hi people! my name is pix and i like writing.

i know its not the best writing in the world but im proud of my work.

i think this is the right place to type them up so without furthur adue, i shall commence.

wish me luck!

contents:

Short story 1: A night not soon to be forgotten

Short story 2: Dad, how could you?

Short Story 3: Now and Then

Short story 1: A night not soon to be forgotten

I had promised her a weekend in the hills. She loved the country but never really got the chance to get away. Especially with school and the demands of living in the centre of Auckland City.

The sun was up and there was just enough breeze to cool the trickles of sweat on my spine. My little sister, Lucy, was at least six metres ahead of me, simply flying up the steep slope despite her heavy backpack.
"Come on Mark! I thought you said you weren't a slow-poke!" She teased with a grin. That's Lucy for you. Always on the go but never ceasing to remind everyone of how fit she is.

We had been walking since eight in the morning. By lunch, my legs felt their twenty years and my back knew the full weight of the tent I was carrying.

The sky was beginning to darken.
"Luc," I called ahead. "How 'bout be find a place to set up camp for the night? It's getting to dark to keep going."
She turned to me me. Smiling and pointing. I followed the direction of her finger with my gaze to find a flat area of grass no more than two metres off the track. Perfect, I thought.

Lucy had the tent up in a flash. I reached for my wind-proof jacket. Despite my long pant and woolen jumper, I was bitterly cold now. The temperature was dropping. And fast.

Lucy noticed too. Within minutes of the tent being up, Lucy and I were huddled together inside. Outside, it was too windy to light a campfire so we had to settle for sharing each other's body heat.

Minutes passed, being ticked away with each drip patter patter on the tent roof. Dog like howling ripped around our tent with such furosity, it shook us like rag dolls. Lucy moved closer to me.
"We'll be alright," I said, thought not quite believing my own words.

Suddenly, there was a mighty [b]RIIIIP![/b] The wind pulled at our hair and torrents of rain saturated our once warm and dry clothes. The cursed wind had stolen our tent!

Quickly gathering what we could (and what wasn't stolen by the wind already), Lucy and I ran. Ran for cover. But where was there to go? We were up in the hills and it wouldn't take long for us to get completely lost in this dark, wet storm.

With a lightning flash, a cave was reveiled before us. Safety! If we could just get inside that cave, we would be safe and could happily (and dryly) wait out the storm.

I grabbed Lucy's arm and made my way running down the steep (and now VERY slippery) hilltop track. Me, in the lead this time, with Lucy clinging to my arm for the fear of being picked up and blown away in the swift cold wind.

Running was strenuous. Slipping on loose gravel and mud, sliding on wet rocks. The squelching of our wet shoes keeping us in time as we ran.

Finally we reached the cave. It's mouth gaping black against the dark grey sky riddled with lightning. Shelter.

Lucy and I scrambled inside, all to eager to be out of the storm. We sat together in a heap, clinging to each other for warmth. Our very few belongings salvaged were splayed over rocks, dripping water onto the stone cave floor. We were soaked.
"It'll clear by morning, won't it Mark?" Lucy asked, full of hope.
I nodded, knowing if I spoke a word, I would be of no reassurance.

Lucy fell asleep within minutes, head on my knee, jacket draped over her shoulders. I must have drifted off too because when I woke, the sun was filtering through the rain clouds, birds were singing and the earth smelt wet and clean. But there was something else....Voices? PEOPLE! I pushed myself off the cool cave wall, gently moving Lucy's head to the side so I could stretch my aching legs. I flexed and used the cave wall to stand. Swiftly I walked to the mouth of the cave. "Here!" I croaked. "Over here!"

Within minutes, the cave in which Lucy and I had found shelter, was packed full with people. They were fussing over Lucy and giving me friendly claps on the back. All of which was warmed by the now steady fire and hot coffee in our hands. We were given dry blankets and dry clothes to change into. Just what we needed.

These people had been up for hours looking for us. Our own personal search party! They helped us back down the track we traveled yesterday with so much ambition and strength. Now we walked slowly with much assistance. At the end of the trail, an ambulance stood waiting for us. Ready to deal with any injuries we may have or, in the worst case, carry us to the morgue.

Lucy and I were diagnosed with acute hypothermia and had our few scrapes bandaged. I happened to overhear a member of our search party talking to one of the nurses who treated us.
"Lucky we saw the tent, aye? Blew right into old Brucy's farm, it did. That's ten kilometres from where we found 'em. Lucky that boy found that ol' cave, aye? Him and his sister would'a been blown for miles with the tent if they didn't move like jack rabbits."

