I did lots at school <3

He marveled at how similar his mornings were to "A Day In the Life" by The Beatles.

Woke up, got outta bed, dragged a comb across my head. Found my way down stairs n drank a cup, then looking up I noticed I was late…

He woke up. Got dressed. Taking little care in his appearance, he rushed to work. Michael. A man. He missed Michelle. He would see her tonight but for now he must work. Statistics. Ties. Figures. Suits. Women. Women in skirts. Women in skirts with black stockings hugging their legs. He loved the way a woman's calf muscle tensed as she walked. Especially in high heels. Black high-heels and black stockings.

Michael had not shaved. Caressing his chin he felt the stubble. Michelle did not like stubble; he would shave tonight.

Julie walked past. Raising his eyebrow and slightly lifting the corner of his mouth he marveled at her legs. As she smiled and walked away he spied on her calves. Black high-heels, black stockings.

Women had that shape about them. When a man walks his backside moves forward with each step. Right leg forward, right cheek forward. Left leg forward, left cheek forward. Women on the other hand, he thought, a woman's bottom (as he liked to call it when referring to a woman) moves out to the side. A woman's bottom, particularly Julie's bottom, made Michael want to run to the bathroom to relieve himself. But that is teenage behavior. He was no longer a teen.

On his way to the bus he looked at his backside in the shop windows. Straight forward. No movement to the side at all. He knew this would be the same for Michelle.

He admired a woman on the bus. Her hair fell straight down. Browny-red in colour. One side fell over her ear and into her face in one straight mass. The other side was neatly tucked behind her ear. Tonight he would make sure Michelle's hair did that. It would look sweet with her little button nose. He stared at his nose in the bus window. He liked it.

Julie had been wearing a tight skirt that pulled in tight around her hips, slightly looser on her legs and falling just below her knees. Michelle should look like that tonight. Michelle would look beautiful and he would be proud. He would dress her. He would even do her make-up. He did not consider himself a "pansy" or a "poof". Just because he could apply foundation smoothly. Just because his eyeliner looked better than any he'd seen. Just because his colour scheming was precise. It didn't matter, Michelle didn't think he was a pansy. Michelle thought he was "sensitive".

There were beautiful women everywhere. As he stepped off the bus he followed a blonde walking her dog. She turned but did not recognise him. She would recognise Michelle. Not a single piece of hair was stuck to her clothing. Maybe she did not pat her dog.

The key went into the door and he was home. Time to dress Michelle for tonight. He laid her outfit on the bed for her. He wouldn't dress her, but he would do her make-up. He had a shave and he was ready.

A good two hours were spent. He did not believe make-up was something to be rushed. Her skin would glow. Not shine like an oily teen in a photo, but glow. It would glow with a warmth of smooth surfaces. It would glow with the rich blush he was applying.

Her eyes would be deep, mysterious, dark. His eyeliner was perfect. His mascara made her lashes look thick and full.

He would brush her hair and he would tuck one side behind her ear. She was beginning to look beautiful.

Her make-up was done so she dressed. He would not look at her until she was ready. He wanted a surprise.

Black high-heels, black stockings. She knew that Michael loved that. She dressed in a skirt hat hugged her hips. Though she hated her hips. Not womanly enough. Michael had not yet seen her. She was almost ready to show him.

He was almost ready to see. Then he would leave and let her have a good night.

She was ready to show him.

He was ready to look.

She stepped in front of the mirror.

He stepped in front of the mirror.

She hoped he'd like what he saw.

He stared at his reflection. She was beautiful.

Hey you, i thought id type some up for the competition i was about to enter, then they told me they weren't taking any more users...

Well here's some, i have many more !!!

A black crow arrived when the rain stopped. There was a gnarled old post on our boundary, near where the fence sagged over the creek, and that's where the bird perched and cast its cold yellow eyes over our farm.

The creek. Oh, that beautiful creek, meandering across the fertile flats like a big green serpent, its head buried in a grove of mature gums to the south, its tail somewhere out of sight, north of the sagging fence. It pulsed with life, a constant artery carrying the crystal blood of some distant unseen heart deep under the pastures and rich volcanic soil. "We're bloody lucky to have this creek," Dad would say, ruffling my hair. "Bloody lucky. I reckon if that creek ever dried up, we'd be stuffed. We'd have to sell up."

I never took much notice when he said that. In my seven years I'd only ever known the creek to flow. It seemed implausible it could do otherwise. Until the crow came. I'd seen crows before, of course. Watched their effortless paths across the sky, and listened to them drawl their laconic obscenities from the treetops. But I knew I'd never seen this one, blacker and colder than a moonless night.

