Use these 3 words in a story: hurricane, flashlight, lawnmower
“What the devil is that?” Angie shouted, over the noise of the wind and rain beating against the windows and the tin roof overhead. She removed her eye glasses and peered, nose pressed against the glass, at the dark object that was moving slowly across the lawn.
She felt Don’s breath on her neck as he crouched behind her, hands on his knees. “Jesus, it’s the lawnmower,” he exclaimed. “The lawnmower’s gone self-propelled.”
“What’s it doing out there? You should have put it away, you knucklehead,” Angie yelled in the direction of his ear.
Don rubbed at his grey head with the old bath mat and shouted back. “I didn’t have time, I told you. The rain hit so suddenly I near drowned as it was.”
Angie had no reply to that. When Don had bowled in a few minutes ago, he looked as if he’d just climbed out of the surf after a boating accident. Angie had helped him slide the patio door behind him, then had shuffled off for a towel. The bathmat was the first thing that had crossed her eye, so she’d grabbed that instead and thrown it at him while she resumed her watch at the window.
Don put a hand on her shoulder to support himself while he continued the drying process.
She turned to him, speaking sharply to hide her concern. “Stand back and quit dripping on me! We’re in the middle of a hurricane and I don’t need you leaning on me.”
“Nah, it’s not even cyclone season,” Don reassured her at top volume. “But it’s a hell of a storm.”
A zigzag of lighting burned its way across the sky.
“Whoa, that was some flash of light,” Angie shouted.
“A flashlight?” Don yelled. “Whatja say?”
A deafening crack of thunder caused her to abandon her caustic reply. “Maybe we should give Frank a call,” she shouted, “and let him know what’s going on. He’ll know whether this is a serious …” Angie was interrupted by the spectacle of the glass picnic table erupting from its spot on the patio in front of them. They staggered awkwardly back from the window and clutched at each other while the table aimed toward them. It veered to the left at the last minute and there was a crash as it struck the deck siding.
“My Lord!” they exclaimed in unison. A shower of crumbled glass hurtled across the deck. They looked at one another, horrified. The grandkids had given them that picnic table last Christmas and for certain it wasn’t going to see another one.
Thunder crashed again, though it felt to Angie that a little of the force had gone out of the wind.
One of her hands crept into Don’s, the other gently massaged her heart. He turned to her, erasing the anxiety from his lined face.
“Ah, well, nothing we can do with that until the storm settles down. Come on, Ange. Let’s put on the kettle and have a cuppa. That’ll settle our feathers.” He folded the bath mat, laying it carefully on the footstool. He tugged at her hand and they headed together toward the kitchen.
Monday 21 December 2009
Saturday 19 December 2009
Worse than a broken heart (by Eve)
The raft sailed roughly on the mid-tide jerking forward towards the shore on a wickedly hard wind, until smacking up on the sandy beach.
A too-long, harsh, windy summer day on white-capped waters had finally got him to this little bay that he hoped would shelter him just on dusk.
He thought to catch some bream for his tea, false hope now, as the wind whipped up, whirring like a gargantuan lawn mower, and accompanied by pelting rain. He knew he would barely have enough time to batten down against the gathering storm he could smell forming. The hairs on his neck were erect with the impending danger, a thing that he knew as an old acquaintance, the kind one crosses the road not to meet again.
How could he possibly have got into this situation?
He was on the run. A vicious argument had propelled him into the night. Feeling agitated, unstrung, he packed his raft for what he imagined would be just a short trip and hit the water at daybreak.
This therapy had worked for him before; the sea was always soul-cleansing. It might even crack open the barricades around his heart, unlikely as that seemed.
After a day of sailing, he found a beach that seemed safe enough for camping overnight, apart from the king tides this time of year – tides that could bring in the crocs. But these primal beasts reeked so badly that a good nose could pick them a mile off, so he wasn’t too worried about them. There were bigger monsters to fend off in his psyche.
