12 December, 2011

Thirty minutes

A lot can happen in half an hour. A lot can happen in one minute. From car accidents to giant sand sculptures, you can get a lot done within that measure of time. For example, you will take on average 360-540 breaths per minute and probably have itched at least 20 irritable places within the past half an hour. You can walk 2.35km or yawn 5 times.

But that's not all.

and this post may have to be continued another day. My half hour has run out...

29 November, 2011

some days

Some days, you just want to shoot somebody.

Normally it starts with something small. Falling out of bed and forgetting which way is up, your hair won't stay down no matter what, your clothes get stuck to that little sharp bit on the kitchen chair and some how or other, your favourite shirt gets vegemite stains or your pants rip in the crotch. Then tripping over the cat and spraining your ankle, you run out the door into traffic so abnormally heavy that you get to work an hour late and the meeting's started without you.

But that's just life right?

Well. All those things happened today, but there's one more.

After more clumsy and disastrous happenings in the office, I landed in a stranger's lap after the train jerked to an harder stop than normal. The man was a parliamentarian - a lowly back bencher, barely ever noticed until the shocking statement he had delivered yesterday. I apologised and he gave me his seat, only for him to fall onto my lips and lap two stops later. Maybe there'd been a cow on the tracks and the train driver slammed on the brakes to let it pass. Maybe a duck flew into the window. Or maybe the train driver was just driving way too fast. The train could have literally rattled apart.

In any case, there were paparazzi.
Now there are headlines and I am infamous.
I've even been given a few uniforms to make sure that the media don't stampede and trample on me in the rush to dig up every minutiae of my boring history.

From invisible PA to terribly lime-lighted mistress of a man growing in power. A man (handsome as he is), who instead of denying all allegations, encourages them in their lies, but refuses to talk to me. A man revelling in all the attention.

A few hours later, I'm no longer a PA. No one will ever employ me or listen to learn the truth and all because of an accident. Chance and one man's thirst for power. Oh. And the fact that after I'd fallen into the man's lap; unknown to me, my skirt had split at the back and I'd been walking around in public with a corner of the skirt stuck in my underpants.

Don't tell me that's just life.
I will shoot.

(please note, this is a short work of fiction and has no bearing on any person in real life in any shape or form).

28 October, 2011


A middle
a muddle
and the little puddles.

The room was full of puddles. Some big, some small, but all larger than the size of a child's plastic chair. They had been irregularly spaced in such a way that they seemed to be a jigsaw of puddles. Each puddle shone a different colour, depending on the light reflected in them from the stained glass roof.

I had no idea where I was or what this place was for. How did I get here? Through a maze of doors I was not sure I wanted to negotiate again. It had been like trying to find a way out of a mirror maze.

24 October, 2011

city chick

Sweltering hot car.
Early summer days that cook a body before they've even put a key in the ignition.
Burning, stinking days where you want to live in a cold shower - if the rain water tank held an infinite supply of cold water.

And you know what?
I've run out of water.

There's only that old, yellowed bottle of water that has been rolling around on the car floor. And nobody's going to want to drink that. I mean, there's no way in the world I would want to drink that...

But I'm stuck in the middle of the Outback with no phone (battery's dead - anyway, the sun had baked the screen before I realised that it had been sitting in the open sun for hours. Smart phone. Huh.) No one coming. It's cooler outside the car than in and even then, the only shade is one scraggly shrub that don't even reach my knee.

I'm as red as a lobster, will have peeling skin for days, as well as freckles for months to come and I'm sure I'm going to catch cancer from drinking old water steeped in carcinogens that have leached out from the plastic into the near boiling water. Which is worse? Being roasted like a lizard on the baking red sand now or slowly dying while being attacked from within by my own body?

I really can't decide.

Dave had better notice I'm missing and come find me soon before all that is left of me is either charred flesh or a cancerous mass. I've been out here for 3 minutes already. I can see the gate from where I am, so it should only take him about 10 minutes to come rescue me - if he walks. If he drives, it won't take a moment and I don't want to spend 10 minutes out here in the sun if he can come and pick me up in his dad's air-conditioned ute.

I daren't leave my car. What if a snake attacks me? What if I run out of water before I reach the house? Anyway, my authentic Dolce Garbana sandals would never survive the 500m distance on this stupid red cracked road. How can they call this rutted stretch of dust a road anyway?

Better to wait here for him.

Five minutes now and I'm dying. That bottle of water is starting to look good.

21 October, 2011

the heights

Round the craggy corner, she turned. Shuffling feet, cautiously kicking off loose stones that might make her foot slip. A centimetre at a time. Don't look down. Don't look around. Don't even look up to see how far there is to go.

Shuffle, step.
Shuffle, step.
Wind whistling by ear, pulling at clothes.