"Sbeen a bit of a dry autumn," Dad said the night before the crow arrived. "Looks like the winter'll be much the same." The lack of rain had, at that stage, escaped my notice. But I noticed the crow. It was just a bird on a fencepost, and yet somehow it was more. An omen. On my way down to the creek, fishing rod in hand, I felt its black presence before I saw it, nonchalant as it stared at me, through me, beyond me, as if summoning something from beyond the hills. And the something came, like slow spreading oil. The drought. There was no howling wind, no violent red storm, no cataclysmic holocaust. Just a continuing absence, a lack, and an endless blue sky, day after depressing day. Green paddocks transformed into squares of baking dust; dams became big clay bowls, their bottoms cracking like a jigsaw; young trees gave up and died, leaves shrivelling like burning plastic. And the crow presided over the whole unfolding disaster from its spot on the crooked fencepost.

One time I thought I could make it rain by shooting the crow with Dad's old shotgun. But the bird flew off before I even arrived, floating like a dark shadow at a safe distance above me as I discharged two ill-aimed shells into the indigo sky, and Dad, purple with rage, snatched the weapon from me and locked it away. The next day I had no gun, and the crow was back, eyeing me. Mocking me. .

It was a while before I noticed the creek dwindling. But after two following rainless years its banks were crisp and dingo-coloured, the once-vital stream a cheerless string of stagnant ponds, wriggling with mosquito larvae. I remember that's where I sat, bum in the dust, when I noticed Dad's shadow beside me. I looked at him, his eyes sad and distant, his sun-drenched forehead creased with burden. He just …stood there, silent. And the crow watched. "Dad…?" He steered his gaze toward me, and I knew what he'd come to tell me. "I've sold the farm mate," he said, and took a great, steeling breath. "Had to. Dint git much for it, but the 'countant reckons we're probly better off." He shifted his glazed eyes to the middle distance, focussing on nothing. "I'm sorry mate," he said, and trudged back to the house that was no longer ours.

I glared at the crow, and it mirrored me with its eyes of frozen yellow. My tears came then, running from my cheeks and into the thirsty earth. I don't know how long I sat there, but when I lifted my eyes again, a cold wind sprang up from the west, and all I could do was stare and tremble. The crow had gone.

Well yeah.

The letterbox appeared overnight, as if beamed there by some alien life form. That is certainly how it must have seemed to the daily work commuters, not there one evening when returning home from work and blatantly there, resplendent in the morning sunshine, the following day. Beamed there by an alien, they may well have thought, but it was no alien it was my dad.

Although not an alien, dad did have some alien qualities, not alien to planet Earth but definitely alien to the local morale. One such alien quality was his innate yearning to defy conformity so, consequently, upon purchasing our slice of rural Australia, no twenty-litre drum was going to suffice in the mundane task of housing the family mail. Dad did not perceive a letterbox to be merely a weatherproof hold, for mail you most probably did not want to receive, but instead as an icon of your estate, a mascot for your family. Hence, the Ugly Frog letterbox was spawned.

Weeks of dreaming, planning, constructing, sculpting and finally painting had culminated to summon into existence this seemingly alien, amphibian. It was a fat little frog in shape, but with hallucinogenic skin and psychodelic smile, it was not even Earth like.

I recall catching the school bus on the morning of its debut, standing next to the alien amphibian as it squatted on its thin pole and smugly smiled at the morning traffic. Thirty gaping school kids with their faces all pressed along one side of the bus's windows, the hiss of the bus's folding door and the hanging mouth of one agog bus driver.

The deluge of questions upon boarding had caused my face to glow like an electric heater, but by the time we arrived at school the glow had turned from humiliation to pride. The defiant appearance of the Ugly Frog had appealed to the rebel in their childish minds, and I was a celebrity for a day.

For the most part, the martian mailbox was accepted by the adult sector of the community as well. In fact it instantly became a key navigational tool used by nearby residents, "…not far past the Ugly Frog" or "…if you see the Ugly Frog, you've gone too far." would be given as infallible directions. Without actually acknowledging it the stiff backed community had accepted the colourful spectacle.

Sadly, however, it wasn't long before the fat frog, perched on its long thin pole, was subject to tall poppy syndrome, and it wasn't long after that, that one or more of the passer-bys took a gross dislike to the mocking smile.

We found our beloved family mascot one morning, with its ferro-cement head smashed in and its smug smile crushed close. I was devastated by the sight, but dad said nothing, just slowly shook his head as he went about prising apart its mouth and propping it open with a short stumpy stick.

The next day a sign appeared over the frog's head, again apparently beamed their by an alien. It read: "Sticks and stones may break my bones but you'll never make me croak" The sign remained for exactly one week before the intolerant vandals struck again, this time up-rooting the frog by it's thin pole and disabling it forever.

When we found it the following morning, lying twenty metres down the road, on its side, scratched and broken all over, I could still make out that smug smile and was glad to know that that had been its only crime. Dad is twenty years older now and has a twenty-litre drum as a letterbox, but in the back of the now redundant chook shed he still keeps the scratched and broken family mascot, where it grins eternally and still refuses to croak

Nice <3

When I was younger my imagination was one that wasn't grounded by physics or any real common sense. It was caught up in Peter Pan and the Loch Ness monster and I believed it… so did my two brothers: Brad my twin, and John who is two years older than me.

