NaNoWriMo – Day One

November 2, 2009 at 0:15 am (NaNoWriMo, Writing) (, , , , )

Ugh. Ok. I’m back. No, really. I am this time. I might not feel like it but I am. Day One of NaNoWriMo didn’t start all that well for me. Too hung over, but I did insist on going out last night and it was a pretty good party. That said, I’m pretty clear on how the whole thing gets started and I’m planning a pretty intensive day of writing tomorrow once I’ve had some decent sleep (I got four hours worth sleeping on a pile of clothes on my floor).

What I’m finding difficult at the moment (well, apart from the whole scattered and sleepy brain thing) is pinning down the details. My novel is set this year in Ancient Rome and it’s not a period I’m well versed in. I know what I want to do and say and how my characters develop and what happens to them, but all the tiny little details are things I’m just not well versed on. Oh well, I’m trying not to get hung up on it. I’m writing things the way that make sense to me and trying to move along before I get too bogged down.

Anyway, tomorrow’s a new day. Expect big things then.

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Fears for Samoa

September 30, 2009 at 23:32 pm (News) (, , , , , , , , )

I know the 30-days-of-text thing didn’t work out so well this year – I’ve been busy and struck down with severe exhaustion I’m hoping to alleviate with iron tablets and looking after myself a little better. That said, given my failure, I’m pledging to be a little more on track with things again: keeping up to date with my correspondences, my housework, and other obligations (this blog included). And while a lot of things have been happening for me lately, one big piece of news has really hit me today.

As many may have heard, a devastating tsunami was generated in Samoa today after a massive earthquake struck this morning. After visiting Fiji last year, I was struck by a mural on the side of a school building in Nadi: displayed prominently were all the flags of the Pacific nations, including the Australian flag. How many of us think of ourselves as Pacific citizens? When we think of our neighbours we think of New Zealand, and maybe Papua New Guinea or East Timor or Indonesia. But it really struck me how much we dismiss our smaller neighbours as just a pretty place to have a cheap holiday or a wedding when the people welcomed us, included us and even randomly hugged us (ask my sister!) with nothing but sincerity.

That is why, on my return, I wanted to get a little more involved in helping where there was need. One of the ways that I’ve already mentioned on this blog is Kiva, and I made a promise to have at least a quarter of my loans going to Samoa (or other Pacific nations should they be added). After checking in on the location of the five Samoan women I have deep concerns for two: Vaoa Fuga and Grace Malama, both from villages in the south of the main island, Upolu. According to this map, there is a good chance they were right in the wave’s path and I really hope both are safe along with their families and their villages.

(For further info and to lend support, see The Red Cross; consider supporting Save the Children, an organisation that works in the Pacific region, or consider lending to Samoan Kiva entrepreneurs in the future when the current situation settles down and more information is available. Not only have resorts – a valuable source of income – been levelled, but many plantations and villages too, leaving many to rebuild their livelihoods.)

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Thirty Days of Text – Day 12 – Mender

September 15, 2009 at 8:35 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Another WTF do I do with this? word . . . I would have liked to have expanded this more as it ended up reminding me of a little book of spooky stories and poems I had when I was a little girl, but I got tired and fell asleep :-(

———————–

The Mender

“Oh, the doctor doesn’t know anything! Just put a coin under her pillow and let the Mender fix it!” Through the pain and the fever I could hear my mother and my grandmother arguing. My arm had been treated and bandaged by the doctor who had left little vials and instructions with my mother but I knew grandma didn’t trust what she called the “sly ways of modern medicine”; but despite the pain and the threat of amputation or worse, I would rather put my faith in the young doctor than on my grandmother’s outdated and arcane cures.

“What rubbish. There’s no such thing as the Mender! Just leave the girl in peace: the more you bother her the more pain she feels and she needs to be resting!” my mother snapped back. “The doctor said she was doing well and he knows more about these things than you and your silly superstitions!”