Defy gravity a bit longer, she told her muscles. Just a bit more.

Muscles were screaming. Aching with that sour feeling, as if lemon juice had gotten into her muscles and was sapping all her strength.

Just a bit more.

Eyes examined rocks. Cracks, depth, finger holds, foot holds.

Shuffle, shuffle, step.

Finally. A ledge.

With bated breath, she reached out a foot to test the ledge, holding onto the rock at shoulder height with shaking, white finger tips. It held. Carefully, she edged more weight onto the slab of rock until her tired, shaking legs bore all her weight. Once before, she had made the mistake of not testing a ledge and almost fallen back down the mountain cliff. It had been a good thing she'd managed to quickly find foot holds and that the cracks in which her fingers had been wedged had not crumbled beneath her weight.

On the ledge, she collapsed and took a few deep breaths of cold air.

Looking around at the breath-taking sight of mountains upon mountains as far the eye could see, purpling into the horizon, she wondered for the millionth time what she was doing here.

07 October, 2011

in the time of things

I haven't been to the Tunnels of the Guard, I've lived there almost all my life. Anonymous. The Guards know me and just think I'm another one of them. I'm even on the rosters for the various duties and do everything they do. What they don't know is that there is no record of me ever joining the Guard. There are no files on my history or family - not even I know anything about my history. No one knows how old I am; and just because I've always been around, I just happened to slip onto the rosters. It was a natural progression.

At first, I was an exceptionally stupid probie. I could do drill, tie knots, keep up all day and night, but things like the Line Creed, the Oath and the Stance were things that some of my 'comrades' had to drum into me so that I did not get everyone else into trouble. Especially during inspection time. During those times, when everyone's files were scrutinised with a white microscope, I 'disappeared'. I had the reputation of being part of the Secret Services without needing to have said anything.

In the dark, I walk sure. Like the 'tunnel rats' that the Guard try to eradicate, I am sly. The 'tunnel rats' are my friends though. We always have been, because I was one of them before I managed to integrate myself into the Tunnels. Nobody likes the 'rats'. We were the thieves in the dark, the vicious packs that took down supply vehicles at night and set fires to the creeping Lines. The Lines didn't think we knew. They thought we, like the rest of the brainwashed citizens Above, were stupid. But we knew what the Lines were really up to and what the Lines true goal was and we weren't going to let our city turn itself over to them so easily.

We are the unsung heroes. The secret fighters of a rebellion nobody knows about. Everyone tries to squish us, but we fight to protect and survive. Nobody wants to live in a slowly shrinking cage. Most people don't notice a thing. They're too busy listening to the Lines, going to work, eating and sleeping. Our first rule is survival. The second is to prevent the Lines from taking over and enslaving the people Above. Hence I joined the Guard.

Yes, we are proud brats. Yes, we are an ignorant little peoples. But who was it who banned children from the cities? Who was it who sent us away to be beaten into submissive broken spirits in strict white institutions? Who was it who condemned the rest of the citizens Above to a slow death from age? Why shouldn't we have escaped en masse?

They say that with the Lines, all will be ageless. There will no longer be a need for children. We disagree. We have been watching and the 'ageless' are aging still. Soon, they will be so old that it will be a mercy to take their breath and lay them in the earth. Their minds are corroding.

Time cannot be stopped. Age cannot be forced to remain within a chosen decade. They may continue to look young, but their forgetfulness and useless, endless sticky notes are telling. All the time, their laws become more and more stupid.

People may only emerge from their houses at night if they have Night Duties.
People may only own 1 pair of glasses.
People must always carry remiders with them.
A male and female may not touch each other.
Marriage has been abolished.

What sort of world is this?

And what of the Lines?

The Lines know what they are doing. The Lines are the Enemy and if only the people Above would look into the history of the Lines more carefully, they will know that the very people they have been fighting all their lives are now the people they welcome with open arms.

Time cannot be stopped. And now only the 'tunnel rats' are the ones with real functioning brains. This is why we must emerge from our banishment and whether danger or safety, fight for our dying families that never loved us. If the Lines complete their mission, they will flush the tunnels. All that we are, all we have left will be lost and forgotten and the Enemy will have won.

Time cannot be stopped.
And children only grow wiser with time.

04 October, 2011


So we got going all ready and gung-ho to get some work down, but when we sat down. Nada. Nothing came to us. We couldn't stand that we had to sit and do work. And so we stood up again.

Ok. Yes, I am trying to torture you with some awful generic prose. It's amazing how easily difficult it is to write badly. You know what I mean. There are those days where you write something awesome and those days where you write so badly, you cringe and never want it to see the light of day. Although sometimes bits of genius shine through, just requiring that bit more of polish and care.