When I was seven I became fixated on birds, wondering what it would be like to fly like that, and decided to bypass primary, high school and university education and become an aeronautical engineer. I wanted to make an aeroplane (or a glider at least) to set my imagination free -but it couldn't be done without a team, so I enlisted my brothers. I knew them: we all wanted to fly like all kids who hadn't met reality.

We were excited, and set about our task. It would need careful planning. We got three planks of tongue and groove pine from the timber pile at the back of the shed, and cut one into a short length, another into a medium length, and another into a long length. We nailed the short piece at one end of the long piece, and the medium piece about a quarter from the other end. We stood back to admire our masterpiece. A two-dimensional shape of an airplane lay on the shed floor. We had done it!

My twin brother sat on it with glee: "Look guys I'm flying! I'm flying!" He looked like a rodeo cowboy whipping his horse - unaware it was dead. "Okay, let's fly this puppy," John said. So we dragged the two-metre length of wood up the tree next to the shed, and placed it in position to be pushed off the roof with somebody on it. "So who's going on it?" John said. We stared at each other. Then we took a long look down at the ground below. "You should go Scott, you came up with the idea." John said. I looked at the plane. My imagination had run away. It didn't look like the plane I'd imagined at all, just planks of wood laid on one another. "John. Mum always says you're the oldest so you should make a good example of yourself. So you should go first," I said. (This very excuse earned John a lot of scars over the years). "Yeah!" Brad said, confident in my argument, or maybe frightened to be singled out. John took another look at that plank of wood. He looked scared. I was sure he wasn't going to do it, and we would end up dumping it with the unfinished go cart and play swinging in circles on the clothes-line. "Alright" he said finally "but you have to push really hard, okay?" Brad and I nodded, and watched our brave brother man the position as pilot and prepare himself. I guess his courage was also due to the fact that there was the strong possibility he would experience flying over into the neighbour's backyard. "Ready?" we asked John. "Yep." "One, two, three… blastoff!" We pushed him off the roof and watched in horror as the plane instantly nose-dived and stabbed into the ground. Our brother landed on his feet for a moment before falling on his face- the plane then fell backward onto him. He got up and began hopping gingerly on one foot. "Are you alright John?" I called down to my brother. "I think I've jarred my foot," he yelled. We climbed back down the tree and made sure his foot wasn't broken. The aeroplane would have to be modified, but that was for another day. Brad and I had learned from our brother. We went inside, turned on the TV, and who should we see but Mickey Mouse doing exactly what we had endeavored to do with only the aid of a broom stick - we headed for the closet.

Once upon a time a fisherman stood on a beach casting his line into the sea without luck. He decided he would cast his line for one last try.

Imagine his joy when he felt a great weight on the end of his line and when he reeled it in it was the strangest fish he had ever seen. It had a long shiny tail, blonde hair and various other interesting bits.

"Struth, I've never seen one of these before. It's pretty big - must be well over the legal limit. Wonder if they're good to eat." Said the fisherman.

"Please throw me back into the foaming brine where my father rules." Said the fish.

"I don't know about that," said the fisherman. "You're a fair size. It might get me a photo taken with you down at Charlie's Bait Bar. Come to think of it he only does flathead and cod, nah - can't do that. I reckon I would look bloody silly holding you up by the tail."

"Please throw me into the foaming brine were my father rules," said the fish with the blonde hair and the very interesting bits.

"Can't take you home. The missus'd go off her brain if I walked in with you under my arm and sais, "Look what I caught" She'd probable accuse me of wasting money on the raffle in the pub only winning second prize in the fish tray."

"Please throw me back into the foaming brine where my father rules and I will grant you a wish." Said the fish with the blonde hair and the interesting bits.

"Now you're talking," said the fisherman. "A wish eh? Lemesee. What about Carlton winning a game - nah that's too much to ask. Yair I know, Gold Lotto - Yair I want first prize in Gold Lotto next Satday."

"Your wish is granted. Now lease throw me into the foaming …"

"Yair Yair I know" said the fisherman and he took the strange fish with the blonde hair and the interesting bits and threw him back into the foaming etc …

Saturday night came and the fisherman duly won Gold Lotto. Great was his joy. He waited eagerly for the dividend to be declared.

Tis Friday afternoon. A boy of fourteen summers is handed his pay packet. Quietly he says thanks, slipping the envelope into the back pocket of his blue jeans.

Picking up his brown leather bag in one smooth action, he heads out of the garage, firming his grip on the handles as there is extra weight today. He knows exactly what's inside: One shirt, another pair of jeans, plus a spare pair of socks.

Today, instead of walking south he turns north and slowly walks away from the only town he has ever known. After a short walk he stops at the edge of the highway. There is plenty of room here for a car or truck to pull off the road.

He asks himself - am I doing the right thing?

The sun has already disappeared behind the rim of the mountains. A cool breeze blows the boy's sun bleached hair, he instinctively pulls the collar of his jean jacket up around his ears. His eyes move over the trees on the fence line. Already the leaves have turned a mass of reds and orange in readiness for their fall to earth which will leave the trees bare once more.