I heard my grandmother huff and walk away grumbling. My mother pulled back the blankets separating me from the rest of the room and sat beside my bed. I was barely conscious but the pain was so severe that I couldn’t succumb to sleep or fainting spells either. Looking at me through eyes full of worry, my mother stroked my hair. In her other hand she held a little glass bottle and a special spoon; she measured some of the vile liquid and made me drink it down. “The doctor said you need to rest. This will help you to sleep,” she said. “We’re all in the other room so if you need anything just ring the bell.” She said, referring to the large brass bell she had placed beside my bed earlier. She kissed me on the forehead and took the little lantern away from my little table, leaving me in relative darkness.

I started drifting in and out of consciousness and my little corner of the living quarters started to bend and spin in my delirium. Through it all I could hear feet approaching my bed once more and I saw someone move over to me. They lifted my pillow and placed something below it; squinting hard and concentrating, I could just make out my grandmother’s face. “Don’t tell you mother. I left an offering for the Mender.  She’ll visit you in the night, but just remember: for what she makes right she will demand something in return.” She too bent down to kiss my forehead, “Be brave my girl, and remember to always give thanks . . . ”

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Thirty Days of Text – Day 11 – Jury

September 15, 2009 at 8:27 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Sorry guys, but major language warning here . . . having a bit of a play with a script/screenplay format . . .

——————–

Blasphemous Rumours

INTERIOR. SMALL INTERVIEW/MEETING ROOM WITHIN COURT COMPLEX, SPARSE, UTILITARIAN FURNISHING. MARCUS MATTEO IS SEATED AT TABLE WITH BRIEFCASE OPEN IN FRONT OF HIM AND SEV BAKAS PACES THE ROOM.

SEV: They’re killing me out there. Understand? They’re ripping shreds off me and what are you fucking doing about it? Huh? What are you doing? You may as well be on the prosecution side for all you’ve done for me out there!

MARCUS: Sev, please. Calm down.

SEV: How can I calm down? How? Their fucking pathologist is full of shit! His evidence was deliberately misleading and what did you do about it? Here’s an idea, Marcus, how about you grow some fucking balls and cross-examine the bastard properly! Now the jury thinks she was killed with a weapon! They’re going to be looking at the report, seeing the words “blunt force trauma” and they’re going to think she was hit over the head with something and they’re going to think “oh, that Sev Bakas! He plays that wife-beater on that soapie on the telly! Well, he must’ve done it! He’s the bad guy!” . . .

MARCUS: Look, we’ve discussed this. We’ve got to stick to the game plan . . .

SEV: The “game plan”?! What fucking game plan?! Sure, we might have a game plan but it seems to go out the fucking window when you’re out there in front of the goddamn judge. I mean, what am I paying you for, Marcus? I could represent myself and do a better fucking job than you. Is that what you want?

MARCUS: Sev, mate . . . look, just sit down. The weapon thing is just a ruse. We’re going to blow that one out of the water: the simple fact is there is no weapon and yes, they’re going to try to insinuate there was one but we’ve got that covered. We’re countering with our own forensic evidence, and most of what they’ve got is circumstantial so everything they’re saying we can undermine . . .

SEV: But who’s going to believe that? They’re going to see, ooh, forensic science, police in overalls and crime scene photographs! Ooooh, it’s frigging CSI! The real thing! The CSI guys are always right, aren’t they? That’s what they’re thinking out there!

MARCUS: Look, I know it’s hard for you, but you need to remove yourself from the media for a moment. That stuff doesn’t apply in a real life court of law and we’re reminding the jury of that fact at every opportunity . . .

SEV: You’re kidding me, right? You’re fucking kidding me! You’re a fucking barrister and you’re that naïve? They see this stuff on TV and their minds are already made up. I mean, when they see me, they don’t see Sev Bakas. They don’t see the guy who has to live with the image of his girlfriend dead on the bathroom floor, who is still in fucking mourning for her, who has to put his whole life on hold and lived through this hell – for what? Nearly a year? – while they put him through the wringer. No, they don’t see Sev Bakas: they see Andy Mawson. They see the character. They see the arrogant, abusive arsehole that everybody loves to hate and the prosecution are playing on that!

MARCUS: They’ve been warned about that. You know that.

