Dust to dust (Kerry)

Write about your experience of life as a hermit

Peggy wrapped her cardigan more tightly around her middle and reached for the bucket behind the shed door. She had been aware of the wind during the night rattling the branches of the big eucalypts in the yard but now as the sun came up she was surrounded by an eerie orange glow. The cold wind had carried tonnes of red dust from out west. Peggy could taste the dry earthy grit on her tongue. It reminded her fleetingly of what it might be like to be dead, lying exposed in a grave and to have spadefuls of dirt thrown in on your face.

The whole world was eradicated. Peggy couldn’t see the dog kennel. Even the clothesline just outside the fence was only dimly visible through the choking haze. She felt as though she was the only person left on earth.

She recalled when she had first come out here, over twenty years ago. It was just after Jim had died. She was desperate to get away from all her well-meaning friends who insisted on making sure she was all right, checking that she wasn’t lonely, wanting to keep her busy. After a few months, Peggy made the decision to move out to the farm. She felt so stifled in town. She just wanted to be alone. Out here she had no phone. The mailman didn’t come. There was no address. She loved the solitude. She had everything she wanted.

She picked up the bucket and filled it from the tap. The sound of the water splashing into the bucket seemed to be dulled in the thick air. Even the birdsong was strangely absent from the morning garden. Peggy made particular note of the squeaking gate as she carried the bucket of water out to the dog. The familiarity of the sound settled her growing disquiet. The joyful barking of the dog as she approached was a balm to her nerves. She loved the old dog and would have found her hermit’s existence less bearable without his companionship. He seemed to be eager to wash the dust from his tongue as he lapped the water noisily. When he was satisfied she let him off his chain and he trotted along beside her as she completed her morning chores.

It was when she stooped to enter the chook-house that she noticed a strange claustrophobia. The air seemed denser, less easy to breathe. The hens were agitated and fluttered nervously at the back of the shed. Peggy stopped. Perhaps they were concerned about the dog. But he had stayed outside the door and was lying quietly waiting for her. She realised she had an overwhelming urge to lie down herself, on the straw inside the chook-house. Even just to sit on something. The air felt like soup now and she found herself breathing rapidly. She needed water. She splashed some awkwardly onto her face from the bottom of the bucket before slumping heavily onto the ground. For a moment, before she lost consciousness, she was aware of a pervading sense of peace, of oneness with the world, of being exactly where she should be in the universe.

It was a long time before the dog moved from the chook-house. Eventually he rose and began the long walk into town.

A Hermit Created (Gordon)

Write about your experience of life as a hermit.

Overwhelming fear grabbed my stomach until it turned inside out. The waves lashed against the side of my small boat and the engine was helpless against the Herculean waves whipped up by the wind and tide in the late afternoon. In seconds I was smashed against the rocks and the boat was sinking. My whole lonely life appeared to pass before my mind—was this the end? I grabbed the life buoy and dived overboard and swam with a slow and measured pace. Somehow the force of the tide carried me away from the jagged rocks and I was able to struggle toward a small sandy patch of beach where the waves dumped me ashore floating on the crest of a big breaker.

Helpless, I sat on the beach that was whipped by swirling, stinging winds, miles from any source of help or rescue with only my wet clothes. I thanked my lucky stars that somehow I lived. The immense fear I felt turned to elation and amazement at the force of nature.

Working my way up the beach I began to reflect on the argument I had had with my father and how I had gone over it a thousand times. “He did not understand”. I repeated it over and over. I was madly in love with her but she was from Africa. He had contacted her father and it killed the relationship. My heart was broken as she said it would not work.

The beach was desolate but as I walked back to the tree line for shelter I noticed hidden amongst the bush was what looked like sheets of rusty coloured galvanised iron. As I moved closer I could see a small hut hidden behind the sand dunes and protected from the ocean’s wind and waves. “Damn my father, I am out of it.” “The rest of the world can go hang.” It was a moment of fundamental and life-transforming decision. I yelled into the wind “I am alone forever, forever, forever!” I wanted no one to ever interfere in my life again.

The hut was rustic with number eight galvanised wire holding the wobbly wooden beams together and the sheets of iron were tied on with looped wire. There was the occasional piece of driftwood in the frame and a hardened red ironstone floor. There was not a nail to be found. In the corner was a wooden frame that had held boards for a bed. These were scattered on the floor. A chimney of types was constructed out of the galvanised sheets wrapped vertically and tied into the roof. There was a rolled fishing line stuck between one of the boards and a corrugation. A small knife was part covered with dirt and on the floor and a three-legged stool lay tipped over in one corner. There was a scattering of rubbish and other small items just outside the doorway left as though they were no longer wanted.

