your brothers insinuate about dirty dealings in My company?” “DAN!”

“WHAT?!”

“We forgot the kids!”

“Fantastic, that’ll teach ’em.”

One person’s heaven

Sunday photo fic, albeit I’m dangerously close to Tuesday. I given up a trying to do all the flash fics I think of on the day I think of them.  I’ve been working to hard in all areas; not just my writing. Now I’m hitting the overload wall. Anywho, I introduce Eric the ghost hunter.  I had to edit this a few times – The first draft made him sound so… Perverted.

One person’s heaven.

This jobs a bust, Eric decided, as he stroked the ears of his tranquil collie. Simpletons! Point at an old building and the chances are 5:1 that some fool will say it’s haunted. Eric shot a moody glance at the fireplace; a log had just crackled naturally. I bet that tree grew straight and pure! At least give me some gnarly old wood grown over a forgotten grave! Eric was irked.

The house had the right atmosphere, damn it. The wiring out-dated; the heating pre-war. Disrepair had touched every surface. Without the grace of the supernatural these were but… Idiosyncrasies! Peaceful, and utterly boring, Eric sighed. He missed finding his keys in odd places. The titillation of strange shadows, the rush of an unseen presence. Eric found no excitement here; all he found was a brief holiday in hell.

Runaway

This piece has been inspired by the photo prompt.  I have borrowed it from Picture it and Write. After 5 edits I finally got it down to only 5 words over the upper limit. I couldn’t actually bear to cut any more out. I got to the point where I felt I would lose impact rather then improve the story.  As always, please feel free to leave constructive criticism.

The Runaway

Abby huddled into the scavenged blanket. Wet from the rain; it was ice. Abby huffed into her palms, pleased with futile warmth. A discontented glance at her woollen hat informed Abby that tonight would be spent in the shelter. Abby daydreamed of hot showers and warm rooms as the pennies winked mockingly under street lights. Her ‘earnings’ were barely enough for a hot drink…

It was a wretched lifestyle. In a bitter realization Abby knew it wasn’t miserable. Misery was living with Her. Abby choose the freedom of uncertainty over oppressive manipulation; infrequent, random harassment over certain abuse. Unbidden, the memories stirred; smiling faces from before Her time taunting Abby. She imagined her brother, Callum, looming over her. Ah~ now I’m hallucinating. “I found you,” He said. Is he crying? Callum’s strong arms settled around her wet shoulders with her sense of reality. “Come home. Pa is worried.” He was so warm. Abby’s resolve snapped.

Family

And here we have part 3. Part 1 can be found here and part 2 can be found here.  The photo prompt for this one is borrowed from Friday Fictioneers. To give myself and extra challenge I also borrow a prompt (quote below) from Writerish Ramblings.

I like these weird POV prompts so…Write a scene in the point of view of a piece of paper that a love note is being written on. Or POV of the pen.

The abuse had to stop. His tip was cracking. It begun with a ‘slave'(?) she was ‘caring'(?) for. Then panicky passages, crippling his ink flow, about an ‘alter-ego'(?). Now she was just getting… Soppy! Whole passages in elaborate detail about a dining hall that her mother(?) had left laid for a celebration before the family met their (well-deserved) demise. The ‘slave’ cleared it of dust one day. She told (is this her idea of freedom?) him to clear all but two. Oh god! Don’t write that! ‘It seems I’ve been waiting for him.’ That’s enough! Promptly the pen rolled into a bin.

The coin’s other face.

This piece has been written under the rules of visdare. I have added the prompt in quotes below from Writerish Ramblings for an extra challenge.  This is also part 2 of a trilogy. Part 1 is here and part 3 is here.

If someone you didn’t like could suddenly read your mind, what kind of conversation would you be forced to have?

Warm bands enclosed her neck; eyes snapped wide in the dark. Eclipsing a full moon, her patient straddled her waist, towering above. Gone was vacant expression, and cringing subservience; instead there was an animistic snarl to his features, akin to that of a wounded animal. Through sheer willpower she forced herself to relax, instinctive understanding the need to act submissive. “You loath him; buying him like a mule for labour, why heal him?” She froze; this man knew. As she tensed so did his fingers round her neck. “It is not him I loath,” She replied, ungluing her tongue, “I loath what he has become.” His grip relaxed. “I see,” She observed, “You are the ‘demon’ that the slavers feared.”

“Demon? No. I am the survivor; he is but the shell.” With that strange remark, her patient returned to his bed; leaving her to quite contemplation.