At the sound of approaching cars he straightens up, extending his left arm, thumb skyward. All the cars pass by, the drivers don't even bother a sideway glance. He looks down at the bag at his feet, everything he owns, packed quietly in the dark the night before.

The sound of approaching traffic lifts his head. With almost pleading eyes he looks at the cars that pass. One of the cars is the new shape Holden EJ everyone's been talking about at work. He liked working at the garage; if things had been different he'd have stayed, at least till his boss found out his name was the only thing he could write.

Suddenly fear grabs him. He turns pale and can't breathe. Three cars approach, his eyes fix on the third, it's the same make as his stepfather's. Even the colour looks the same. But instead of his stepfather at the wheel there's an older man with grey hair. Drawing a deep breath, his feet can move again, colour returns to his face. His breathing steadies, almost to normal.

Thoughts of his stepfather invade his head, the one man he fears most in the world. What would he do if he turned up? The boy knew he would be defenseless once more. Moving his left hand down over the back of his leg, he trembles as he feels the welts on his leg through his jeans. It had been one week to the day since his stepfather had beat him with a thick leather strap, madness in his eyes. He knew it would be physically impossible for his body to withstand yet another beating on that scale again. Just walking to and from work had been a tortuous task for the first few days, with his good jeans on so no one could see.

More traffic, this time going in the opposite direction. He stands straight anyway. One of the passing drivers waves his hand, a friendly gesture. Momentarily his spirits lift, then once more he is alone at the edge of the black bitumen.

Time is running out. Soon it will be dark. If a lift doesn't come by night fall he will have to start walking. More cars, some have already turned on their lights as they hurry home.

He hears a truck long before it comes into sight. Already its running lights are on. Extending his arm out as far as possible, thumb up, fingers in his other hand crossed, his heart starts to race as he hears the air brakes go on, till the huge green Mack truck stops right beside him, the engine still running. A gravelly voice from the cab says "where you going mate?"

Settling into his seat, he watches the white posts flash by, each one taking away a little of his fear.

A new warmth grows in him. He feels safe.

Breathing deeply the boy sits a little straighter. Whatever comes, it's his life now.


I write way more than you >.>

Back again <3

The clean white sand of the beach stretches out forever. Warm salt water gently licks at the shore, leaving tiny shells and coral fragments in its wake. Far along the beach, a small dark shape is the only blemish on perfection.

Look closer.

The dark shape becomes two human bodies, limbs entwined, naked on the wet sand. They lie motionless as the waves creep closer to them. The woman's dark hair fans out across the glittering sand. Her slim hand, resting on the man's chest, holds an apple.

Look closer.

The apple gleams invitingly under the late afternoon sun. Red as bright blood. Smooth as young skin. It has only two bites taken from it, the flesh inside pure and white as the bleached summer sky. Now look at the two still figures. Both, you will notice, still have the juice of this perfect fruit shining upon their lips. And both have a small trickle of blood, the colour of apples, leaking from the corner of their mouths.

Watching them, he feels numb, unable to believe what he's done. But surely, it had been justified. Hadn't it? He had warned them. Only once, that was true, but once should always be enough. The fact that seeing them together on the beach had made him angry was irrelevant. They had sinned; they must be punished.

They aren't dead, though. Watching closely, you will see the man's chest rise ever so slightly, lifting the apple so the light hits it in a different way. The calm water still rises slowly. Now it caresses their knees. The sky darkens gradually, softening into tropical night.

The island had been perfect until they arrived. He wasn't sure how many years he'd lived there now.

Far back in his memory, clouded by time, he faintly remembered another life, one of crowded streets, smoke and pollution. Then a short time on a huge ship, noisy and hot, its dirty bulk defiling the ocean. But the ocean had got her revenge in the end. He had been the only survivor, drifting onto this island unconscious, floating from a piece of wood. He had only one thing left in his possession - a small Bible, waterlogged from its time in the sea. He had dried it carefully in the sun, page by page. Now he barely needed it - he knew each word by heart. Knew each commandment, each law. Knew the ones the couple had broken.

It hadn't been hard, to poison the apple. He'd known that she would take it, despite his warnings. Because that was how the story went.

Watch carefully now, as he comes to stand over them. His face is calm, his body language peaceful. Now, look into his eyes. But don't look too deeply, or for too long. You see? He is mad. By the standards of the wider world, in any case. Perhaps it is the long years alone which have caused this, with only the Bible to turn to for comfort and company. Perhaps the seeds of insanity were already planted in his mind before he was even born. Whatever the cause, his eyes glitter as he watches the waves begin to lap at their still faces.

He stands there for a long time, moving backwards as the water gets higher. As the ocean splashes over her face, the woman's eyes open in terror. But she finds she cannot move. She is paralysed. He watches her calmly.

'You sinned, and now, for your sins, you must pay,' he murmurs softly, as the water lifts the two bodies, their open eyes now glassy and still.

'Goodbye, Adam. Goodbye, Eve.'

The clean white sand of the beach stretches out forever.