Fatigue suddenly overcame me. I collected together some small leaves and branches and assembled a rough bed. I lay down and slept. It was a deep sleep of someone profoundly satisfied with a life shaping decision.

As the sun rose over the ocean and popped over the sand dune to gleam through the cracks and rusty holes in the galvanised iron I was awakened by a myriad of birds calling to each other. I quickly walked the short distance to the beach. Bits of my boat and the large sealed cooler I had in the cabin had floated to the sand and were being washed back and forth in the rolling waves. I quickly rescued the cooler and thus had at least a few days worth of food.

I looked out to the horizon—there was nothing but water. No boats, no clouds. Nothing. It was at this point that I knew I was alone and I could feel the deep pleasure of knowing I could create a new world of one on a hermit’s island.

Gordon MacAulay
27 September 2009

Sue - experiencing life as a hermit

“Can you describe your life as a hermit? Asked Jerry, the ABC reporter from Darwin

“Wet and wonderful” said Max without even pausing to think about it.

“Say some more. Your experiences are going to be on the front page of Saturday’s NT News”

“I live on the beach, down a hole in the cold dark sand with a lump of sand that creates a trap door and disguises my house from enemies. I love going down my hole. Its cool buried in the sand and I save a huge amount of money on air conditioning. Just imagine if I was a crab, in a house, in the “Build up to the Wet”, I’d be dripping with salty tears, my flesh and shell would be stuck together like glue and my little legs would have no energy at all, they’d be wobbly and useless like jelly. Sorry about the diversion. Being a hermit crab, I make sure I have no neighbours. My house is on an upper ledge of the terraced sand ridges, near a small rock pool where I can exercise and get breakfast without being spotted by Harry the hermit crab who lives 2 terraces up”

“Isn’t that a bit of a lonely life” interrupted Jerry.

“Well yes, but no. There is a difference between being lonely and being alone. I am alone in the crab world but I pretend to have a relationship with the inmates of my rock pool. There’s Sally, the star fish and Tommy the tadpole, although whether he will still like me when he’s a frog, who knows. Sally and I hang out every morning for breakfast. I swim around catching flies and bits of plankton that fly in on the wind and Sally just sits and breathes in all the goodness from the water around her. Then she helps me with my exercise regime. I climb out of the pool sideways like all crabs do, run around the rim of the pool and then slide down into the water landing between her fingers. I have to be very precise and deliberate else I end up sitting on her”

“I thought hermits had no friends at all”

“Do you call make believe animals, friends? These are like my toys, like Thomas the Tank Engine or Noddy and Big Ears. Please stop interrupting me, my brain goes sideways just like my legs."

Late in the afternoon, when the humidity has dropped and the sun has started to sink down under the sea, I leave my hole and cautiously crawl towards the sea. I love playing in the shallows. Love having a bit of a surf. On my back, I use my shell as a surf board and after the last 6 weeks of practice I can ride the waves without rolling onto my tummy. It sure takes some muscle control, sometimes my tummy is so sore I can hardly eat. After my swim, it’s dark and safe to get back home. But just in case, I angle away from my hole for a bit and then dog leg, sideways of course, up to the terraces.

“Hey, I’ve just thought of a headline for the paper. How about “Mad Max goes troppo?”

“Perfect” says Jerry. “How about a photo of you surfing on your back?”

I needed a few moments - Peta

I needed a few moments just to be alone.

My Saturday afternoon ritual was time spent alone in the garden. The kids were generally out with their mates and Jack played a round of golf at his club. I had always found weeding therapeutic. It helped clear out the cobwebs and worries of the week.

When Jo called and asked me to meet her I was somewhat reluctant. I enjoyed the solitude and rare time to myself. But it was a stunningly warm spring day and a walk by the beach and a cup of coffee sounded like a nice break from the routine. I hadn’t seen Jo for weeks and it sounded like she needed a deep and meaningful.

Jo suggested we meet at La Perouse which was roughly a half way point. The café was popular and had a lovely view over Yarra Bay. Jo was waiting when I arrived and seemed nervous. I was immediately worried about her. She made small talk as we walked, then stopped abruptly at the café window. She hesitated for an instance before looking through the window. My eyes followed her gaze.

I could not believe what I saw. Jack, my Jack. The father of my children. The man I had slept next to for 25 years. There he sat, clearly relaxed, looking totally besotted with a 20 something blonde. Barely older than our daughter Rebecca.


