Short Stories

The backstreets of Finlandia

2010-05-10T14:22:00.001+12:00

Sitting, sitting, proposition

What the hell have I been missing?

Canine curls up to my hip,

Husband takes to bedroom slip

I can’t quite soak what I am holding

Life itself seems due unfolding

Every choice I cannot choose

Every fault I always lose.

In this story, I could finish,

What I have become, diminish

It’s me or you, how will it go?

I die or stay with what I owe.

Glory fuck and strength uphold

Never stop and coarsely bold

All I am and all that we

Challenge forth alone in sea

I fight a foe that never shows

But in a face that always glows

I love I hate I dare not say

A life worth me please tell me, pray.

Andrea

2010-01-03T00:33:00.002+13:00

Pawing

let me through, let me out,

let me experience what it's like

behind the light,

is it as blindingly

comforting as I imagine,

does it soak my every inch

in it's white blanket,

my soul seeping in it's

neverending glow,

so white

it's black.

Never thought I'd ever say that.

Skat writing with music

2010-01-03T00:15:00.004+13:00

lights blinding, searching through this traffic,

what makes sense? what makes cents?

full blaze, full boar

all lights

blinding

too much of an intensity

can i handle it

how do i feel for thee?

waving away sounds i run

down an forest ridden road

kick the curb

with a scoff

fuck this painted line

i may venture where i please

it just so happens

that i colour between the lines

a lake, a lake

one deep breath

one deep dive

eyes roll back

but i want to see

no matter how blurry, no matter how dark

discovery is the name

of fame

take my hand

be the guide

pull me up, pull me under

only you know which way

where is your level by the way?

vulnerable

but not naive

it's only a mask I have

I use it to breathe

Stepping out one pace stronger

than the next

stride, strut

turn and laugh with one hand on hip

conquer what came before

and never go back

with confidence now walk barefoot

toward the unknown

if it's anything like the past

there's another lake coming up.

Untitled with a broken ankle - 2006

2009-12-30T18:01:00.003+13:00

Why is it when you sit in traffic in the rain, it's an absolute curse? I shouldn't be in any hurry, why, I have nothing to do when I get home. No assignments. Nothing of real importance. Nothing that can't wait an hour. And yet, it's frustrating... infuriating. The taxi driver doesn't say a lot. Which right now, suits me to boil in my own unexplained fervor juices over being held up to nothing that's waiting. People aren't driving like idiots either. It's too slow moving to even break into something remotely dangerous. Even a nose to tail would be a very slight, friendly nudge. The thing is, I think there's probably been some dickhead on the bridge who's pulled out and caused a pile up, which explains the traffic. I think. It's a thought which is bloody frustrating in itself, and it's something my mind has possibly conjured up. Not even out of the city yet and already the taxi fare is $33.40 which by now means I should have been home. Another horrible thought. And the drivers who sit there for ten minutes with their indicators ticking away to get into our lane. Ugh! Just another car to put us behind another ten minutes. There's no music. Not that I mind that much because the last thing I want to hear right now is the squawking of some diva on mai fm. Dammit these drivers always put on Mai FM when I jump in the cab. Why? Have they been pre-warned that young people enjoy that station? Well not me. Give me concert FM any day. I quite like this evening hue, the headlight from the cars shining blidningly off the lane control sign. Red lights angrily blazing away as people gas brake gas brake gas brake their way home. The window is fogging up with our breathing and it's damned annoying how this cabbie driver leaves his windscreen wipers going even after the rain stops! Give a nauseating dry creaking. Oh HELL. One lane is out before the bridge. Well, isn't that just MARVELLOUS. And I bet all the sods including me and Khan Abdul here, are going to rubber neck. I hope it's worth it. Cripes, that's a horrible thing to say, but it's funny - when you're in a bad mood, you hope everyone else is having a shit day too. Time to look over what I just wrote. It's probably all grammatically incorrect bollucks anyway. Well well. A nose to tail, lane 3 on the bridge. Bloody irony.

StarDust

2009-12-25T18:45:00.003+13:00

Come with me he didn't say...

I follow, I fall

down the rabbit hole,

Gone from this world

An eternity of darkness encompassing.

Yesterday I disappeared

with guard down and senses vigilant,

Guided by dulcet tones

and butterflies,

He appeared and reached out

with one kiss,

Two souls immersed

Consumed by a pure light,

Emerging together

It was when we were lost

that we found each other.

I should have gone down

2009-06-19T16:24:00.003+12:00

It was an entire generation.