I smiled. "We made it Luc," I said, giving her arm a friendly squeeze. "We really truely made it."

Short Story 2: Dad, how could you?

Flicking through the greying pages of the photo album resting on my knee. The attic, so damp and dusty, perfect for uncovering hidden treasures. I stare at the page, hands shaking. The picture is glerry but I can make out the faces. Just. It's a picture of my mom and dad at a party when they were only 16. Or so the caption on the back of the image reads. Mom's cheeky babyface grinning at my father who, in return, is gazing lazily into my mothers eyes. You can clearly see the chemistry between them.

I turn over the page to find a picture of myself as a baby, being held by my mother, my father standing with his arm around her. The smiles seems so distant now. Nothing could be like this again. Never.

I flick to the next page. Me, aged five, playing catch with my young-looking dad. I remember that day. CRASH!

I jump up as fast as I can and shove the album back into it's dusty trunk unlovingly. Mom and dad are at it again.

I can hear mom's strangled crying and dad's drunken shouts telling her she is worthless and a user. Only with him for his money even though he has no job, let alone money. I imagine him holding a plate and, like a pitcher, hurtling it at my mother. He usually misses and the plate connects with the wall, shattering into a million pieces.

I know this routine off by heart. Mom will cower like a kitten and let dad hit her. Then, when he has left her bleeding, broken and close to death, he will come for me. Always for the same reason. Somehow, with my birth, I ruined his life on purpose. At least, that is what he is always yelling at me about as the blows come raining down.

I didn't actually ruin his life. At least that's what I think. He just needs an excuse to hate me. As if the whiskey on his breath wasn't enough. The smell always makes me sick.

Mom is quiet now. He'll be looking for me. I know it. In the corner of the attic stands a dusty old piano. I don't know how old it is or where it comes from because it was here when we moved in four years ago. But it is a good place to hide so I slide in behind it, my back to the wall.

The attic door swings open wide, allowing light into the room, reveiling the disturbed dust and the large dark frame of a beast in the doorway.
"Damn kid! I know you're up here. Bet'cha been snoop'n again aye kid?"

I press my back further into the wall. Become part of the wall. Disappear. I tell myself. Maybe this time he won't..

In my attempting to become one with the wall, my elbow connected with a key on the piano. Such an ominuous sound. The sound of my betrayal by a hunk of wood.

"I see ya kid," he says, lumbering towards me in his drunken swagger. I try to run, dodging behind him and making for the door but I trip on the trunk I, in my hurry, forgot to put back in it's place by the wall. Curse.

Dad walks towards me until he stands over me, creating a cold shadow.
"Just like a baby," he taunts. "So vunrable. So stupid."

The light creates caverns in the shadows of his narrow nose and inset eyes, giving him an eariy appearance. He has a cut above his left eyebrow which is streaming down the side of his face.

He burls a fist and connects it hard with my stomach, as I lye, spralled out on the attic floor. I curl into a ball, tears springing from my eyes. I will not cry, I repeat in my head. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing I'm hurting.

I regain my composure and dare a look at him. A gap toothed smile now plays on his lips. His cropped brown hair sticking with sweat to his forehead. I bite my tounge so as not to make a sound as he slaps me hard accross the face with the back of his hand.

Behind me I hear footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs. I hope it's not Mom. I hope she's okay. I haven't heard a peep from her in a while. I start to panick that she is coming to defend me. Oh god please no! my thoughts scream.

Instead of my mother's soft and laboured voice, I hear a deep male voice that I don't recognise saying "Get off her you drunken loon. Pick on someone your own size."

Dad looks up. Confusion is evident on his face as his brow furrows and his hands bawl up once again, ready for another strike against either myself or the unknown man in the doorway. I half drag, half shuffle myself accross the floor and, I hope, out of the way of Dad's fury.

Dad lunges at the man, who deftly side-steps the attack and lands a whopping left hook to my father's nose. Wa-BAM! Dad falls to the floor, dazed, drunk and utterly confused.

The attic is suddenly abuzz with people. People with flashlights. People with handcuffs. All coming towards my father. They check his eyes to see that he is able to walk, cuff his and march him, undignified, down the attic stairs and out to the car waiting out the front of our tiny house.