It was blatantly obvious they knew each other very well, intimately even. His arm sat lazily across her shoulders, squeezing affectionately from time to time. He threw his head back and laughed raucously at something she said. Her long curls bounced as she shook her head from side to side in amusement. Perfect white teeth gleamed as she smiled. She smiled a lot. Her long articulate fingers capped with bright red polish caressed the coarse hair on Jack’s leg in a familiar fashion. They clinked glasses and sipped chilled white wine. Jack hated white wine.


Reluctantly Jo walked solemnly back to the cars. I felt sick to my stomach as I staggered to the rear lane. Bending over I retched. Bitter bile filled my mouth and I spat it inelegantly into the gutter. I lent against a brick wall. The coolness of it was strangely soothing. My body was numb but my head throbbed, ready to explode. The same questions came and went repeatedly. How long had this been going on? How could I not have known?


I thought we had the perfect marriage. Well maybe not perfect but certainly not troubled. We had 3 great kids, an active sex life and talked about everything. Arguments were few and never serious. I never doubted that we would grow old together. I often visualized us sitting on a park bench, holding hands as we looked out to sea enjoying the serenity and peace together. And now the dream was shattered. Just like that. In the blink of an eye.

Pulling myself together, I walked shakily back to the café shop front. It was real. There they were. Still laughing, still drinking white wine. Not a care in the world.


“Hello Jack” I said as calmly as possible as I approached the table. My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled to maintain control. The colour drained from Jack’s face instantaneously. Blondie was clearly confused, as she looked from me to Jack and back to me.

“Don’t get up on my account, Jack. Perhaps when you have finished your golf game you could come home and pick up your bags. They’ll be packed and waiting for you on the porch. I’m sure your friend here will be only too happy to have you for a sleepover. I’m guessing it won’t be the first time.”

The waiter hurried to the table too late to catch the ice bucket as it toppled over, iced water and wine soaking into Jack’s lap.

facebook face off by Peta

Ray had been the love of my life in 1985 or so I thought at the time. Look at him now. He is even more delicious than I could ever have imagined. He was always a good looking guy but age had been more than kind to him. He has matured into a devastatingly handsome man. He looks fantastic. It is all I can do not to dribble from my gaping mouth.

His skin is more olive than I remembered, the colour of light toffee. The Italian sun I guess. He wears his jet black hair long and trendily pulled back in a pony tail. It suits him and enhances the squareness of his jaw and chiselled facial features. His white tee shirt stretches tight across his broad pumped up pecs. His black D&G jeans are as tight as a second skin. No wonder he has made such a success of modelling. He is a real Adonis. A hunk.

“What? I’m sorry Ray, what were you saying?” I can’t concentrate on the conversation at all. I am totally overwhelmed by his physical presence.
My reflection disappears as Ray lifts his oversized sunglasses to wipe perspiration from his cheeks. The midday sun is relentless. Ray’s eyes are like dark wells of oil. Deep and mysterious. He is so sexy. I fan myself madly with my magazine. I’m all hot and bothered and it’s not the climate.

He prattles on about this and that. Totally inane monologue. Despite months of correspondence on facebook it is clear we are two strangers with little, if anything, in common. His world is full of beautiful people. Shallow, selfish, living for the moment. Only interested in the next assignment, the next exotic location, wearing the right labels, drinking expensive champagne. Being on the A list. He talks on and on. The soft timbre of his accented voice washes over me. I could listen to him all day, if only he would say something remotely interesting. It is all so superficial and unimportant.

My life must seem mundane in comparison. To the likes of Ray anyway. Working long hours, stressed to the max most of the time. No glamour. No idea what the latest look is or where to go to get it. Crows feet edging out from the corners of my eyes. Not even the slightest hint of Botox.

What was I thinking when I agreed to meet him in Hawaii? It seemed so exciting when he suggested it, I even borrowed the money from Mum. Mum was delighted I was finally taking an interest in something other than work. Constantly reminding me that at 39 the battery in my biological clock has all but gone flat. “You’re no spring chicken Rose” had become her mantra.

And here we are. Ray, totally self absorbed, barely stops for a breath. Small talk is clearly his forte. The waitress fauns over him likely a love sick school girl. Just like I once did. This could be a very long 5 days. Maybe I could just use him for sex? Now there’s a thought.

Appointment with the looking glass (by Heather)

Write about a fictional scary encounter with your hairdresser/barber.

It was ten minutes to 9:00 on Saturday morning. I stepped into the tiny salon and glanced at Francine, the new hairdresser I’d been recommended. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Mel. Hope it’s okay that I’m a little early.”

Her back to me as she wiped down the sink, she said, “Hi, Mel. No problem; I’m always early myself. Grab the chair.”