A life span about a pilot

who felt responsible for the death of a 30 something year old woman

crushed by machinery beneath the ground during a storm.

The pilot enjoyed buttered popcorn,

arcade games and cups of tea with old friends atop a steep hill

and who flew their final voyage into the cold winter fog,

carrying many but thinking only of one.

The Arctic Express

2009-06-08T11:15:00.001+12:00

The cold air bit viciously through their feathers as they huddled together in a neat row. Their breath, steaming out in quick puffs seem to give the morning an eerie, yet comforting atmosphere. Some of the males, though far from important seem to shuffle forward past the younglings, driven by some sort of inferiority complex.

With a smart hop, each penguin makes their way onto the bus. An especially fat one sits at the front, flipper marks etched in the steering wheel and its fishfilled belly pressing against the horn. He makes a disgruntled honk at each youngling without a student id and puffs up his plume at the females, who glance at him warily with their beady, untrustworthy eyes.

When a penguin first looks at the seats available in a bus during the coldest winters, it has about 1.7 seconds to glance about and quickly make its mind up on the best place to nest for the next 30 minutes. If there are two seats free, a penguin will immediately waddle to that first, as it is sheltered by the side of the bus and has the obvious window view advantage of keeping an eye out for predators or rubber necking sled accidents.
The next best option for both sexes is choose to nest with other females. This is because the level of competition for warmth and seating area is 47% lower than nesting with a male, whose larger size and plumage tend to take over both seats leaving an uncomfortable female or male to shelter him as he shuffles about and leaves his scent everywhere.

As the bus begins to leave the station, some important facts are revealed. The males left without a partner sit directly in a row, all with uneven beak structure or odd speckling. Males with females next to them are both thin in feather and size boding them harmless and indeed vulnerable, which females are drawn to because of their crazed nurturing senses. Not one female penguin sits alone, even the chubby ones who prove themselves a marvelous wind breaker.

As the group peer about, there seems to be an odd question hanging in the air. Why is everyone wearing a suit? The rookery shivers in unison.

On a sick day of all days.

2009-03-30T12:31:00.002+13:00

Today is one of those days where you just sit there, stare out the window at the quiet beauty of the countryside and realise, everything is going to be okay.
I've made some good decisions recently. Some things I've been proud of. And each of these choices I've made have brought me a step closer to peace and to shutting out the worst of me. Today is Monday. Today is a good day.

Dissociative identity

2009-02-03T08:07:00.003+13:00

You idiot, you moron
you ugly cunning bastard
I hate you this morning, I hated you last night
Get out of my existence
Nobody wants you
You hurt people
I hate you so much for that you piece of shit
You need to fuck off and die
Go hang yourself or slit your throat
Release me from this ridiculous storyline you keep changing
It's not fair on anyone.

LovetaH

2008-10-17T13:49:00.002+13:00

The crying is relentless. All night long, wretched screams and wails echo from the locked room down the corridor. I try to block it out but it seems even the twisted up paper in my ears gives way to such mournful noises. I am torn between affection and resentment. I never realised I would be responsible for such suffering, if I could take it all back.. I don't know. It's difficult for me to give myself that kind of hope when reality is staring down the barrel at me.

Two worlds apart.

2008-08-22T08:51:00.007+12:00

I felt you standing there, watching us.
So shy, so polite, letting others crowd ahead to see their loved ones.
Until you heard me screaming for you
You rushed forward and pointed me out from the masses.
Relief.

I heard you on that night of the lightening storm. You answered me then, too.
We have never met
and yet I love you so dearly.
I always feel you standing there.
The air reverberates your heart beating, though you have no pulse.
Comfort has never existed in a more quiet form.

Slaughterhouse

2008-08-18T08:07:00.005+12:00

O' what breed of anguish is this?
A mother has lost her child
Stolen from her
one chilly Sabbath eve.
How the moonlight
spills upon the ground
where she walks barefoot in the mud
Crying out to a world
that pretends not to listen.

Pet

2008-08-15T08:57:00.003+12:00

Your cruel hands punish me
and stroke my hair
Glance at me tenderly
and rape me with your eyes
I am just a dog
cowering at your feet
I am quivering
between my legs
You may kick me
And I will still gently
eat out of your hands
Throw your stick
off the edge of the cliff
and I will bound after it
Plummeting, plummeting
Each word
surgically cutting me
My soul seeps through the wounds
And now
I feel nothing
A naive masochist
This empty shell of mine
about to be blown away
Unnoticed
by a bitter southerly wind.