Let me torture you some more. You make some amusing faces and it just makes me laugh. There's not much to laugh at these days. So I laugh at you... and well... me. The mistakes, the puddles of muddles we make and the nonsense that get extruded and by no fault of its own gets thrown out to be trodden on, kicked and scuffed.

And so you know, I have almost no idea of what I am writing. This is just an exercise and I don't know what I'm going to write next, because my brain isn't exactly tuned into the world's frequency at present. A lot of things are not registering, but I suppose that's going to have to do for now. Until the next time I manage to get myself to write.

Up the balls of hot wispy air
Hungry tongues lick thoughtfully
and confused winds billow hair
so that clothes tug on end doubtfully.

Just realised how the poem above could be taken wrongly, by certain people. Thank you for your thoughts. This is to clarify that I was thinking of hot air balloons. Not anything else. Not even remotely.

30 September, 2011

Move along

"Move along, move along," barked the coarse voice from the shadows.
"Move along, move along," snapped another uniform just as gruffly.
"Down the road, down the road," sang a younger constable skipping, until his older counter-part bopped him a knop and eyed him with obvious meaning.
"Where are we going?" asked a bewildered woman with bedraggled hair and hat askew.
"Why are we going?" queried a street seller, nudging neighbour on cue.
"And who's orders, anyway?" the suited man demanded.
"Never mind, just move along," called the first policeman with a yawn.
"No," said one and, "NO!" said all the people they were herding.
"Look here," said the young constable in song, "you may have heard, you might have known that movie makers are entering town. You might be thinking, you might have sewn the sock's heel to the learning, but by happen-chance the cages opened and there are tigers here a-roaming. Frightened beasts and sorry bleats are echoing over yonder. So hurry along before they come, move along before my song is done."
And the people scattered.
"Good job," gruff uniform boxed the young one. "Now you've caused a riot."

bleurgh. this post is to be deleted...
dysfunctional thought fragments that cannot be put together.

26 September, 2011


Balance is regulated by 3 different body systems. The vestibular system (ear), the visual system (eyes) and proprioception - also known as joint position sense, the ability for the body to feel what angle or where a joint is in space. Different people tend to rely on certain systems more, although most people generally rely on their sight for stability.

Theo had good balance. He could walk the edge of the curb with his eyes shut and he would probably have been good on the tightrope, if his fear of heights permitted him to try. The fear of heights was the fault of his brother and the highest balcony of their old 3 storey house. They no longer lived in that house, but that is another story.

What Theo was good at was knowing exactly what position his body was at what angle and how much effort was needed to move a certain distance or achieve a certain amount of force. This was beyond proprioception and bordered on 'extraordinary body awareness'. It was because of this highly sensitive body awareness that Theo had good balance. How he got it, he never told me, but he did tell me what he did with it and this is his story:

This is where I run out of steam and need more ideas...

23 September, 2011

daydream time

Warm billowing air like fluffy marshmallow clouds drive to pillow sleepy heads during daydream time. Whether working at a desk or hammering on a roof, there comes that period of the day where time slows into deep motion and sounds fade until only the twitter of satisfied birds embed themselves in the brain. The air is silky smooth, the mind drifts on unchartered currents and working muscles still.

Another world. Another reality. Another lifetime. The slow-mo of what-ifs. Darkness beckons and weariness pulls downwards, making the heads nod in agreement to its monotnous song.

A phone rings.
Somebody comes in
and suddenly the feeling of almost driving into a brick wall at 100kph
shocks adrenaline into the system.
The rush and bustle of the end of the day
grows into a noisy race against time.
Things to do.
People to serve.
Phones keep ringing.
Papers to file.
Sections to put up.
Messages to reply.
Phones keep ringing.
People interrupt thought trains with questions.
Notes to write.
Notes to tick off.

People come in and out.
Phones keep ringing.

The quiet moment forgotten.

20 September, 2011


Sneaking in the shadows
and hiding in the shade,
colour coordinated ruffles
in blending schemes do wade.
Light of heart
and humour bound,
inward laughter billows,
while laces tied
and tricks a-wide
try shower you with pillows.
Flick and snip
on the ground,
the dancers spin much faster,
when suddenly the culprit runs
and all go running after.

19 September, 2011

Sunny day

On a sunny day of dome
the warm air rises faster.
Quickly do the lower levels pump
the cold smells upward after.
On these days the riders soar,
leaping onto vents
that wind streams may carry
up knee painted dents
and cause a tricking fall.

Thinking of a story...

16 September, 2011


I hear the trumpet calling
across the golden sun
in a field of windswept grass
where peacefulness doth run.

I hear the rippling of quiet waters
murmuring softly by
in a bed of silken sand
where polished pebbles lie.