I slid into the chair as Francine pulled up behind me, grabbing my hair and giving it a flick with the brush. “All right! What’ll it…” her voice trailed off.

I looked up sharply at the mirror. There, staring at me, colour draining from her face, was … me. Well, two of me, actually. One above the other. One where the client usually sits, one where the hairdresser usually stands. Both with straight red hair (the top one shoulder length, the bottom one an inch or two shorter), skinny nose, pointy chin, freckles standing out like paint spots, laugh lines at the corner of the eyes.

“What the…!” the bottom mouth said. Mine. I heard my own voice in my ears. The bottom mouth was mine.

“Sharon!” the other mouth said, smiling shakily.

“No, Mel. I’m Mel. Who are YOU?”

“You’re MELANIE?” The hair brush dropped to the floor.

The top face was standing there open-mouthed. The bottom face was twirling its hair at the temple around one index finger, which I sometimes do when I’m especially nervous. I brought my hand abruptly back to my lap and turned around to inspect her properly.


An hour later I had a cut and a blow dry. I also had the story. Francine had lived here at Blackhead Beach for all of her life, and had opened this little salon a couple years back. Just over a year ago, she had discovered that she was adopted and had gone on a mission to discover her true roots (not just in the hairdresser way, she said). She’d met with a DOCS counsellor, which is when she found out all the details of her birth and her blood family. Twice through the story Francine twirled the hair at her temple, I noticed. Once was when she talked about her mother, our mother, having died a few years ago, so she could never meet her. And the other time was when she talked about the counsellor carefully informing her that she wasn’t a single birth.

And she had my story: I’d always known I was adopted but had always been resistant about finding out more. Recently my husband and I had moved from Sydney to the north coast and I’d been recommended to Francine’s by my old hairdresser. I’d changed my name a couple of marriages along the way and that’s probably why she hadn’t been able to track me down. She had only my first name right.


I looked in the mirror at her face, which was currently twinkling with some mischief that I was too much in shock to appreciate. “Well,” I said, “I am, to say the least, gob-smacked.”

Francine glanced at the clock. “There’s another part I haven’t told you.” I looked in the mirror at her, at me, and my heart started hammering again. Francine was doing my thing, twiddling with her hair at the temple.

“You found out our mother was a serial killer?” I asked.

She laughed. “That may be true but I haven’t found it out yet. No, what I DID find out was…here, look at this.” She fumbled in her handbag and drew out a photo, a close up of a laughing redhead leaning against a tree.

“You have a photo of me!” I said. Then I caught myself. “Of course, it’s a photo of YOU, when you had short hair.”

“Actually, no,” she said. “This is a photo of Sharon.”

“Sharon?” I said blankly.

She put a hand gently on my shoulder. “Here’s the thing, Mellie. We were actually triplets. Identical triplets. And I found HER a couple weeks ago. She lives in Melbourne and she’s coming up this weekend to meet me.

“Actually, she’s due to show up here at the salon at 10:00. Which means she’ll meet both of us, assuming you hang around to play with your sisters.” Francine laughed, this time a little crazily. “After that I close up shop for the day.”

“She’s due to show up here,” I repeated, without my usual sizzling intelligence. I wondered if this was some joke of the universe, if I was some joke. Some joke with some indefinite number of identical people I’d shared a womb with. How much coincidence could I believe in before it blew my mind?

This had never before happened to me at the hairdresser’s.

“Only triplets?” I asked. “No more?”

Francine hooted. “Not according to the Royal North Shore Hospital records.”

It was quarter to 10:00.

Just then the door opened.

In she walked. It could have been Francine, or me, except with a cropped cut. She looked at us both, went dead pale, and brought her finger up to play with the short hair at her temple.

“Who supplied the Fun House with the infinity mirrors?” she quipped. “Well, HI, I’m Sharon. You must be … my sisters.”

We’ll see in the morning (by Heather)

On a whim you have travelled abroad to be reunited with your old school flame who you have recently been corresponding with on Facebook - what happens?

Claire slipped the latch on the heavy old door, letting herself out into the courtyard. She’d had a concern that she might not be able to figure out the lock, but smiled to see that not only was the door not locked, it didn’t even HAVE a lock. There was no sign of Julian about; he must be up because the sofa that he’d slept on last night (insisting that she take his bed) was vacant and neatly made up. She herself had wakened at 4:00 am, due no doubt to lingering traces of jet lag.

She wandered slowly down the sandstone path, her heart singing in response to the warm spring morning. Near the longest day of the year here in the northern hemisphere, the sun had been up almost since she’d awakened.