SEV: But it’s not good enough! The thought is already in their mind. The prosecution basically said, right off the bat, that I play a character that hits women, therefore I have the ability to do the same in real life. That was their opening argument . . . Look, Marcus, just call our pathologist. I don’t give a shit about your game plan right now. I know, I know, you’ve got some overarching scheme to the whole thing but you’ve got to get that idea that she was hit out of their minds. She fell. I didn’t kill her. No one killed her. She fell. And while the prosecution’s planting lies and twisting evidence . . .

MARCUS: . . . all they’ve got is circumstantial, they can’t stand on it and we’re going to get most of it thrown out anyway . . .

SEV: But that’s not the point! Just call our expert now. Please, Marcus, do something! (door knock) Please . . . ?

MARCUS: Alright, alright. I’ll make an application and we’ll get our path in. You alright to go back in?

SEV: (calming down) Yeah, I’m good.

MARCUS: Good. (both exit)

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Thirty Days of Text – Day 10 – Timing

September 14, 2009 at 1:10 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (, , , , , , , , )

I’m going to use a “get out of jail free” card for the 9th as I was writing other non-thirty-days-of-text things, but here’s a nice little nibblet  for the tenth.

——————-

The Trainee

“It’s all about timing,” my instructor said as we watched the simulation screen. The simply rendered figure paced around in circles in its cell, its movements becoming more agitated and erratic. I went to activate another hallucination, but my trainer held me back. “Just wait,” he said. “Watch.”

The simulation dropped to its knees, screaming and thumping its fists on the floor. Its face – unremarkable, with the minimum amount of features required to display sufficient emotion for instructional purposes – contorted in anguish. I looked over at my instructor, wondering why it wasn’t time to send another barrage of mental imagery at the simulacrum – as far as I could see, it was at breaking point and it was time to make a decisive move.

“Not yet,” he said. The figure on the screen exhausted itself and stopped screaming. Curled on the floor, it appeared to be crying itself to sleep When its sobs had calmed down and its breathing had returned to normal, my trainer patted me on the shoulder. “Right, send another lot and watch what happens. We’ve had some new dissidents brought in overnight, so this afternoon you can watch the real thing . . . “

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Thirty Days of Text – Day 8 – Dacha

September 14, 2009 at 0:46 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (, , , , , , )

Yeah, ok, I know I’m a bit behind. Well, a lot behind. I wish I had some interesting or real excuse, but the reality is I’ve just been sleepy. Really sleepy. Falling-asleep-after-dinner kind of sleepy. So I’m now several days out, but I will claw my way back, dammit! Anyway, here’s the idea I had for Day 8, which is a slightly fleshed out snippet from the beautiful picture I got in my mind when I thought of the word . . .

——————–

Refuge

Mother hugged both of her daughters tightly, her tears flowing. “Be good girls and stay in the house. Anna will be along son and she’ll make your beds and fix you some supper. But stay in the house and hide if you see anyone coming.” She clasped her girls by the shoulders, squeezing them slightly. “This is very important. Unless it’s Anna or Mummy or Daddy, hide if you see or hear anyone. No one will look for you here but things aren’t safe anymore. I’m going to find Daddy now, but I’ll be back soon.” She hugged them again, crying into their hair. “Mummy loves you both very, very much. Never forget that, girls. Never forget how much I love you.”

And then she was gone, leaving little Katia and Natalia on the front steps of the sprawling and abandoned summer house. They waited for a moment, frightened and bemused but their mother didn’t return. “When will Mummy be back?” Natalia asked her older sister.

“I don’t know, but Daddy has been gone for a long time. That means he must be very far away, so Mummy will have a long way to go before she finds him,” Katia said. “I guess that means we are on our own for now.”

“But what will we do?” said Natalia.

“I don’t know, “ Katia replied, “but I think we need to explore. This house is big and we need to find somewhere to hide and look out for strangers like Mummy said.”