The large man who downed my father, then walks towards me. He lifts me up and walks me downstairs to where my mother sits, right eye swollen shut and lip bleeding ("Nothing that won't heal, aye Manda?" She says, like a warrior). He makes us both a hot tea and sits down to explain the intrusion.
"I'm with the police," he says. "Domestic desturbance officer. Malcolm is my name. We had a complaint about broken cutlery and screaming from one of your neighbours. It seems like we got here just in time. Is this the first time this has happened Mrs. Nightvale?"

Malcolm stayed with us for a full hour. He asked us lots of questions, about dad, about the beating, about school. He seems like a really nice guy. And my hero. He now comes around every week to take me to my hockey games. Such a small world that his daughter plays in the same team as me.

Mom and I talked. We both decided we couldn't do this anymore. Either dad stops drinking or he can't come back. We asked Malcolm to tell him this, as dad was staying in a rehab clinic and neither mom nor me wanted to see him. His reply was "Screw the family." So my father never came home. And good ridance!

When mom heard this, she cried. She cried for days. I guess she thought she would mean more to him than the drink. It must really hurt for her to be told she's worthless by a man not worth her.

One night I came into her room as she sobbed away into the sheets.
"It's okay mom. He's gone and he can't come back. He's not the man in the photos. The one who smiles at you and tell you he loves you. He rotted on the inside by the drink. But I love you."
Mom turned to me and smiled her cheeky babyface smile. "It's just you and me now kido. I love you too."

Short Story 3: Now and Then

The small town of Milton was an adventure to the three year old me. The chooks pecking at the pebble path and the sheep in the paddock out the back of our small country home. The five minute walk up the hill in high heel shoes, nick-named "clip clop" shoes for the sound they make, pram and dolly in tow, to collect the mail.

I used to love the smell of the morning air, the brisk winter evenings and the constant bustle. The field across the road in which, grew the most delicious and juicy mushrooms you ever ate. Dad and I used to spend hours picking them to bring them home and eat them for dinner.

In the corner of the yard stood my big green playhouse, built especially for me by my dad. The doorway towered over my head as I'd step inside into a land of little me. The room was bright and durable. Decorated by me for me. The furnature built just my height, was displayed around the room.

In the left corner sits my dolly crib. The teddy bears and dolls snap to attention at my entry. A white plastic table bore two plastic plates, two plastic knives and a china teapot. Karen, my nanny and best friend, was expected for supper. Karen was the best friend I could have. She loved animals, like to play dolls and helped my feed Baby, my pet lamb. She read me to sleep, watched cartoons with me and made me sandwhiches. She always used to be welcome in my playhouse.

Milton is so quiet to the sixteen year old me. There are no chooks pecking at the path, no sheep in the paddock and the once beautiful country house has been knocked down and replaced by a two storey art deco house. The letter box has been moved. Placed close by now rather than the hill walk. Getting around is much easier too, in simple, practical shoes and no dolly in a pram. The mushroom field has bulldosed and a residential block has been built in it's place. The mushrooms mean nothing to it's residents.

My once big bright playhouse now seems dull and small, still sitting in the corner of the yard, the years of neglect obvious. The bright green paint, now grey in colour, flakes away showing the naked wood underneith. I push open the door and duck to enter the dark and dusty room. The windows are caked with a layer of filth and age. The light shed through the doorway, being the only light in the room, reveils the playhouses indifference.

Wild thoughts:

A short piece by me. I know it's a bit intense but it's not real!!!!


I'm so exhausted by this existence. Day on, day through I think of death and pray that it come to me quick. Quicker than quick. To be gone. To cease so suddenly. I could never regret another thing. I could never tell another lie. I could never hate or judge or pick apart the only one I should have loved. Myself. Take this life. Forget it and taint it and twist it and tame it and above all, destroy it. For what is the point for living if not to feel? If not to feel the good? If not to feel the intense sadness and pain and hatred for your own kind. To blow it all up and give in to desire. To love and live at the same time.

Oh what a world! Oh hated me.

He looks like he should be a movie star. He could have any girl he could ever want. Just one smile would be enough to turn even the hardest of snobby females to mush. He has the ability to take my breath away without having any idea I am suffocating infront of him. He is the ultimate in perfect. I am the ultimate in shame. I wish so much to be in his world. A world of sweet devinity and unaging beauty. A world of intricate emotions and the intoxicating scent of his colonge. Maybe, if I too had be born so ideal; so wonderfully perfect and impressive I could be in that world. His world. Then maybe I could call it "our" world. Maybe then there could be happiness under all this tattered rags and empty soul. Maybe then I would want to be.