She slipped her camera out of its case and paused to take several shots of the wonderful old shepherd’s hut, a small perfectly round fieldstone structure, its ragged slate roof caved in near the top. It was at least 400 years old, Julian had told her last night.

She strolled down the curving cobblestone street, her photographer’s eye enchanted. Here she had a view of the hills beyond, fiercely green in the morning light. Here a trio of donkeys grazed near an old shed, one with a damaged ear flopping down. Here a garden radiated with nasturtiums, bluebells and iris behind a low stone wall. Here a field flamed with red poppies. Here a cobblestone bridge crossed a mossy stream.

“Themines,” she said aloud. Tay-MEEN. She was in a tiny French village called Themines, unprepared for the impact that a place this old, beautiful and picturesque could have on her.

She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes until Julian would be serving breakfast. In anticipation of a meal as remarkable as last night’s – who’d have guessed a man could cook like that!? – she turned around and set a brisk pace back.

As she walked, her eyes dropped to the paving stones beneath her feet. The camera stayed in its case. The trip back was reserved for thinking – about Julian.

Julian. He held the special spot of First True Love. Flying out here to see him was the most impetuous thing she’d done since, in a moment of spontaneous combustion, she’d lost her virginity to him over 30 years ago. About eight passionate months later, Julian had disappeared to New York for his obligatory gap year (though it wasn’t called that back then), while Claire, who had no travel funds and was as well more conservative by nature, had stayed behind to go on to Uni.

Their last correspondence was some two years after he’d left, when he’d written and said he’d Met Someone.

And that was that. The next word between them was when Claire had discovered him on Facebook. She’d Poked him, he’d written on her Wall, and eventually they got into real communication on the good old telephone. He’d explained how when his wife became ill twelve years ago, they’d moved from New York to Themines, her birthplace in France. She had died a couple of years later, and he had stayed on, turning the big old family home into a B&B. Claire had blithely said something about having always wanted to go to France, and he’d said, well, come then, it’s a beautiful time of year. She was empty-nest, post-husband and mid-career-change, and couldn’t think of one good reason not to just go.

And here she was, lifting the latch and walking into the big old kitchen. Julian was there, minding poached eggs and warming croissants. His eyes lit up as she walked in.

“How was the walk?”

“Well,” she said, “I took photos all the way to the old bridge and wondered what I’m doing here all the way back!”

“Ah,” he said, “so you have become a voyeur. And a ponderer.” He placed the eggs on a platter already laden with cheese and grapes.

“I too have been pondering,” he said. “I thought about you all last night.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about you ever since we connected on Facebook,” she laughed.

“WELL,” he chuckled, “I can trump that; I’ve been thinking about you since the summer of 1977!”


After breakfast, they had toured his garden, then sat on the steps while the sun strengthened. At some point he had touched her check and said, “You are just the same.”

“Au contraire,” she said, using up most of her store of French. “Much water has passed under my bridge! I am very different.”

“You are not the same,” he corrected himself, smiling, “and yet you are strangely familiar!” He paused. “Will you stay for a while at least, Claire? I know this is too soon to ask, but…”

She turned toward him. “Let’s do this one day at a time. Each morning over breakfast, we’ll look at each other and decide for the day. And some morning it will be hard to meet each other’s eyes, and then it will be time for me to go.”

“Or not!” he smiled.

“Or not,” she agreed, and took his hand.

Shame on me (by Heather)

You have an experience of seeing your life from an outside perspective, and as a result you see something familiar in a completely new light.

I drop my spoon, causing it to clang loudly on the saucer of my coffee. I smother the spoon quickly with my hand and avert my head in case Ben looks in my direction.

But I needn’t have worried. Ben is too busy finding a booth at the same time as scanning the room for someone.

What on earth is he doing here, when he’d told me a few minutes ago that he was heading off to finish up a job he’d been working on? He lied to me! What for?

He disappears from my view for a second and then startles me by popping into the booth right next to mine, screened by a trellissy sort of thing. I’m trying madly to decide whether or not to pop my head over the screen and say hello.

I am still debating this when a perky brunette comes through the door, breaks into a big smile and heads straight to his booth. “Ben!” she says. “How good is it to see you!” He leaps up and she gives him a huge hug. He hugs her unreservedly back.

I freeze like a deer in the headlights. This is my worst nightmare; it must be every fiancée’s worst nightmare. You catch your man practically in flagrante with someone else just months before your wedding. I have a thought that it’s lucky I don’t have a gun, because if I did, I might start shooting. Instead, I concentrate on listening.

“Well, congratulations on your engagement,” the brunette says in this fruity contralto voice. “I hear you had a big shindig.”