Last night’s half moon was chalk on a blackboard at first. But then, sitting by his campfire, he saw the moon gradually take on a sort of premonitory red vapour. He knew right then that the next day, when he hit the water again, he wouldn’t, couldn’t out run the thing running towards him and he would have to face it.
And now, it hit him that the stars had been right, maybe he’d even read his horoscope in them. Smelling the electrified rain, feeling the charged wind vexing his skin, he needed to find a hole to climb down, a cave to hollow into. The escalating wind and the slashing rain foretold the hurricane. Petrified, paralysed, he had almost nothing on him: his clothes and some matches and cigs in a miraculously still dry pocket. Oh, and a flashlight that he wished could light some hope in him.
The weather dreadfully bad now, he felt there would soon be nothing left on earth. And what did it matter? His heart was boarded up as tight as he would have sealed up his windows at home.
A monstrous wind picked up his raft, hurled it down again and smashed it into toothpicks. He was swept up against a tree and felt the huge force of the gale sucking on the marrow of his bones.
He saw his whole life, just exactly like this hurricane, out of control, blown up now like a balloon.
If he ever lived through this night, he might just do something differently, but, for the life of him, he didn’t know what.
A too-long, harsh, windy summer day on white-capped waters had finally got him to this little bay that he hoped would shelter him just on dusk.
He thought to catch some bream for his tea, false hope now, as the wind whipped up, whirring like a gargantuan lawn mower, and accompanied by pelting rain. He knew he would barely have enough time to batten down against the gathering storm he could smell forming. The hairs on his neck were erect with the impending danger, a thing that he knew as an old acquaintance, the kind one crosses the road not to meet again.
How could he possibly have got into this situation?
He was on the run. A vicious argument had propelled him into the night. Feeling agitated, unstrung, he packed his raft for what he imagined would be just a short trip and hit the water at daybreak.
This therapy had worked for him before; the sea was always soul-cleansing. It might even crack open the barricades around his heart, unlikely as that seemed.
After a day of sailing, he found a beach that seemed safe enough for camping overnight, apart from the king tides this time of year – tides that could bring in the crocs. But these primal beasts reeked so badly that a good nose could pick them a mile off, so he wasn’t too worried about them. There were bigger monsters to fend off in his psyche.
Last night’s half moon was chalk on a blackboard at first. But then, sitting by his campfire, he saw the moon gradually take on a sort of premonitory red vapour. He knew right then that the next day, when he hit the water again, he wouldn’t, couldn’t out run the thing running towards him and he would have to face it.
And now, it hit him that the stars had been right, maybe he’d even read his horoscope in them. Smelling the electrified rain, feeling the charged wind vexing his skin, he needed to find a hole to climb down, a cave to hollow into. The escalating wind and the slashing rain foretold the hurricane. Petrified, paralysed, he had almost nothing on him: his clothes and some matches and cigs in a miraculously still dry pocket. Oh, and a flashlight that he wished could light some hope in him.
The weather dreadfully bad now, he felt there would soon be nothing left on earth. And what did it matter? His heart was boarded up as tight as he would have sealed up his windows at home.
A monstrous wind picked up his raft, hurled it down again and smashed it into toothpicks. He was swept up against a tree and felt the huge force of the gale sucking on the marrow of his bones.
He saw his whole life, just exactly like this hurricane, out of control, blown up now like a balloon.
If he ever lived through this night, he might just do something differently, but, for the life of him, he didn’t know what.
Tuesday 15 December 2009
My Mate Joe by Peta
Joe and I talked once or twice about death but in a very, it will never happen to us kind of way – well at least not any time soon. Joe was very upbeat about the whole issue of death, no fear, bring it on, laugh in the face of the grim reaper. So when it actually happened I was totally unprepared for it even though at 70 I guess you should be a bit more realistic about your mortality. But Joe certainly picked a pretty wild way to go. We were having the time of our lives in the spirit of the Bucket List but not because of a imminent sense of death but because we thought it was time to let our hair down and be a bit crazy. We were just two guys have a few laughs and doing stuff we wanted to do.