Look who's here ...

The wooden crate of plump peaches stood proudly on the kitchen bench, a gift from Mary's celebrated orchard. "These precious babies are for Grandma and Grandpa, not youse kids", Mary warned as she drove down the lane in her rickety old farm ute. Grandma sighed as she gathered up the coffee cups and began rinsing them. "Now you both know Grandpa is still very ill and needs some quiet so I want you to take Tip to the beach for a nice long play". The hot water system kicked in as she turned on the tap. "Remember she loves to chase the seagulls but be careful she doesn't go onto the road. Still doesn't understand cars…" continued Grandma absentmindedly.

Since Grandpa had become sick no one had the time to take Tip, a stunning blue heeler, on her daily walk through the snowy white sand hills to the windy Indian Ocean. With the arrival of the extended family, Tip sensed her good luck and thumped her tail expectantly at the front door.

Finally the grandchildren emerged from their bedrooms wrapped in scarves and beanies. "Take care of your brother Samantha", ordered Grandma. "Afternoon tea will be ready when you come back". Although Grandma was preoccupied these days, she thankfully hadn't forgotten how hungry children could become after a visit to the ocean.

By the time they began on the return trip from the beach, the storm that had been gathering all morning began to blow in earnest. Tip marched along stiffly, the sudden chill in the air combining painfully with her aching paws. The children stopped to play on the monkey bars in the park but Tip, sensing something was wrong in her household, trotted obediently home.

The red blinking light outside the house whispered Tip's fears. She cowered under the peeling veranda as Grandma silently followed Grandpa's still shape into the ambulance, While old Mr Fanberry the back fence neighbour nervously searched for the children, Tip bounded back to the park and barked furiously into the wind for their return.

Grandpa's hospital room in the city was made cheery by the bright bunches of roses but his voice was still only a whisper and his eyes stared strangely into the distance. The children sat stiffly in the cold vinyl chairs and tried hard not to breathe in the hospital's strange smells. Grandma fussed over the neatness of bedclothes and rattled on to cover the quietness. "You'll have to hurry up and … um … get better dear so we can get back home and eat those juicy peaches Mary left us".

Grandpa grinned and shifted wearily in his bed, "Yeah. Good Old Mary. She always grew better peaches than any of us", he agreed. Grandpa loved any type of fruit and throughout the years had become very clever at choosing the best of the crop. He used to run a farm with sheep and a mini orchard. "Bet they taste like heaven those little beauties", he drooled. "We'll get back home love… hmmm… soon enough". Grandma shivered as he let his hand drop down the side of the bed, a usual signal for Tip to come and nuzzle in.

Grandpa was thrilled to see many of his friends who made special trips to visit him in the city hospital. Even friends he had lost contact with over the years suddenly reappeared. Gradually Grandpa grew tired with his treatment and began happily sleeping for long periods of time.

"It's about time we ate those peaches of Mary's", he whispered early one morning to the crisp night nurse who came back to check his drip. The night nurse passed on his strange comment to Grandma when she arrived at the start of visiting hours. Grandma appeared anxious then smiled. She pulled her chair close to Grandpa's bed, whispered in his ear, took his withered hand in her plump one and sat back to wait. After half an hour, she stroked Grandpa's peaceful face for the last time and silently made a vow.

With Tip happily back to her old tricks of chasing seagulls, Grandma thankfully sat down to rest on the jarrah bench overlooking the ocean. The walk proved to her how out of shape she had become over the last few months. When she awoke this morning she knew the time was right. A sudden burst of energy sent her bottling Mary's crate of legendary peaches and the house was now full of their sweet smell. The pantry would keep her in supply of the peaches all year round, a strangely comforting sign to her now that she was alone.

With Tip now at her side, she carefully drew the last precious peach from her coat pocket and bit into its juicy flesh. "Ah! Just like you said Grandpa. Heavenly peaches", she murmured as she looked towards the fading sunset.

ME ?


Walking through the park on my way to work, I pause to admire a bag lady feeding the pigeons. A few have perched on her arms, a few in her lap, and she chatters with them while scattering seed. One bird tells another, more birds join, until finally, there are too many birds. Overwhelmed by flapping, clawing, pecking, and scratching birds; the old lady becomes a blurred confusion of feathers and beaks and claws and beady black eyes.

I have just told Mum a truth that will change the rest of my life. "Mum, are you ok?" I ask. At the other end of the phone, I hear her lighter flick flick, a crackle of burning tobacco, a sharp inhalation, then a release of tension in a long, sighing exhale. "It's going to be ok. It's going to be ok. No matter what happens, we'll always love you," says Mum. "I know." "I have to go now, ok." "Go." "I'll pick you up tomorrow darling," click, then silence.