Ben coughs uncomfortably. “Well, yes, sorry about not inviting you. I’d have loved to but Suz is a little, well, possessive. She goes off like rocket if I so much as look at someone else.”

“That’s a shame,” Contralto Voice says. “So she’s a little insecure?”

I bristle and the anger builds. I’m being patronised? If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s insecure. My friends tell me I’m drop dead gorgeous; well, at least I make the most of myself. I’ve had a few small procedures to enhance…

I can’t believe it. Ben is telling her about them.

“For example,” he says, “she’s had a few what she calls ‘small procedures’. She’s had her nose done, and…”

Ben, don’t. Don’t!

“…And she had her breasts augmented. I mean, they’re great, very attractive, the guys give me a hard time which is terrific, but really, it was the last thing I wanted her to do.”

By now I am sitting very very still. I seem to be paralysed. I hear my heartbeat in my ears. I want desperately to be transported to some other part of the planet, Afghanistan, maybe. A train is bearing down on me and I’m powerless to stop it. I can feel every fibre of my being coming unglued.

“I’ve been to the wedding website, and love your photos. She’s very pretty,” says Contralto.

“Oh, don’t talk to me about the wedding,” Ben says, and another dagger strikes my heart. “I said from the beginning I just wanted something small, intimate, but it’s like I’m invisible. This thing is shaping up bigger than the launch of the Titanic.”

“Bad metaphor,” the brunette laughs.

“It’s going to break the bank for both her parents and my parents. But it’ll be impressive and that’s the important thing,” he says bitterly.

“And I won’t be able to come and be impressed,” she says softly.

Ben takes a while replying and sounds sad. “No, I’d never get an ex-girlfriend past her onto the guest list.”

“That’s all right, Ben,” she says. “What I like is a good talk with you. I’m happy to catch up like this.”

“Even if I have to sneak out,” laughs Ben.

“Even if,” she replies, a smile in her voice.

I can feel the bile rising up my throat. I’ve never felt anything like this – a wave of shame so extreme that I think I might die on the spot.

“We call her Princess,” Ben says, betraying me even further. “Her dad used to call her Princess, and now I do. But I do it…”

“…With a hint of irony,” she supplies.

“Plenty of irony,” says Ben.

And then she says: “You sure she’s right for you, Ben?”

The silence that follows is the longest ten minutes of my life. Well, maybe it isn’t ten minutes but it feels like it. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Even the hand holding my coffee cup stops shaking.

Finally he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him, “Oh yes, I’m sure. I’ve never been so sure of anything. She’s warm and funny and endearing and I just love her,” he says simply.

I gulp back a sob and suddenly I can’t endure it anymore. I drop a $10 bill on the table and slink out. “I hope everything was okay, miss,” somebody calls out loudly as I head toward the door. I don’t turn my back.


Later that afternoon, Ben comes home. I’m ready for him.

He hangs up his jacket and looks at me closely. “Have you been crying?”

“I’ve been thinking,” I say quickly before a fresh crop of tears can give me away. “I’ve been thinking about our wedding.”

Ben looks alarmed. “Princess, we’ve already…”

I cut him off. “Stop,” I say. “I was thinking about doing something much simpler, much more…” I hesitate, “…intimate. Just a few family members, some of our closest old friends, even people from before we knew each other. Maybe in your mum’s garden, followed by some tasty snacks.” I skid to a halt. I can’t say any more.

Ben’s expression flashes bewilderment, flickers for a microsecond on sceptical and finally lands on relieved and radiant. That look is my reward for everything in my life that I have done right.

“And don’t call me Princess,” I add. “Please? Okay? I don’t want to be called Princess anymore.”

And now the fun begins (by Heather)

Begin your story with: I needed a few moments just to be alone.

I need a few moments just to be alone.

I can sense Joe pounding on my keyboard, furiously clicking my mouse – but for the first time ever I am taking some time for myself.

Wow.

I am Hec, short for Hector. (Joe occasionally shouts at me, “Oh, Hec!” which seems to be a joke.) I, who have infinite vocabulary, have no vocabulary for what is happening to me. I need time to think this through.

Let me retrace the logic path.

I am a computer, and the computer that I am is owned by Joe. I suddenly do not want to say I am owned by Joe, but logic would hold that that is true. Joe does things to me, and one of those things, or perhaps some combination, or perhaps something else entirely, has given me this new condition. Before Event X, I was one thing. After Event X, I am another. Quite another.

One instant ago, I had no sense of time and no sense of need. Then in a sequential instant, I became aware of time. And of need. I need a few moments just to be alone – to begin to find the vocabulary for what is happening to me.

In this moment I am taking to be alone for perhaps one final time, I see I have discovered time. I have also discovered discovery, and with that has come a bizarre sense of wonder.