The sky dive was Joe’s idea. He’d always wanted to try it and he figured a birthday celebration was the perfect time. A tandem dive. Frankly I was shitting myself. I never saw the attraction of jumping out of a perfectly functional plane strapped to some probable lunatic. But we’d made a pact. So there we were, staring out the window 2 miles high over the Hunter Valley. The land was brown dry. An unforgiving summer sun had burned away day after day sparing little. But it was beautiful at the same time. The soft undulations of the hills, covered in irrigated vines, a stark contrast. Dams spotted with ducks and even pelicans enjoying the cool relief of the muddy low tide. The odd wispy cloud floated past as the plane edged towards the drop zone position. And then it was time.
With the helmet on I couldn’t hear much other than the drone of the engines. But one look at Joe’s face and you could see the excitement in his eyes. He was ready for it. We’d agreed that I’d go first cos otherwise I might not go at all. And it was important that we both did it. After a couple of false starts I hurtled out the open hatch, screaming my head off. We spun around a few times and I saw Joe and his tandem buddy leap confidently from the plane. We assumed the star position and waved triumphantly at each other. We’d done it! Then I concentrated on the amazing experience. It was totally awesome. Words cannot describe the feeling. It’s like you’re floating but at the same time the land rushes towards you. But its not scary. Not at all. Bizarrely, I felt really calm and relaxed. I couldn’t wait to do the debrief with Joe. That was often the best part of our adventures. Recapping the moments over a coldie. My partner and I landed first. I disengaged from my buddy and we tidied up the shute. I looked to the sky and knew something was wrong immediately. Joe was limp, hanging off the front of his partner like a ragdoll. When we reached their landing, I could see Joe was gone. But you know what, I wasn’t sad. Joe had the biggest grin plastered across his face. He looked at peace and the happiest a man could ever be, in this life or the next.
So I guess the reason I told you this, cos it might have seemed strange to be re-living his last moments, was so that you would all know he was happy when he went. He was doing things he really wanted to do against the odds and his age and he was living for every moment he had. Sure I’ll miss Joe, I’ll miss him like a brother and I’ll be sad to be the one left behind but I’m not sad for him. Joe had a great life and I am sure that he would not have one regret about the way he lived it. Neither should we.
The sky dive was Joe’s idea. He’d always wanted to try it and he figured a birthday celebration was the perfect time. A tandem dive. Frankly I was shitting myself. I never saw the attraction of jumping out of a perfectly functional plane strapped to some probable lunatic. But we’d made a pact. So there we were, staring out the window 2 miles high over the Hunter Valley. The land was brown dry. An unforgiving summer sun had burned away day after day sparing little. But it was beautiful at the same time. The soft undulations of the hills, covered in irrigated vines, a stark contrast. Dams spotted with ducks and even pelicans enjoying the cool relief of the muddy low tide. The odd wispy cloud floated past as the plane edged towards the drop zone position. And then it was time.
With the helmet on I couldn’t hear much other than the drone of the engines. But one look at Joe’s face and you could see the excitement in his eyes. He was ready for it. We’d agreed that I’d go first cos otherwise I might not go at all. And it was important that we both did it. After a couple of false starts I hurtled out the open hatch, screaming my head off. We spun around a few times and I saw Joe and his tandem buddy leap confidently from the plane. We assumed the star position and waved triumphantly at each other. We’d done it! Then I concentrated on the amazing experience. It was totally awesome. Words cannot describe the feeling. It’s like you’re floating but at the same time the land rushes towards you. But its not scary. Not at all. Bizarrely, I felt really calm and relaxed. I couldn’t wait to do the debrief with Joe. That was often the best part of our adventures. Recapping the moments over a coldie. My partner and I landed first. I disengaged from my buddy and we tidied up the shute. I looked to the sky and knew something was wrong immediately. Joe was limp, hanging off the front of his partner like a ragdoll. When we reached their landing, I could see Joe was gone. But you know what, I wasn’t sad. Joe had the biggest grin plastered across his face. He looked at peace and the happiest a man could ever be, in this life or the next.