I hear sweet voices singing
of greatness and of glory
for the coming children who
stand in beauty of their story.

I hear the children singing
in loud and happy chorus
of love and praise for their Dad,
whom gave everything for us.

I smell the scented air
from gentle, refreshing breeze
that has walked beside so many,
granting strength that will not cease.

Outside time and beyond the known
my Father's voice is calling,
trumpet ringing to augment his voice,
its smooth, gold notes are soaring.

Behind the world with all its care
Before the cross with all its shares.

Others have gone before me,
the golden path is worn,
but still I hesitate beside the sea
where bobbing boat adorned;
waits for me to take that step,
the final journey to my reward.
I'm not sure if I'm ready,
but to Him I'll toward,
knowing that if He's calling
today I'll meet my Lord.

Casting down burdens for light yoke,
in everlasting love I'll soak.

The old is past,
the new is come,
the story sung
and it is done.

For my two uncles who have passed away within 2 weeks of each other due to different circumstances.

You never really know when your time is up. Make it good. Make it last. Make it great and have a blast.

~By Korallieam

15 September, 2011

eery still

music stopped
wind eery still
who to talk to?
where to turn?
distance far
how to reach?
watching in slow motion
the people around me
one by

where is the horse and rider?
where is the promised aid?
covenant of covenants
promised word
must hold
or hearts will
and run away
if they run
more are exposed
not enough
to protect the
weak and young.

oh call again
perhaps they have not heard
maybe too far away
something has waylaid

still they fall
no one comes
was all the work in
i'll not run
and i'll not hide
small though
i am
not enough worth
for a capital
not enough
but still
still i'll stand
still i'll try
still i'll do my best
until all pass away
i'll not be
i will wait
until i fall
i will wait
for them all
and though i fail
and though it may be
perhaps i'll have made
enough time
for others to
enough way
for others to

music stopped
wind eery still
who to talk to?
where to turn?
distance far
promised word

One gone, the other in critical situation.

~By Korallieam

murky stars

Amidst the murky stars
stirring in the the thick water
floats all manner
of flotsam and jetsam.
Hearts have burst
and their pieces scattered
across a watery grave.
Heavy hands,
weary wills,
Reach for banks stable,
firm ground
and grasslands green.
Reach for silky water,
for skies of burning bright,
clear air that eases breath.
Look up to the hills,
a new day dawning,
white horse rampant.
Rider blowing horn,
help comes.
Strength upon strength
to raise up
the feeble knees
and sinking hands.
Redeemer of the lost,
saving those who
took the wrong turn,
even though they
Wrap around
and lift.
To the higher rock,
the refuge
and hiding place.
In that fortress
will return again
the joy
taken during
Grief like tattered rags
shall fall
and anointed
garments shall
take their place.

Hold fast
and don't let go.
He's coming back
for you.

~By Korallieam

11 August, 2011

Less and less

My posts are becoming less frequent as I busy myself with more and more stuff. Twylla is starting to emerge from hiding as her revisions got underway. Someone's stuck a stick in the works at present, but she should be in fine old form soon. As soon as I get over there and demand what happened to her part in the onion blog.

Less and less
Harder and harder
it is to write
one measly
good sentence.

A sentence should roar
the reader with
heart and soul
make them nod
and say
'yes, that's right'
'oh, so true,
but will you read that

bring to life
the inanimate.

06 July, 2011

middle day

From the highest heights of depth
to the lowest pit of zest,
there comes the growing of middle day,
the glowing light,
at even ray.
It betters thinkers
and those who stomach
ravelled blinkers,
to journey near
and journey far,
and progress further
than that distant star.
For with the coming of the least,
and confused roars of written yeast;
shall be enveloped by the sight
and with no more echo,
be taken with one
Dally no more with mouth a-wide,
Scatter thither with fastest stride.
For the home that you once knew
has changed,
a battered

17 June, 2011

This day

On this day the water flies
from the bows of sprinkling falls.
In the lettered lines of 'why's
imaging there the thickest walls.
Let no obstacle block the way,
in every circumstance just pray
for the end of shadowed night
and the cease of oppressive might.
Now is the time to stnd indeed,
all time given to thank 'spite need.

30 April, 2011

dusty seas

I have in my lifetime sailed all the dusty seas. From soap powder to manure clouds, I have survived all of these. There have been talcums and there have been perfumes as sweet or foul as celery. There have been sands and coloured friands, that tasted as good as gelatine.

In Cream I saw a giant who ate nothing but yellow beans and the ensuing clouds of gas powered cities from Scones to Greens. In Mocha there were powdered jellies that suspended all who screamed. In Jamity were agar whirlwinds which picked apart your seams. By the Jug of Fetta, did dusted icing run wild and over Torte De Omelette, heavy eggy clouds air defiled. Beneath the Bread of Pork and Vinegar, salt riots were the thing, while fashion sense in Maizely Cake was decidedly ricey themed.