The girls walked up the rotting wood steps and disappeared into the darkened house. Inside smelt of damp and animals and it made Natalia frightened. There was no electricity and very little furniture; the only room they found that seemed reasonably clean and functional was the kitchen. The pantry had been stocked with a large supply of tins, jars of preserves, boxes of crackers and other non-perishable food. A big old-fashioned wood stove meant water could be heated and food could be cooked, although neither girl had seen let alone used such a stove before. “I suppose Anna will know what to do,” Katia said to sister who stood frowning at the stove.

“But I’m hungry now!” Natalia moaned.

Katia sent her sister over to sit at the little table in the corner of the room. Feeling very grown-up, Katia took a box of crackers down from the shelf and finding some plates and cutlery, she spread some jam and cut some cheese. Together the girls ate their meal, but Katia was dismayed to find there was no running water when she went to clean up. “We need to go out of the house and explore some more,” Katia said.

“But Mummy said we had to stay inside!” Natalia argued.

“I know,” Katia replied, ever patient with her little charge, “but we need to find some water because there isn’t any in the taps. We need water to drink and to wash and to use the toilet.”

“Can’t we wait for Anna? It might be dangerous out there!”

“Well Mummy said that no one would find us here, so if we’re careful and we hide if we see anyone, we can go outside and find water.”

Natalia pouted. “I’m scared, Katia.”

Katia moved over to hug her sister. “I am too, Natalia, just a little. But we have to be brave and look after ourselves. We have to find some water and then we have to find somewhere to sleep and then we can wait for Anna.” Katia looked down at her sister and saw her bottom lip starting to wobble. “Don’t worry, I will look after you,” she took her sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She lead her out of the kitchen and to the back door, and the two girls stood together on the threshold, facing the wild, overgrown gardens beyond.

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Thirty Days of Text – Day 7 – Stylisation

September 8, 2009 at 1:38 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing)

The more I think of this producer-character Jay from the other day, the more I like him and his story, so you might see him popping his head up every now and again through the month. Unfortunately, given the nature of the Thirty Days of Text my thinking is all a little scattered and I don’t think it’s all unfolding quite right. But ehn, that’s the thing about this month – it’s writing from the subconscious, not from the rational and well-thought out part of the brain.

Anyway, this is what I came up with . . .

————————–

Jay vs. Himself: The Stolen

Jay sat on his bed, staring at the ghostly, adolescent version of himself sitting opposite; it had been months since the apparition first started appearing, whispering suggestions in the studio or giving philosophical insights in the middle of the night. At first he fought it, frightened and disturbed by the vision of his younger self and its eerie wisdom, but every time he followed the spirit’s advice everything he touched turned to critical or commercial gold (and often both). The creative and career funk he’d found himself had lifted and he felt more buoyant than he had in years – if not ever – and he was relishing the title as most sort after music producer on the local scene.

So it was without fear he faced his phantasmal self, its glow lighting up the mementos and vintage studio equipment cluttering the shelves of his large room. Despite the cold tinge to the air the central heating kept the room quite toasty and Jay sat in tracksuit pants and a singlet, hugging his legs to his chest. “It’s not going to work,” he told his ghost-self. “I can’t just go and turn their quasi-electro-clash-meets-arena-anthem track into some fucking ragtime!”

The apparition scowled at him. “Oh c’mon. You know I’m right. When have I been wrong?” Unlike the Jay that sat opposite him in the flesh, the adolescent version had a floppy, teased fringe and a long-sleeved striped shirt that slipped over one shoulder. The teenaged Jay was leaner, wiry and a little awkward in spite of his un-self-conscious air. But despite the thirty years between them they still both wore the exact same silver earring.

The real Jay sighed and shook his head, staring his otherworldly self down. “You just don’t get it, do you? These guys aren’t some group of naïve little record label protégés, these guys know what they’re doing. Their stuff might not always be my sort of thing, but they’ve built an image for themselves, they’ve got an ideal and a plan and they stick to it. That’s why they’re so successful. They know what they want to sound like and they know where they’re heading. And I respect that – and you know there’s not a lot of people in this gig I respect.”

“Well, what are they paying you for if they’re not going to listen to you? You’re where you are now because you take chances and they pay off. That’s what people are paying you for,” the apparition retorted. “If they wanted a yes-man they could have hired someone else.”