Thought for Thursday

2008-08-14T09:55:00.001+12:00

On the surface I play a chirpy, confident character.

Deep down, I am so scared.

Take another drink

2008-07-28T09:29:00.003+12:00

Sitting in trackpants
staring a computer screen waiting
just waiting
for something… I dunno
to make me laugh
a smile for saturday?
at least give me alliteration to live for.

She's engaged
and all my love to her
of course
nothing but support
in such exciting times
She hasn't crossed the line
I have.

There's a gale out tonight
washing the streets clean
of the dirt, homeless
and 20 year olds who think
tonight is their lucky night
if luck is rape I suppose
At least it's a warm bed.

If he knew.

2008-07-28T09:22:00.004+12:00

If I could take my Sunday smile...
and make it right now
tonight
I'd smile at my husband
if he knew I was smiling
he snores so peacefully
as I gaze at an inanimate object
computer
what have you done to me
I turn to you when times are quiet
tough, lonely, bored, sad, happy... actually.
Why is it I turn to you?
Is it because I search for similarities
some kind of recognition that
there are others out there
who feel
who think
who love
but look at you too?

Refrain

2008-05-29T18:57:00.002+12:00

Blood. And so much of it.

My dreams show me what a human body looks like when it's torn limb from limb.

I tell a television character that I love her like a sister. This was more comfort more than her TV sister could provide.

And yet, my phrase felt staged, telling her the words to give her solace and shut the bitch up.

The Mourning Train

2008-05-29T17:28:00.001+12:00

I'm just waiting.

Waiting for the crack.

The explosion.

For seams to come away from the threads like so many fat people. This train can only hold together so long before the tension finally strains its patience.

I look over at a young man, who, judging by the sour look on his face, is as complacent about death as I am.

We will wait our lives for it.

[written based on a dream]

Missive to the dead

2008-05-27T14:29:00.002+12:00

This letter has been a long time coming.

I admit, I’ve been entirely slack. But I’ve never forgotten you. It was just the other day that I said to Dave, “Y’know, I really should go down and see Grandma…”. But I was scared you might not remember me. It has been all of 12 years, and I do look a little different I suppose. I guess your strokes won’t have helped your memory either.

I didn’t want to look like a money grubber either. A grandchild who’s come down to see her aging grandmother, just to try and grease her way into the will. That’s certainly not me, thats more your daughters style. I believe you and I had a different connection; whether it was through God, Mum, or something spiritual. I am my mother’s daughter after all, and she is yours.

I’m sorry Mum hid the divorce from you. She really didn’t want you to know that Dad had left her for another woman after 32 years of marriage. You seem so old fashioned, if you don’t mind me saying. She was scared, still scared, of how you’ll judge her for it. You and your old fashioned ways.

I’m married now. You probably already know this, through mums letters. I will stick by my man, certainly. I’m rather traditional myself. But to stay with him as he constantly goes out searching for other women? I think these days, you have to draw the line, Grandma. I feel rather torn up that you told Mum to stay with Dad, even after he kept cheating. I feel angry because it completely ruined Mum mentally, she was blessed and capable for so much more.. still is, I think. But she doesn’t have the life experience and the strength, the social capabilities that most people have. However, it was because of you telling her to stay, that I was born.

Which means I feel responsible to care for my mother, since it seems I’m the one that’s kept that marriage together. I feel that if she had left instead of staying and having me, then she would have gotten out while she still had her strength.

Unfortunately, I too am at fault. I have no patience… I must find it! …to be able to deal with my mother’s mentally instability. And I love my father, dearly. He, in my eyes, could do no wrong. I grew up thinking he was some sort of Godlike figure, and though I was scared of him, I was also his favourite. The attention was enormous; the last child, “the unwanted one” as mother calls me.

Enough ranting. I love my older brother and sister. They, to me, are my family and we will start anew. Clean slate. Brand new beginnings that smell like freshly cut grass.

Anyway. You’re dead now. I’m just sorry I didn’t get in contact sooner.

Please look after Rosie in heaven for me. I know that they say Dogs don’t have souls, but I’m sure she’s there. At least, I hope in my whole heart that she made it.

All my love,

Andrea

LAUGH HOUR

2008-05-15T11:43:00.001+12:00

The man laughed loudly at a joke that only he had heard. With those little airplane headphones on, he could've been tuned into any number of the generous selection of comedy shows that Flight 215 had to offer. However, I hadn't seen him before and his inane giggling indicated he wasn't a frequent flyer, immune to the looped "laugh-hour" tracks that only got changed annually.