Lying on the couch, thumbing through a magazine, my ears prick to a familiar sound: the raspy exhaust note of Mum's car as it drives up my street. "Your Mum's here," says Pete, my flatmate, "she's out by her car, but she won't come in. Christ, she looked at me like I'm some kind of axe murderer." "Sorry," I reply while peering through the blinds; Mum is waiting by the car with a face like thunder. My stomach starts churning, my heart starts racing, and I want to run away, out the back door to anywhere but here. We drive to Bunbury in silence, it has been raining hard for a week; we rush by wet paddocks, full creeks, and fat cows. I can't get comfortable, I wriggle and fidget; with the seat, the radio, the air-conditioning, "Would-you-just-sit-still," demands Mum through clenched teeth. We are home now, Mum is on the opposite end of the couch from me, smoothing the black couch fabric with her left hand, cigarette in her right, her face lost in a layer of smoke. "When did you know? You know… that you were gay?" Mum asks. "I don't know. I thought you knew." "I suspected, but, then there was that girl…" "Mary?" "Yes." Sounds of Dad cooking come from the kitchen: pots rattle, knives chop, and pans sizzle - the everyday noise comforts the tense house. "Did you tell Dad?" I ask. "Yes." "And?"

"You have no idea how difficult this is for him, for someone of his generation." "And it's not difficult for me?" "Well, that's your choice." "No. The only choice I had, was to live the rest of my life a lie, or to tell the truth." The smells of pancetta and garlic frying mix with the kitchen clatter; Dad is cooking my favourite - Spaghetti Carbonara. A quiet man, Dad is most comfortable in the kitchen, he talks to us through his love of food. Nothing more is said, Mum and I set the table together, TV off, music on. Dad brings us our meals. He passes mine to me, this steaming, heaped bowl says for him: you are my only son, and right now I am mourning for the life you will not lead, the grandchildren I will probably never have, but, I love you and nothing you do will ever take that away. He avoids my eye but halfway through dinner I look at him, he has stopped eating, and a tear slips down the angles of his face, dropping into the last of his pasta. He says nothing, leans over and squeezes my hand.

As quickly as they came, the pigeons are gone, as if by some silent agreement they take to the air as one, flying up into the sky through the arching fig trees. Together, the old lady and me, we watch them fly, she catches my eye, and we both laugh.

Yes joo >.>

The old terrier-cross with the greying muzzle looked up adoringly.

"Were going to move on again, old friend. They think that we're 'vulnerable'."

His master explained that he'd heard the authorities would soon be around trying to persuade him to accept treatment, accommodation and the like. He may have sensed, too, that there was something else about to happen which could change his life forever, and instinctively he knew he couldn't survive that.

Andy's voice was deep and cultured and it was said that he once had a budding law career. Some also said there was a daughter ... so long ago ... - another lifetime.

"They don't understand that the sky is our roof and that walls make us unhappy."

Nugget wiggled his stub of a tail in wholehearted agreement, but he was sad to be leaving Cotton Tree Park, it was their favourite place.

If there has not already been scientific study about how pets and their owners often grow to look alike, there should be. The resemblance between Andy and Nugget was uncanny: both were small, lean and brown; greying ginger beards; liquid brown eyes; white crinkles and tracks in a tanned face; white markings on fuzzy ginger fur; smiles which would have been dazzling with more teeth.

Andy carried an air of dignity. Not an easy thing to do if you cycled around on an ancient push-bike festooned with plastic bags full of your worldly possessions; carry basket at the front containing Nugget in a harness; another at the back for swag; bike helmet decorated with a single feather; thread-bare shorts and T-shirt, often worn with a tie (for more formal occasions); vintage sandals and bright blue football socks, if footwear was required.

Andy's constant dialogue was comforting and familiar: as much a part of the dog's life as the sound of the sea. Nugget didn't mind that their conversations often included folk that only Andy could see and hear. Sometimes it was like a party going on in their BBQ shelter, and passers-by often looked surprised to discover Andy and Nugget were the only ones there.

At other times, gentle cronies (flesh and blood ones) did join them: to share what they had, and shoot through the breeze. If those BBQ shelters could talk, what tales they could tell, for these were individuals who led marginal and eccentric lives.

Cotton Tree is a unique little community. The backdrop of Maroochy river mouth, park, beach, and pool promotes a relaxed atmosphere and a friendly, tolerant attitude amongst the eclectic population.

This evening was a corker: balmy and torpid, a sweet breeze now and then bringing cool, salty relief: people and traffic noises muffled by the hectic shush and boom of the ocean nearby, and the lapping of the river changing tides. The deepening navy sky wrapped itself, like a diamond studded velvet cloak, around the remaining fisherman and the few straggling families, packing up their evening picnics. Their kids were overtired and whinging after a day from which family memories are made, so no one noticed a small brown man and his small brown dog riding off into the gathering night.

Next morning when the Government Mental Health car pulled up not far from Andy and Nugget's BBQ shelter, all that was left were a few tufts of wiry ginger fur, and a feather. The Community worker knew she was obliged to come back, and would make half-hearted enquires in the next few days, but her smile was triumphant on behalf of Andy who had once again escaped the System's clutches.

Another visitor dropped by later that day, too: slight young woman with ginger hair and liquid brown eyes. Andy's daughter viewed the empty shelter pragmatically.