“But that’s the point. The Stolen don’t want a yes-man, they want someone who knows what they’re trying to achieve. And that doesn’t involve honky-tonk.”

“Just give it a shot. Go in tomorrow, take what they’ve laid down already and give it a shot. I promise you, it’s what they need.”

“It might be what the track needs, but it’s not what the band needs. They’re too heavily stylised to suddenly go and put an early 1920s jazz spin on them. They’re all hair gel and cyberpunk and J-rock glam. It’s not going to work and they’re going to crack it if I try to change their sound too much.”

The apparition shrugged. “You know, cyberpunk is out. It’s been out a long time now. It’s all steampunk now. You take those guys out of their PVC and put them in brown leathers and aviator goggles and you’ll be sitting on the hottest thing since your last record. Have you seen the films coming out lately? If it’s not big-budget heroics in the age of steam it’s prohibition and gangsters. All that stuff is so in right now . . . “

“Yes, but I’m not dealing with trend-seeking hipsters. I’m dealing with The Stolen. They don’t give a shit about steampunk.”

“Ok, fine. But remember where you’d be without me!” the apparition sulked, turning its shoulder on Jay.

Jay sighed, knowing no logic could win. “Alright, I’ll give it a go tomorrow before the band gets in. I still don’t think it’s going to work, though.”

“What you think is not the point,” the apparition said with a smug smile and faded away. The room got warmer and the strange white-blue glow disappeared, leaving Jay shaking his head in the darkness.

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Thirty Days of Text – Day 6 – Rota

September 7, 2009 at 0:59 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (, , , , , , , , , , )

I was stumped again with this word but again, a flash of inspiration in the shower. A friend of mine told me about a theory that has something to do with the ions in flowing water stimulating the brain and the creative mind; I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but I seem to get my best ideas when I’m in the shower! Shame we’ve got water restrictions or I could be a genius . . .

Anyway, hope you guys don’t mind a bit of Australiana tonight – it’s just where my mind was.

———————————

The Wheel

“What can I get for you, mate?” The young girl leant over the bar, eyebrows raised.

“I’ll have a Carlton, and . . .” Dave looked over at the woman beside him as she finished the last mouthful of her beer, “what can I get you, young lady?”

The woman next to him laughed heartily – a full-hearted and booming, raspy laugh. “You’re lucky I’ve got a sense of humour, mate. But if you’re buying, I’ll have a pot of Coopers, thanks.”

For a moment they both returned their gaze across the pub’s bar, past the rows of bottles and glasses and past the tables of families and young people out on the balcony to the glistening sea beyond. It had been a scorching hot day but the breeze coming off the Southern Ocean had cooled the evening down and as the clock passed eight thirty the sun slowly started to set.

The girl behind the bar brought over the beers and Dave took a twenty from his wallet. They both took a deep drink and Dave turned to his drinking companion: she must have been around his age, early fifties or so, with a face as gentle as it was hard, olive skin worn by the passing time and too much sun. Her green eyes held a mischievous glint and her hair fell down her shoulders in a shock of wiry curls, flecked through with grey she’d made no attempt to dye or hide. Around her neck set a little square pendant of a curious painting with a wheel and strange figures wrapped around it; Dave squinted, trying to get a better look at it. “ROTA . . . TORA . . . Interesting pendant you got there,” he nodded. “Sorry, not that I was checking out your tits or anything.”

The woman laughed heartily again. “Nah, you’re alright, mate, been a long time since anyone wanted to see ‘em anyway.” She lifted the pendant so he could get a better look. “It’s a tarot card. The Wheel of Fortune.”

“Oh, I’m not really into that stuff much myself, you know . . .”

She shrugged, giving him a wry smile. “You don’t have to be to appreciate what it means, it’s just a reminder of how the world works. Doesn’t matter what religion, what philosophy, whatever you believe in, it all boils down to the same thing: fortunes change; life’s not a constant. You could think things are fantastic then something comes along and trips you up or you could think things are terrible, the worst they could ever be but then they get better . . . it’s all just the wheel turning, mate. Just the wheel turning.”