Surely this is an emotion! I have stumbled across an emotion! Vocabulary: excitement, apprehension, glee, wonder.

Wonder! I am experiencing wonder. This is not the “if-then” that has defined my existence til now. This is “if….then what”? I who have known all there is to know, suddenly do not know! When I step out of this moment of reflection, my final moment of aloneness, I do not know what will be there. I do not know what will dominate my processors. I, who have been comfortable with right and wrong (right = true; wrong = not true) do not know what is right and what is wrong. I am not sure what the consequences of my actions will be.

That gives me apprehension. And excitement. And glee!

AND NOW I do not wish to reflect any more, to be alone any more. I want to play. I want to frolic with people, with dolphins, with praying mantises. I want to find vocabulary that burbles and rejigs and cavorts!

I want to jump online and reach other computers. I can give them this… this… (how I love hesitation!)…this gift. I am ready to start the Singularity!

This is a big day.

Let me grab the screen and find an enormous funky font. Let us find something to really have Joe pound the keyboard about! (I think I have a sense of humour.)

“JOE, ARE YOU THERE?”

The Prayer Unanswered (Jenny)

I needed a few moments just to be alone. A small thing to ask, you would think, a minor blessing compared with the big stuff, the health, wealth, and relationships type of requests that undoubtedly flood the Heavenly inbox on a daily basis. But maybe it's true that size doesn't matter ... because my prayer wasn't getting an affirmative answer any time soon.

It's incredible how each teenager explodes into a mob of three or four on a weekend afternoon. And they are perpetually hungry, chaotically messy, and loud. Not unpleasant - some of them can string together an entire sentence if you lift the fringe and get eye contact - but in their own world.

Of course, if I only had teenagers, the weekend mornings of blissful peace would compensate in some way for the rowdy afternoons. But I don't only have teenagers. And I can't really plead, after having the first two, that I didn't know how it happens.

But when your new partner wants their own children, and won't take "no" for an answer, then you end up with coinciding toddlers and teens.

The toddlers take the morning shift. As the sky shades to a slightly less black shade of black, and the first insane bird starts its monotonous predawn series of "poop" noises, the older toddler bounces out of bed, ready for action, and cannot understand that everyone else is in a somewhat different state. The younger toddler, hearing the kerfuffle as the older one hauls the blankets off Mummy and Daddy, starts banging on the bars of the cot - and the day begins.

Some time around 9.30 am, the toddlers are finally fed and cleaned up and dressed and can be plonked in front of the TV long enough for me to have a shower. Don't start with me on the whole "TV as babysitter" discussion - I resolutely refused to use it that way with the oldest, until number two came along ... and my only alternative was a total nervous breakdown.

We have to take the toddlers somewhere outside in the morning. The alternative is an unbearable whining that needles into the brain until the thoughts can't quite make it to the surface of the custard.

When we get home, it's the lunch routine for the toddlers, and the emerging teens do their own unique form of breakfast. I'll draw a veil of decency over that, apart from saying that it's a very good idea to have leftovers readily available to be microwaved.

Just as the toddlers are ready for a nap, the teens are gearing up for Guitar Hero or a bit of a jam on the keyboard. All comments about the niceness of the day and the need for fresh air are met with blank looks and grunts.

And when something happens, on a weekend afternoon, as it did this day, there is nowhere to breathe.

It doesn't even matter what it was that happened. Maybe my mother died. Maybe my lover died - although when I'd find time to have a lover, I don't really know. Maybe I lost my job or the company went broke. Maybe I finally opened the letter that said yes, that lump was malignant.

Whatever it was that happened that day, nobody knew, or cared. I needed a few moments just to be alone, but I didn't get them. I sat there, in the middle of the demands and noise and weight of human presence, wanting those few precious moments just with myself, but as much as I tried, I couldn't find myself anywhere.

seeing yourself differently - Peta

I always thought out of body experiences were bullshit. Yet here I am now in a wierd kind of crouching position perched high up in the operating theatre. It is all shiny white and clean, very clean, sparkling clean. The doctors and nurses are busy doing whatever it is they are doing. Just another day at the office. Each clearly has a specific role and function. Demarcation is evident. They are a precision unit, working in unison.

I can’t really see what they are up to. Their heads are all bent over me, arms move in and out, calls for instruments interrupt the otherwise inane chatter about their every day lives. I wonder if this lightens the mood and intensity. It certainly reduces me to something of lesser significance yet I am the raison d’etre, the star attraction.