"Next time we might both be ready," she whispered, trying to ignore the familiar ache off loss, which was pulling at her heart.

Hi. My name is...Well, I don't really have a name. That is, until May 1. See, my mom abandoned me and my two brothers and sisters when we were only three weeks old. What happened was, when my mom left us on the top of a rock wall in Livingston, we were small and did not know much so we laid there cuddled together.

Two nights passed, and we were cold and hungry. Surprisingly, mom did not come back yet.

In the morning it was warm and sunny. Me and my two brothers and sisters woke up and still mom was not back.

We began to walk around and around. We were not really watching where we were going. At once, all five of us began tumbling down the rock wall. "BANG!" We hit the bottom and tried to get up but couldn't.

I noticed that were was something wrong with my leg and I couldn't see too well with my eyes. As for the others, they died.

And as for me, I was near death.

Three days passed and there was a big storm almost as fierce as a hurricane. There I lay, helplessly hoping I had a chance. It was impossible for me to make it. And yet, I made it.

The very next day, the Petrullo family was walking to the bank. They were walking near the rock wall! They were right next to where I was!

I wondered if they were nice enough and kind enough to help me. "MEOW, MEOW," I cried. Someone bent down to where I lay. They picked me up. I began to worry. I did not know what they were going to do to me.

Someone picked up the phone and began talking.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on a cold seat with all these people touching me.

Soon someone wearing a mask injected me with something that made me fall asleep for a long time.

When I woke up I felt like jumping, I felt like dancing!

I don't know what it was but I felt great! I guess that they did care about me! They named me Stormy.

Soon I was growing up.

I had lived a great life.

THE END

Back again eh?
One more Ho Down!

Here -



My Story starts when I was a young girl. I was only 8 when my mother died. The Doctors said she died of natural causes. But I don't believe them. The week before she died weird things started to happen.
On Monday everything changed. My mother started to get paranoid. She wouldn't let me walk to the bus alone. She kept peering over her shoulder. I knew something had changed. She had never been like this before.
On Tuesday she installed new fire alarms and a security system. It was like she was worried that someone was watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.
By Wednesday mum wouldn't even leave the house. She was really starting to worry me now. What should I do? The question kept running through my mind. When I got home my mum was acting really weird. The house was a mess. Mum had chucked all the contents of the kitchen cupboard on the ground. The table had been turned over. This really scared me. It was like she was looking for something.
On Thursday When I woke up, she was almost back to normal. She had fixed the house and made some breakfast. She walked me to the bus stop. She was very jumpy though. Friday was just the same.
On Saturday she asked me what I would like to have. She took me shopping and brought me everything I could ever dream of. My mother would never do this. It was strange. I knew I had to talk to her. I asked her why she was doing all this. She replied, "Because I love you dear."
On Sunday as I went to netball training, mum seemed tense. She said good-bye. She didn't come and pick me up as she usually does. I had to walk home. I was getting worried again. The house was silent. I opened the door and went inside. I went up the stairs, down the hall and turned into her bedroom. She wasn't there. I searched every room in the house except one. I knew she must be in there. I opened the door. Mum was lying on the floor. I checked for a pulse. She was dead. There was a message on the mirror. The message had been burned into the mirror. It read, the devil works in mysterious ways my dear. I love you so much. Love from mum. I rang the ambulance. I couldn't stand it any longer I sat in a corner and wept.

I have been searching for answers for 82 years and it is only now that I have found them. Now, I understand. My mother had been possessed. Possessed by something who's power is unknown to the human race. Possessed by the Devil. The reason I understand this now is because, I too have been possessed

I gaze at the train station while passengers are loaded and unloaded into its seats. The train still looks the same; gray, scratched graffiti on the windows, yellow and orange seats. I begin to head up Main Street and find myself trying to not act suspicious. Even though I have nothing to hide, the cops in the 123 Precinct might think I'm a troublemaker. I walk briskly and find myself at a place where my weekends and summer vacations were spent all the time; #1 Chinese Restaurant. This was our gathering place and our hang out spot. Next door to the restaurant was a bank. We would sit on its stoop when we didn't want our clothes to smell like Chinese food or until the cops from the 123 would chase us for loitering.

I continue up Main Street and can't help but see what is happening at the pizzeria, Ciao Bella. There is always something going on there. People are blasting music from their Mercedes and Cadillac’s, yelling at each other in their heavy accents, and I can't help but chuckle at this. The locals are inside Yesterdays having a beer and a good time. The post office has long since closed. A city bus comes roaring by me. Its smoke fills my lungs with its chemicals of burnt rubber and gasoline. Deep down, I find this smell comforting. I reach the top of Main Street where it meets Amboy Road. A set of traffic lights turn green and is immediately followed by car horns, yelling, and cursing. This is an environment where only the strong survive and the weak are driven off the road. Some people might hate the smell, the noise, and maybe even the people on Main Street, but this is my home, and I can't see myself being raised anywhere else.

No talky?