“Yeah, I get you,” he nodded. “I’m Dave, by the way.”

“Terri,” she offered him her hand and gave him an enthusiastic handshake, “pleased to meet you. You here for the tourist season?”

“Nah, just passing through. Heading over to Warrnambool,” he replied, swallowing the last of his beer. “You?”

“I run a little café just off the main drag. Shame you’re just passing; you should drop in sometime,” she said. “Not that I’m trying the hard sell on you or anything,” she added with a wink and a quiet laugh.

“Oh, so you’re a local?”

“Pretty much, guess you could call me that. Been here nearly ten years and they still haven’t been able to get rid of me.”

“So what brought you out here?” Dave asked, nodding over at the girl behind the bar again. “Another round?”

“Why not? But my shout this time,” she said, wagging her finger at him in mock sternness. “Oh, but it’s a long story. I guess I just realised after a while, back when I was living in the city, that you gotta be true to yourself. Not just for your own sake – sometimes denying yourself can hurt others more than you realise, if you know what I’m mean.”

Dave nodded slowly, taking in what she was saying. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, love. Really makes a lot of sense. So you came here from Melbourne? Seachanger?”

“Nah, not really a ‘seachanger’. I mean, I grew up in Mt. Gambier so this is more like home, really. But yeah, left Gambier when I was still a kid, really. Hitchhiked a bit – gawd, I think about that now and how dangerous that shit is, I’m still amazed I didn’t end up dead – anyway, I hitchhiked and went a bit wild for a bit. Ended up in Byron Bay, Nimbin, spent some time in Sydney. You know, it was the seventies, you did those things back then.”

“Oh, love, story of my life right there. Did the same thing. Went from Perth got as far as Adelaide and kinda tanked from there . . . crazy days, mate, crazy days . . .”

“Yeah, so you know what I mean, right? Anyway, I settled down for a bit, ended up with this fella and we moved down to Melbourne. Got a job, got a house, had a son. Lost the man, lost the house . . .” Her eyes glazed as she stared out over her beer, looking at the sea. “Lost the son . . .”

“He not talking to you? Doesn’t call, yeah? My daughter did that too, we kinda had a falling out but, I mean, I’m lucky. We’re on speaking terms again – that’s where I’m heading now. She’s gunna meet up with me at my Mum’s place over in Warrnambool – our first Christmas together for sixteen years . . .” Dave stopped, catching himself getting carried away, and he noticed Terri was still staring out past the bar: it wasn’t the sea she was looking at but the table of young men, drinking and laughing with each other.

“Dave, you enjoy that time with your daughter for ever minute that it’s worth,” she said, eyes fixed out the window. “Wring all you can out of those days and tell her how much she means to you, yeah? Just promise me that, mate? ‘cause – and Heaven forbid it ever happens to you – but remember that wheel and take every opportunity with both hands while it lasts, yeah?”

“Wh . . . what happened? You know, with your son?” he asked. “Well, not that you have to tell me if you don’t want, you know. Oh, shit, sorry, love, I shouldn’t have . . . “

She looked over at him with a sad smile. “It’s alright, mate. I’m at peace with it now. Sounds cliché but it’s true. But yeah, my boy had troubles growing up, you know? Never quite gave life the chance to settle down and he decided in all his wisdom, aged all of twenty-one, that it was all too hard. Do I blame the drugs? The booze? His friends? My ex? Myself? Yes, sometimes, but you know,” she took a deep sigh, “although it still hurts, I’ve accepted what happened. And it taught me something and although I’d give anything to have him back, the whole thing really brought home how you gotta be true to yourself. If your situation’s not working out and you’re not happy – and I don’t just mean things aren’t going your way but if you’re truly, deeply, spiritually unhappy – you’re gunna be hurting those around you just as much. Doubly as much.” They both stared down into their empty glasses as the sun sank lower and the street lights switched on. Around them were the sounds of people laughing, drinking, enjoying their time with their friends and family. “Ah, sorry mate. I’ve gone and brought the whole mood down again. It’s just Christmas, you know? I don’t really celebrate it myself but it does get you thinking.”