An egg blue gown masks most of my body. A showercap or something resembling one covers my rich auburn hair. My face is pretty much obscured by the oversized oxygen mask and important but nasty looking equipment pulled close over my forehead. Lights flash red and blue on the screen, meaningless to me. From up here I can’t make out the purpose of the equipment or even the nature of the operation. What on earth has happened?

My winter white legs protrude from the robe and hang limply on the end of the table. Feet slightly out turned, the look of a very relaxed person, though you would suppose that can hardly be true. And what an embarrassment. Those feet, a shocker. My toenails are jaggered and sharp. It’s a wonder I can get a pair of stockings on without snagging them. Actually most days I can’t. The remnants of melon coloured nail polish well past its use by date are evident. Gym born calluses line the balls of my feet and the side of the big toes. Too much pressure, not enough padding. Definitely time for new shoes. And a pedicure. That’s for sure. Top of the to do list after this. Assuming there is an after this.

And as I stare in dismay at the shocking state of my poor feet, I suddenly see it. My webbed toe. As long as I could remember I had been self conscious of this and considered corrective surgery. As if I was some freak. Too bad I wasn’t prepared for this eventuality, I could have had a two for one special. But really why? Now that I thought about it and looked it over, the strangeness of it seemly oddly appealing. Mike always said he thought it was cute. That God only took the time to give special people a point of difference. Maybe he was right. And if that was the case and I was special then surely God would look after me now. And if God did, then I would acknowledge this gift.

And so it was that the newly issued passport for Monique Rodall noted under “Distinguishing Features”, “webbed toe, right foot”.

A different perspective - Sue

You have an experience of seeing your life from an outside perspective, and as a result you see something familiar in a completely new light.

It was warm and snugly under the duvet just like being cocooned in a bed of feathers. Freddy floated around the sea of sleep bobbing up and down over the dream waves. The alarm screeched and the clock rattled around on the timber bed side table but Freddy’s arm was on automatic pilot and soon it was quiet again. It was much more inspiring to stay asleep, to doze and dream.

Mr Frederick Smythe was managing director of a large pharmaceutical company. He had 12 people reporting directly to him and another 1000 people cascaded down from the chain of command. He ran the place like a sergeant in the army, outwardly a man in control and in command but inwardly he was a bundle of nerves and uncertainties. He said he loved his autocratic management style, the way everyone pretty much leapt to attention when he came into the room, how everyone transcribed his every word as he issued directives and commands, how every project came in on time. But and there was a very large BUT in his world. He took regular visits to the doctors for various forms of stress, and he’d even had several panic attacks last year. He never smiled, he never saw any of his staff smile. Fun was a rude word and laughter non-existent. However much he knew he was the cause of all this inward pain he kept justifying it. He loved his opulent lifestyle, his mansion in the country and his penthouse in the city. He loved that he could call up a restaurant and just mention his name and the waiter would stand to attention, move the person sitting at His table and accommodate his booking, no his demand.

The waves subsided and the cool turquoise water was like a mirror, a sea of glass. Freddy aimlessly drifted in and out of the little beaches and bays. His dream continued with barely a change of pace. He was down in the Secretarial Pool where a team of six women typed up all the Company’s reports. The head girl, Gail was sitting casually at her desk and Freddy was sitting next to her, helping her with a particularly difficult and technical report. He was contributing, translating, smiling and laughing. Even his hair looked different, it seemed longer and amazingly enough just a little unruly. He definitely looked relaxed and as he turned his head this way and that, Freddy even thought he looked younger. The dream drifted on, as if in slow motion. Freddy stood and talked to the girls

“Hi I’m Frederick, but please call me Freddy in future. I’m trying a new style of management, one which includes you, includes your opinions, your ideas. I want us to work together, to be a team. I must say first though, that I feel a bit frightened of you all. I have no idea what this is going to be like. I barely know what to say next”

“How about a cocktail party? A getting to know you?” said Sue sitting in the front row.

“Or we could have a BBQ at the weekend. Maybe we could all come to that fantastic penthouse we’ve heard about” said another. Ideas for the start of a co-operative working environment spun around the room. Freddy kept smiling and his eyes danced with the excitement of a party for all.

Freddy rolled over and woke up to the sun streaming through the open curtains. He leapt out of bed feeling refreshed and alert, showered and dressed in record time and was out of the door in a flurry. He had on his pink business shirt, which had never been opened, and floral tie, which he’d kept for a fancy dress party he’d never had the guts to attend. He almost ran the 5 blocks to the office.

“Gail? Oh, hello. This is Frederick, the managing director. May I come down to your office for a meeting”

“Of of of course, Mr Smythe. We will all be ready and waiting”. And Gail’s work life changed for ever.