Anyway,

There was no one in sight; darkness had set in like a blanket, engulfing
the streets. The rain was heavy; shimmering droplets poured from the
skies like crystals. Just the sound of crisp footsteps on the concrete
disturbed the silence. Huge tower blocks loomed overhead, they reached
towards the heavens with no visible end; their blocked out windows stared,
like eyes at anyone who dared venture below. They lurked at every possible
angle, harbouring the enemy behind them. Every step, every turn, every
corner threatened death, there was no escape. Then suddenly the sound
from behind, the boom of a loaded shotgun, up was the only way, up and
up and up. Up, the unforgiving stairs that creaked and gave under weight.
Up, into the open air above, the sprinkle of on looking stars. The edge of
the building screamed and tormented like the sharp blade of a knife until
there was no way but down. Down away from the defeat of a bullet, down
to the safety of…

‘Game over, thank you for playing.’

‘Damn it!’ Zeena pulled the glasses off and stepped out from the
dark rectangle into the light. Squinting, she vaguely made out an
image in front of her. She rubbed her eyes.

‘Zeena! Do you realize what time it is?! You should have logged
onto school almost… um … 30 minutes ago!’ Zeena’s eyes slowly
adjusted and the large mass began to form into her mother. The angry,
flushed face contrasted to the bright, light coloured walls of the large,
minimal room. The low, humming buzz from the many computer
screens droned constantly on. Only the curves of her mother’s body
disturbed the ridgedness of the surroundings.

Zeena walked over to a small box protruding from the wall. On it was
a speaker and a red button. She pressed down on the button and moved
towards the speaker, ‘shut down.’

‘Shutting down. Goodbye, see you next time.’ The black, fuzzy rectangle
was consumed by the white wall with a hiss. When Zeena turned, her
mother had disappeared. Her eyes were drawn to the social box, alight
with a soft, mauve glow. She guessed she had logged on to the café with
some friends; this was where her mother spent most days.

Alone, Zeena closed her eyes. She moved to the centre of the room and
began to spin around on her toes. She span faster and faster and when she
re-opened her eyes, all she could see was a multi-coloured whir, a state of
confusion that represented her own mind. Day after day, enclosed in this
room, the closure of a game being the only form of an end. Was this life?
Was this the real world? Cyber relationships, virtual meetings: Superficial,
convenient and safe. This was all she had ever known. There was no physical
‘outside’; there were only the glowing boxes of life. They took you outside,
you could go anywhere you wanted, and you could meet whomever you
wanted. This was all anyone needed.

Zeena ran, she ran fast, she ran anywhere to escape. She didn’t stop at the
wall, didn’t stop at the end of ‘virtual’ world, she ran through and out until
she landed with a heap on the ground. Zeena’s joints thudded down with
excruciating pain, a pain she had never felt before. The flesh against her
clothes felt warm and wet with blood from the jagged stones that had torn
and dug through her delicate skin. She heaved her body up, wincing as she
put weight on the fresh wounds. Her gritty hands ground at her eyes as she
rubbed them; they flickered and watered in response. Finally her vision
became clearer, she was somewhere else, somewhere.

Zeena’s breath halted as she gasped, where was this place? Her long, dark
hair swept over her face as the wind blew it; swarms of dust licked at her feet.
The mountaintop sat above, looking down on the barren land, volcanic rock
and dirt stretched for miles; these seas of brown separated only by the vivid
blue sky carrying birds that whirled and soared over the expanse. Corpses
lay in every direction, rotting flesh and brittle bones. Was this the old world?
Was this what was left behind? Zeena let out a cry that echoed far beyond and
caused the birds to squawk and flap widely and small fragments of rock to topple
down the mountainside. Her body shook furiously and real tears bubbled from
her face. Yet this could not be real, reality was not here, just another game,
another escape. With this, she stepped to the edge and looked dizzily down
the great height towards the end, towards ‘game over’ until she had jumped,
jumped back to safety, jumped back to ‘reality’ but ‘game over’ never came.

Nope!


"I love you," He said pulling me close to him, and banging my knees off of the table he was sitting on.
He didn’t apologize, just kissed me quickly on the mouth, taking my breath away. There was a pain in my knee, but I didn’t mind, this was the best I had felt in my entire life. His kisses were always perfect; I don’t think that he was amazing at kissing, just that we were amazing together. There was something about the way he kissed me, and the way he loved me, that I could never let go.
"I should go home now," I said, disappointed that the time had passed so quickly.
"Alright, later" he said, obviously disappointed that I was leaving, but trying hard not to show it. I turned and started the two blocks towards my house, saddened that he hadn’t offered to walk me home, but happy that I had spent time with him. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked away, and then I heard his feet move, and him walking behind me in the grass. I stopped and waited for him to catch up.
"I almost forgot to walk you home." He said taking my hand. "But see I’m always thinking of you."
I smiled, because he was simply wonderful, everything that I had ever wanted was in him. We walked the two blocks to my house without saying very much, we were both lost in our own thoughts. "I love you," I said to him, as he walked away.
"I love you back." He said, and kissed me one last time.