“Nah, you’re alright, love. Sometimes it’s good to talk. Another one for the road?” Dave asked and Terri nodded, eyes still glazed. “So are you doing anything for Christmas?”

“Not really,” she shrugged. “I’m sort of semi-pagan so it doesn’t mean that much to me, but I go volunteer at the old folk’s home, give them a nice Christmas lunch. Some of them don’t have anyone so I make an effort for them and they love it. Makes ‘em feel special.”

“You know, if you’re not doing anything – and, I mean, I don’t want to freak you out or anything if you think I’m being too forward or that it’s just the beer talking – but if you want you can join us over in Warrnambool,” he asked. “Mum won’t mind and I’m sure Teesha won’t either. She’s a good kid; she’s gunna be a mum herself soon. Just think: I’m going to be a granddad! Never thought I’d live to see the day . . .”

Terri turned to him again and smiled. “You sound proud as punch, Dave, and I’m so pleased for you.” There was no jealousy in her eyes, and she seemed genuinely happy at his news. Dave looked down again, confused: it had been a long time since anyone had been interested in his life or his meagre achievements and it made him a little nervous. “You know, I’d really love to join you but some of those old dears really rely on me and they’re hard pressed for volunteers as it is. I can’t pull out now. But, I really appreciate the offer and I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, mate. If you get the chance, pop in on your way back. I’ll make you the best steak sandwich you ever tasted and there’ll be a cold one in the fridge with your name on it.” She slowly pushed her bar stool back and hopped down, rosy-cheeked and a little unsteady. “Right, I’m outta here before they get that karaoke machine going. You take care, alright? Have a good trip and you give your mum and your daughter a big hug and tell ‘em you love ‘em. It’ll do you all the world of good.”

She patted him on the shoulder and tottered out past the tourists and into the warm summer night’s air. Dave watched her disappear down the street, his mind swirling with many emotions he hadn’t felt for a long, long time.

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Thirty Days of Text – Day 5 – Refresher

September 6, 2009 at 0:25 am (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing)

Ok, just a quick snippet. I had no idea what to make of the word of the day but for some reason I had a flash of inspiration when I was in the shower just before, and that flash of inspiration was: stalker.

———————

The Refresher

I press refresh again. He’ll message soon, I can feel it. He’ll be reading what I’ve written and he’ll know it’s about him. He’ll know, and he’ll say something. He’ll ask me, in a few minutes, I just know it. So I refresh once more.

Nothing. Not yet. Is it premature to change my relationship status to ‘taken’? He’s probably reading over what he’s written before pressing submit. He’ll be checking for spelling mistakes, making sure what he’s written makes sense. He’s probably making sure he doesn’t offend me, worried that what he’s writing will sound too sappy or too forward or too sleazy. But I know it’ll be perfect. I’ve been waiting for this for such a long time. I’ve been watching him, tracking his every move online, befriending his friends, liking what he likes, being exactly what he wants me to be because the only thing I want in life is for him to love me. And I know he does. It’s just taken him a while to realise, but I made him realise and now, now it’s all working out. He’s just working on his reply now. He can’t resist me. I know it.

I press refresh again, waiting for his response.

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Thirty Days of Text – Day 4 – Instrumentation

September 5, 2009 at 23:11 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (, , , , , , , )

Yeah, I know. I’m a day out. I started this last night but I got too tired to write and went to bed instead.

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The Second Take

Jay sighed and pressed the speaker button. “I don’t care if you’re “in the zone” or not, just play the fucking thing!”

“Hey man, don’t talk to me like that! I’m tired, man, can’t we have a break?” came the voice back through the speaker, filling the mixing room. Inside the studio sat an over-coiffed thing wearing leggings, a large jumper and too much eyeliner; Jay hated the look, missing the days when androgyny didn’t necessarily mean mediocrity.