Oh, I know all the types of seas and have swum in burning soda. I've even tried the border cayes where lime meets cream of tartar. There is no dust I have not sampled, no powder I have not tried. In all the world there is no mist or fog or cloud that I have been denied.

Save one.

You can see that I am old, but in my age am young. There is but one sea I have still to sail and here you bar it from me. Step aside and let me peek. Just let me have a look. For before I die, I would still like to try the rejuvenating Tea of Cook.

Fine. Stop a while and glare, you hulk. Show your head all bare. But by and by your eyes will sigh and I will slip in through that nook.

14 April, 2011


A present given without love is like being trampled in the mud.

23 March, 2011


Mountains scatter in the sky as clouds in waves float right on by. Dizzying colours in putrid puke dance along to happy uke. And then come whooshing out from Mars the dotted frenzy of the stars, dressed in yellows, pinks and blues, as many whites as could be used. Along the crawling, squeaking sand run thousands of spiders in a band. In people's toilets, they hide to scare, especially when your backside's bare. If that happens, don't run screaming, until you're dressed more seeming.

I don't feel so well today. Sigh.

03 March, 2011

on a break

Wow, my last post smelled of sewerage. Anyway, just so you know... going on a few weeks break. Too difficult to get a post up at present. Give me a few weeks, ok? I'll try to think up some good post-able topics in the meantime.

03 February, 2011

In just a while, crocodile

Just you wait, Mr Croc,
Just you wait there for the doc
Whom comes with tools a-plenty
To stop you snapping at the gentry.
Soon from handbags you will swing
And over pointy shoes will fling
The skin from which they plan to take
And into many items make.
Then over you will I laugh a while
Of how I killed the crocodile.

Heh. I know it sounds mean, but hey, maybe the crocodile had previously bitten the speaker's arm off. Who knows? Maybe the speaker only had one arm and that one the croc had eaten.

I'm not fond of crocodiles, but then I don't like the idea of killing them either. Just another day at the office, mates. This is what gets done.

30 January, 2011


Note: the following contains nonsense. Please excuse my indulgence.

There by the sink came a-rolling and a-marching. Twenty-four pipsqueaks following an army major barking. With the window open by the shellings piled high, kamikaze citrus tickled whiskered beetroots by. One by one the grilled tomatoes cried, just as the iceberg lettuce nestled at slivered mushroom side. High and higher bounce the tennis sets alrighty, while naked onions cried something quite mighty. Then came the planes of the juice of yellow peels, raining on the lanes of the leafy minted wheels.

I've run out of juice. Sorry.

29 January, 2011

shower time... and a little about writing stories

PINK: Hey, can you call me back later? I'm about to have a shower.

BLUE: Sure. So... in half an hour?

Pink: Maybe make that 3 hours.

Blue: You got something else on tonight?

Pink: No.

Blue: You take 3 hours to have a shower?

Pink: Yes... I mean, NO! I'm usually clean in 5 minutes.

Blue: Then what? Is there an elaborate moisturising ritual?

Pink: Most of the time is spent psyching myself up.

Blue: Does that mean you're scared of showers?

Pink: The rest of the time is spent either calming down or trying to get out of the drink.

Blue: You're scared of showers.

Pink: Not so much of showers. More of deluges.

Blue: Showers aren't deluges. They're little sprinklings of water that - what is that noise?

Pink: My shower.

Blue: Ok. That sounds like a serious deluge.

Pink: Yeah. Every time I go under it, I'm at serious risk of drowning.

Blue: You must be using so much water! Have you thought of changing the shower head?

Pink: I would if there was a shower head. Rivers don't exactly allow you to turn down their water flow.

Blue: Rivers?

Pink: Yeah. My shower is a waterfall. How cool is that? ... I mean, it's cool to look at and it sounds cool. It's not so cool when I'm in it and it's trying to kill me.

Blue: Where did you say you lived again?

Pink: I didn't. If I don't turn up to work tomorrow, you'll know I've drowned or been hit on the head by flotsam and drowned or caught by the current and drowned. Anyway, wish me luck!


Blue: A waterfall? For a shower?


A lot of people write stories. They talk about how difficult it is to write and how hard it is to stay on track on the one same story and how other shiny ideas come flitting to distract them. They talk about how they procrastinate and how they sometimes just can't be bothered.