The woman sitting next to him, plump as she was verging on a heart attack, wriggled in her seat and frowned at her dinner portion in front of her. To her disapointment, it wasn't meant to be feeding three people. The only remuneration of sitting in economy was the person directly in front her tipping their seat back to a snoozable angle, thus pushing her meal a little closer toward her over-sized bosom. Miss Cholesterol eyed up her neighbours meals, trying to assess the size of the braised steak compared to hers. Looking satisfied, she delicately unwrapped her meal portion with her thick bratwurst fingers, her plastic nails struggling to remain couth in Barbie Pink.

We get a muffled report from the captain, announcing something to do with a bit of clown cover and a warning we might be a little laid when we arrive. I eyed up the stewardess after this announcement, but she continued to walk past, apparently ignorant to the promise of a little action on landing. Who was I kidding; her type would only ride the bull of those first-class types, business at a stretch.

She handed a whisky to the elderly man sitting in business class. I nonchalently watched as she bent over a little further, giving Old Man Withers a great view as he spied up at her greedily. He took his daily brew and leaned back into the comfort of his 18 inch polyester pillow. The good life seemed to be handed to that man in a clear tumbler. Only he knew that everything inside it was exactly what ruined him.

Another announcement, another bumping drinks trolley that caught your elbow whenever it went past. The seat belt light pops on like one of those fake candles you buy at Christmas time, spreading joy throughout the nation with its 2 watt bulb.

The young guy next to me muttered away to himself while hammering down on his laptop. Important business deals that can't wait a 4 hour flight. I used to be like that, I thought. Filled with ideals, stamina, and optimism. It's amazing what happens in four hours, twice a week for 12 years. They don't warn you about cynicism, failed marriages and airsickness in the fine print of your job contract.

Reading my thoughts, the plane shuddered. Passengers instinctively clutched their arm wrests and then relaxed. One of the suits come out of the toilet looking a little shaken and headed nervously back towards the curtained off section. I looked around, mainly searching for the usual group who look bored with turbulence. I was one of them, but it was soothing to know that others felt so blasé about a little life threatening disturbance as I did.

There was another drop. And another. I looked up at the little information television that lower class plebs like ourselves felt fortunate to have. At 700km per hour, the flight was achingly slow. That little tv set was how I knew we were over the South pacific sea when it happened. An eerie scraping noise seemed to tear its long nails down the entire body of the plane. I could hear a piercing wind blowing somewhere and the flight staff hurried with pointed yet sensible shoes to their seats and strapped themselves in. The plane seemed to tilt and creak. Another muffled announcement from the captain was sharply cut off as the plane let out a moan and something flew past my window.

The window seat. I always asked for the window because it reminded me of the small, narrowed view I had on life. Always double paned so that nothing could get to me from the outside world. I could close and open the curtain on it to see what I wanted, when I wanted to see it. Unlike real life, of course. They've designed ways in my industry to get to you even when you're not looking. McDonalds, Taco Bell, Nike Swoosh. Movies you watch for the plotline and end up needing a Laramie's Cigarette for the taste of that Cool Carolina Smoke.

Warbled screams cut me from my thoughts as I looked ahead to see several panels of the airplane ripped away from the body. There's a wing hung redundant to the right of me which I was sure used to have an engine attached to it. Most of the passengers had flipped out now, even the high flying regulars. I looked on with banal amusement, as whisky glasses and tiny cans of coke fly down the eisle as we plummet and spun into oblivion. A tray that flew down cleanly decapitates my former seat mate, as he got up in his deluded business-like panic. A warm fountain of clumpy red gushed over my bargain basement trousers and the 3 rows of rollercoaster screamers behind me.

The fat woman struggled with her seatbelt as she gulped down oxygen from the hanging mask. The man next to her sat with his head flopped to one side, a bit of the plane panel protruding from his right eye. He still had a twisted laugh on his face. Suddenly, the plane drops again, this time taking business class with it. The old man whose cornea-filled eyes popped with panic, gets sucked out as the plane breaks in half. His life, so full of regret and worthless signatures gets sent straight to hell, much to my delight.

It's just us now. A bunch of C-Class humans who have struggled through living. We who have tried to fly away from our lives just to get put straight back down. I sighed reluctantly, and took one last look at my fellow mutilated species. I picke up a pair of complimentary headphones, slid them on and pressed channel 4. Laugh Hour. Funny that.