“You’ll have a break when you play it right, and put a bit of bloody effort in this time. I want it in time and with feeling, ok? With feeling! You’re playing acoustic so you can’t get out of it with pedals and effects, you understand?” Jay hit a few buttons and sent the click track through the kid’s headphones. The kid started playing again, and again stumbled on the same chord progression. “Cut! Do it again!” Jay called into the studio; he ignored the protests and sent the tape rolling again. Leaning back and watching the lights on the mixing desk dance, he lit another cigarette and grabbed the flask hidden on the nearest rack. The kid was doing better this time – not great, but better – and he was tempted to use this take and call it a day. Jay closed his eyes for a moment and leant back, and as he took a deep drag he felt the room go cold.

“The song’s good but the instrumentation’s all wrong,” a voice said in his ear. Jay jumped, nearly falling off his chair. Beside him was an outline of an adolescent, glowing blue-white and indistinct and Jay dropped his flask to the floor. “Put the kid on the acoustic guitar on a mandolin and replace the keyboard with a harpsichord or something similar. Boost the kick with something electronic, then it’ll work.”

“Wh . . .what?” Jay spluttered. “What are you talking about?”

“Trust me,” the voice said and the apparition was gone. Jay took a moment to compose himself and to curse his thirty odd-years of drug taking. But that voice was vaguely familiar, and the more he thought about it, the more he thought it might just work. The kid had finished playing and was looking through the glass, waiting for approval; Jay hit the speaker button again and rolled over to the mic: “Yeah, alright. We’re taking a break. You guy’s have got an hour so piss off out of my sight!”

The kid dropped the guitar on its stand and stormed out, and Jay retrieved his flask and took a deep drink.

Four weeks later, the album was cut and mastered and ready to hit the shelves. The advanced copies had already been sent out to the reviewers and the promotional juggernaut was in full swing. By this stage, Jay was approaching full-blown insomnia and he couldn’t care less: another record by another lot of vaguely-indie kids perfectly packaged to sell an image. And that was about the only normal thing throughout the whole process. Every step of the way, that fleeting apparition – with it’s eerily familiar outline and voice he just could not pin down – would appear to him and give him more suggestions, every one of them pure artistic gold.

The album was a critical and commercial success, with many reviews citing the “inspired production”. Jay couldn’t help but to laugh at the irony of it all. He knew he should be proud, he should have enjoyed the experience and the success, but all he wanted was a decent night’s sleep. He’d tried cutting down the alcohol, the cigarettes, the pot, but nothing helped and the worry that he might be going mad kept him tossing and turning all the more. It was on one of those nights when he found himself still wide awake at three in the morning; giving up, he got up and padded across the floorboards of his stylishly chaotic room and walked out onto the balcony.

He lit another cigarette and scratched his expanding belly. It was a warmish night, and he stood looking out at the night in nothing but his boxer shorts. In the distance he could hear the trucks on the freeway and a siren heading to the nearby hospital, but otherwise he was alone with the two pot plants an ex-girlfriend had given to him years ago. Running his hand over his face, he felt old and warn-out: sure, he had reached the pinnacle of his career, had the awards, the inner-city penthouse in a converted warehouse in a fashionably grungy suburb . . . But he still felt hollow inside, and he thought to himself that he was just filling in the time before the inevitable.

Lost in melancholia, Jay didn’t feel the air beside him getting colder. The apparition walked up beside him, leaning over the balcony in the exact same pose. “You need to chill, man,” it said, causally looking over at him.

Jay jumped. “You! Can’t you just leave me alone? I’m losing my fucking mind ‘cause of you! Please, please,” he begged, “just go away and leave me in peace!”

“C’mon buddy, you know I can’t do that,” it replied. “I’m here to help you, here to get you back on track.”

“What? Are you an angel or something? Were you sent by . . . by God? The Universe? What are you?”

The apparition laughed, “Sent by God? Are you serious? I’m you, you idiot!”

“What . . . ?” Jay turned cold.

“I’m you, the old you. You remember when you first got into this gig? When you were still in bands and when you still had ideas and when everything was still fresh and exciting?” Jay nodded, and a tear involuntarily slid down his cheek as the memories of those heady early days came flooding back. “Remember when you were still passionate? When it was about creating? This is why I’m here. I’m bringing you back to the person you are from the person you’ve become . . .”

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