I think it depends on whether writing is their trade or whether, like me, they just do it for fun. Shiny new ideas? Excellent. Find me a piece of paper and a pen to capture it. Store it for another time. Can't think of anything to write? Continue with another story or go do something else. Can't be bothered to write? Fine. Don't bother. Do something fun. Writer's block? Play with the block and make a tower of them. Want to really finish a story and can't be bothered? Imagine a boss standing over your desk, roaring, "Where is my story?" Keep procrastinating? Procrastinate away! There's still the rest of my life to - squirrel! finish the story.

It depends on your audience. If your audience is an audience of one, namely you, enjoy your writing time. Splurge. But if writing is your trade, your sole means of financial income... well... ignore everything I say here. Don't read any further. I mean it!

If you have a deadline for a written piece or writing is your trade. Then. This is what I would do (or do when I do have a deadline coming up for something). Imagine myself into an office environment. High rise buildings. Glass windows everywhere. Enclosed desk upon desk upon desk in the work room you share with your fellow minions. Typing or talking on phones feverishly. Slavishly. There is professionalism here. Expectation. And if you don't get your work done or your quota completed for that day, the boss will come calling. You'll be called in on an efficiency report. They'll reduce your pay and you will be reduced to the shrimp ranks shared by the beginners. And you don't want to have your work constantly interrupted by the more advanced workers demanding you make them a cup of coffee. Now.

Too scary?

You and your boss are good friends, even if you are his employee. Your office is situated directly outside his office and he's a very lenient understanding sort of man. He knows how much to expect of you and understands if sometimes, you don't quite meet deadlines. Even if he gets that disappointed light in his eyes. You don't want to fail your friend. It's his business after all. And if you don't get your work done, he has to take the fall for you. If he loses business, how is he going to pay you?

OR how about this?

You are a Roman slave. If you don't get this done and if you don't please your master, you will either be (a) whipped severely and thrown into the circus for the lions; (b) put in solitary confinement with a disgustingly dirty fellow slave covered with boils and all sorts of contagious diseases, not to mention the fleas and lice; (c) hanged and thrown into the circus for the lions; (d) sold to another master that will throw you in the circus for the lions at the slightest mistake; (e) killed somehow, like being tossed to a pack of hungry, goaded, angry, wild dogs or thrown into the circus for the lions.

Come on. Where's your imagination? You're a writer! You're meant to one of the world's most creative and imaginative people! You're the sort of person, who looks like a grown up, but still does play-acting in your free time when the house is empty and no one's in. You fight dragons with a sword one evening and are on the other side of the world performing espionage the next. You explore dripping caves in the shower and sink ships in a naval battle when you're washing the dishes.

Wait. Didn't I tell you to stop reading earlier? Oh. You're like me? You're writing stories for yourself because you've run out of books in the house (having read each one at least 10 times and new books are finished in a night, losing their attraction)? You don't care if your stories are never published and never seen by anyone other than yourself? Ah, then. Welcome my friend. You're welcome to read on.

Writing should be fun if it's your hobby. Like doodling pictures. Don't kill yourself over it. Don't put on weight, get carpal tunnel syndrome, have to get new super strong owl glasses, neck, shoulder and back strain just to write one measly story. This is writing practice. It's fun. It's only a first draft. It's about the art, the craft, the polishing to perfection and then stepping back in the end to admire it's beauty.

It's about creation. Entertainment. Having fun. Enjoying the sensation of building, making, forming, molding. Rollicking in the word play and smithing of the correct imagery. Surfing on the emotions and moods. It's about having adventure and the sort of people you have always wanted to meet come to life and becoming 3-dimensional amidst their 1-dimensional descriptions. New places! New worlds to explore! The familiar and the unfamiliar meeting in a maze of netting.

Forget the rest. It's all about story.

Without story, all your scribblings are exactly that. Scribbles.

I'm off to catch more of the shiny ideas floating around my head. I may never use them. Some are completely worthless, but some are real gems. The fun is in the chase and then the capture and then the carving and polishing to make them really shine.

13 January, 2011

green eyes, red eyes

The island is a small rounded crescent like shape that reminds me of a piece of an orange. It's not very big, only having a population of about 4000. Like a typical holiday island, it has glorious white and yellow sand beaches, warm crystalline water and huge over hanging palm trees. Like other similar islands, it has become a place of luxury resorts and tourism, where the rich come to relax and holiday with coconuts in one palm and their iphones in the other, all the while floating and sun-baking in one of the many large swimming pools dotted around the island. One would expect life here to be a relatively happy place - busy, full of life and yet laid back in every way.
Not so.
Every 100 days or so, somebody goes missing. Every single non-tourist lives in fear of this. They don't count the days of the year like the rest of the world - well they do, but locally, the year is defined by 3 and a half cycles of 100 days. On every 100th day, you will find the towns deserted. Not an open shop. Every person, save the confused tourists will be boarded up in their houses or hiding within the hotels, keeping a close eye on their children and every window and door to their household. No opening is left unboarded. Even toilets lids are strapped down until that night is over. Every man, woman and child will tape over the key holes and every crack they can find in the house before huddling together in their beds with ear plugs in their ears. When the sun finally peeks over the horizon the next morning, the citizens of the island will finally come out with a sigh of relief. They have survived another cycle. In the distance, there will be a wail of grief. Another one gone. Sometimes exactly who has gone missing is undiscovered for days.
No natives have lived or landed on this island for hundreds of years. Natives still refuse to come here and say if the Westerners want to be visited by the evil that lives there, who are they to stop them? The locals now living on the island have never been able to get a coherent story of the island's past. All they know is that there was romance, betrayal and a curse for revenge. That and the 'thing' that visits every cycle is female. A woman with one eye red and one eye green.

11 January, 2011

Be a good story

Life can really take it out of you. You get out of bed in the morning and what happens? You get steamrolled by a Femojan elephant that resembles nothing like an elephant - it looks more like a giant rh... never mind.
This is only going to be a short post. For reasons known only to the onions with the rotten cores sitting unhappily in my house and pretending to be good onions so that I will eat them, life can take unexpected turns. Not all of them unstressful. Understatements are the amuse bouche of the day, so bear with my incoherence. I'm tired, annoyed, frustrated and perhaps just a teeny-weeny little bit stressed. Hear me roar/scream/cry/shout/laugh all at the same time. Of course, like me, it's inaudible. Being inaudible in itself can be like settling into your favourite armchair and just when you are getting comfy, a great big grizzly bear decides to sit on you. It gets comfy sitting on you and who are you to complain (right)? You don't want to get eaten or ripped limb from limb... and while you are sitting there suffocating under a ton of fur and fat, guess what? Yeah, a hoarde of animals come along one by one and sit on top until you are a veritable pancake beneath the weight of a million animals and creatures of all sizes.
Life is short. Any day could be your last. God only knows which day, which hour, which minute, which second. But I concur. Life is much like being chased up and down mountains and valleys; in and out of forests and fields; caves and waterfalls; rivers and oceans (- ok, the whole entire galaxy), yet wherever you go you're being hunted. Yep it's a man hunt by your deepest, darkest nightmare. Others will only see a blur and have a distinctly uncomfortable feeling of danger and move out of your nightmare's way, before they too get embroiled within it. Sometimes they don't move fast enough and get eaten. Then you blame yourself for all your inadequacies.
The point is, life is a gift. It may not be one you like. But hey, well, you've only got one chance.
Life is a story. Your story. Your magnus opus. This is your only shot at making good with what you got and showing the whole entire universe that you exist and exist for a reason. Almost everyone (save a few weirdos) love a good story. Make your story worth having lived through the tedious.
Make your story, a good story. Live life. Live loud and face up to those challenges, cos what's an epic story without the breakthroughs and the impossibles that became possible by miracle?
Hope you make it through the day without somebody coming along and drawing fake moustaches/beards/ornaments on your face with a permanent marker.

04 January, 2011

roasting with patience

Yesterday was a bit like today, but unlike today. Sorry? Oh, you mean, how does that make sense? Nevermind the details are unimportant. The troll's toenail clippings are. That's disgusting? Of course it is, but if you come over here (just remember to hold your nose), you may notice that stuck to the dirt beneath the nail there is where your lost earring may be found. No problems at all. What? My fault? What? How is it my fault that you snuck into the cave when I told you not to and nearly got eaten? How is it my fault that you accidentally kicked the troll in the eye when you tripped over a clot of dry snot and fell onto his sleeping mat? I beg your pardon! Language, my dear friend. Language! Do you like being woken up by being poked hard in the eye by a twig of a limb? I should think not.

Good idea. I forgot where we were for a moment. Hush! Don't laugh. It's - eeew... not funny. You try falling waist deep into a pool of drool and see whether it's funny or not. Help me out here. No, I'm not wiping it on you on purpose - that is unless you want me to. Come here you. Let me give you a hug. SSSSHHHHHHH!!!! Don't shout so loud. You'll wake him up!

Yes. I agree. Let's move on. Goodness, saliva is sticky stuff. Disgusting. You reach under the pillow. Carefully now. I'd get glued to the thing if I tried. That's it. That's it. Slowly... slowly... Look at the beauty! Come on. Let's find the right jewellry box. Nononononono - don't - ok you've done it this time. Run! What? Don't - don't give the key to... me...

Ummm, sorry to wake you up sir, but if you'll just excuse me...

Don't - you - ever - do - that - ever - again! Next time just drop it and run! What? I'm... oh. So I am. How did I run as fast as I did still holding onto the thing? Nevermind. Oh look. There's the box. No, no. I dare not. Let's hide away somewhere until he's gone back to sleep or left the cave or something. Trolls have an awful sense of smell, despite their gigantic noses. It's because their noses are always blocked. Full of thick globs of green mucus. That's why they snort so much. Didn't you know? Perfectly. We're perfectly safe, so long we sit still... and from the looks of things, the troll is trying to wait us out. Trolls have extremely bad eyesight too. Sit still and we'll just look like little globs of dirt. So what? We certainly look like it now.

03 January, 2011


Some days writing something here is not a top priority - like when you need to go save the world from being blown up by megalomaniacs or when you've been royally summoned by the current monarch of Terebinthia or when there's been a dalek invasion or when someone is trying to bring cybermen back to life and the Doctor's no where in sight. Then there are the times the Queen has ordered you to go on a super-secret mission and you might disappear for weeks; times SG10 have lost their DHD and can't dial home from a hostile planet and need rescuing; times Atlantis is under attack again and Rodney McKay has accidentally been locked in a room that he is having trouble getting out of because there is a saboteur fighting him over the network systems; times Brennan and Beckett have gotten themselves kidnapped, into deep water and you're the only person who can tell Booth and Castle where to find them - then there's the trouble of getting through the bad guys to get to them. There are also the times when the toilet falls apart or you've forgotten to muck out the chickens' stalls and feed or water them for three days and they are in danger of dying or the washing machine is bubbling or the microwave blew up or the pressure cooker blew up or you just plum need some rest from all the work you've been doing (such as the above).

Yeah. Sometimes this becomes a much less priority when you have to fight to keep your job and to avoid having to repeat a whole 4 years of training all over again... and haven't been well for the entirety of the first holiday longer than a day that you've had this year. Ok. So what if I'm exaggerating? You get the gist.

It's not like anybody bothers even staring at my ants marching across the screen. I mean, where does that get fun? No colours, no pretty pictures, just using your imagination to see the landscape from the top of the steep cliff where the clouds are your neighbours, icy breezes comb their fingers through your hair and below you... well. Below you are clouds of green. Like the tops of broccoli. A whole sea of them. They could well be a mass of green-dyed, afro-style hair-dos. Every now and then, a warmer whiff of air rises from below and brings the smell of wet earth, growing things and ammonia. From this position, you can see the edge of the forest and what direction you should be going in, but once beneath the trees you know you are likely to lose all sense of orientation as the sun goes hides behinds layers and layers of clouds, dooming you to wander lost in the bush/forest for the rest of the days of your life - forcing you to become a wildman/woman that scavenges and fights with the animals for survival in this place so unlike the city with its shops and fast food. You don't even know what plants are likely to be edible, much less animals and you don't even want to think of what insects might taste like, although the thought of grubs and giant beetles is beginning to seem rather meaty - more and more edibly appetising. This thought makes you want to cry. You might never see your new yellow Bumblebee car again.

It's like when we had DOS. Everything was words on the screen and you couldn't even scroll to see what it said before. If you forgot the instructions from the screen before, well, too bad. Either you had to repeat the command and read 200 words per second or you just made something up and went with the flow. Now we can have multiple windows, scroll up and down and even have dinky things like hyperlinks in the form of a picture button thing. Guess times change.

So this is me ranting. Ranting for no particular reason. Crying to deaf ears that cannot hear me through this screen and to blind eyes who will read this post and do a double take. 'What is this mad woman going on about? She can't even spell appetising right!' Americans and their obsession with being different from the rest of the world. I don't have to spell it with a 'z' if I don't want to, ok? I'm feeling particularly stubborn today, so don't get me in the mood - cos I will fight you with a chainsaw. Maybe an axe. Or a sword and shield. Shield would be a good idea. Ok then. A longbow. Nah. Machine gun would be better. Over faster and less way you can run and hide.

Listen to me talk! I am in a murderous mood aren't I? I may have to run and hide from myself if that keeps up. I have found the majority of the Series 5 Doctor Who transcripts here: http://jpgr.livejournal.com/ But you will have to trawl through their archives to get it. I don't like their journal set up, because you can't search through past posts easily, but who am I to judge? It's not like my blog's set up any better. Still looking for 'A Christmas Carol' transcript. I've got all the other transcripts for the new Doctor Who to date. You can find them somewhere if you search google. There's a guy that has done 2005+ and has an archive of the classic series as well. I think. Go find it yourself. I can't be bothered right now finding out his web address (largely because I haven't yet learnt how to make links in HTML yet). I'll get to it one day. If anyone finds someone who has transcripts for the tv series Castle, please let me know. I'll be happy to hear from you.

For a long long day
And a long long night
We can sing this song
Give ourselves a fright
Until we're sick of it
And will have a fit
At least it's not
'This is a song that never ends...'