So I guess the reason I told you this, cos it might have seemed strange to be re-living his last moments, was so that you would all know he was happy when he went. He was doing things he really wanted to do against the odds and his age and he was living for every moment he had. Sure I’ll miss Joe, I’ll miss him like a brother and I’ll be sad to be the one left behind but I’m not sad for him. Joe had a great life and I am sure that he would not have one regret about the way he lived it. Neither should we.
Sunday 13 December 2009
Owed to Debbie (by Heather)
Write a eulogy for a dear friend who has passed away in strange circumstances
Debbie.
Such a simple name for such a complex person.
I sit here consumed by my grief. But your story is larger than my sorrow and I will sew that story over top of the fabric of my misery.
You are someone whose life was tragically cut short while you were in your prime. This is perhaps to be expected, as you have always been unafraid to live (and die) by your convictions.
You knew there was much more to the world than meets the unobservant eye. You knew there were forces out there determined to destroy what is good and positive. You spent your life as a seeker of the truth – searching out the lies that lesser people would never think of questioning. You withstood the scorn of people claiming to be sceptical of your ideas, recognising that they are really just stooges of mainstream media, without ever having had an original thought in their lives.
The night of your death is typical of your valorous bold spirit. You went by yourself, at night, following your instincts, to that crop circle on Wazby’s farm. No one else had the courage to go with you; others scoffed at your fierce intention. But you knew that THEY would show up that night, revisiting the scene of their landing several days before. Oh, they showed up all right; they came down from their interplanetary hiding place; they grabbed you and experimented on your brave body, then threw you away like so much garbage. We don’t know exactly what happened. Your VW van, who watched it all, isn’t talking. Nor is your flashlight, lying not far from you, dented and drenched in your blood.
We know you were right – we know they did indeed come because the crop circle was flattened even deeper. We know that they’d taken you aboard their ship because of the inexplicable things that had been done to your body (although it was difficult to tell exactly what THEY’d done to you after the farmer’s bull had gored you and the wild animals had had their way).
But I personally know that you wouldn’t have had it any other way – that no matter what happened to you in the alien space craft that night, you would not change a thing in your life.
The spirit world will welcome you. You will be joining some of the others who you felt such a close connection with – Marilyn and JFK to name but two who also died under mysterious circumstances. And of course you will be reconnecting with Elvis, who as we all know is probably still alive somewhere – but if he’s not, if he’s really dead, then you will be tipping a glass with him somewhere tonight. You fought hard for the world to understand the conspiracies against these soulmates, and they will wish to repay that debt.
The world owes you and your kind a great deal.
May you finally rest in peace after the pressure of the burdens that you’ve so willingly carried.
Debbie.
Such a simple name for such a complex person.
I sit here consumed by my grief. But your story is larger than my sorrow and I will sew that story over top of the fabric of my misery.
You are someone whose life was tragically cut short while you were in your prime. This is perhaps to be expected, as you have always been unafraid to live (and die) by your convictions.
You knew there was much more to the world than meets the unobservant eye. You knew there were forces out there determined to destroy what is good and positive. You spent your life as a seeker of the truth – searching out the lies that lesser people would never think of questioning. You withstood the scorn of people claiming to be sceptical of your ideas, recognising that they are really just stooges of mainstream media, without ever having had an original thought in their lives.
The night of your death is typical of your valorous bold spirit. You went by yourself, at night, following your instincts, to that crop circle on Wazby’s farm. No one else had the courage to go with you; others scoffed at your fierce intention. But you knew that THEY would show up that night, revisiting the scene of their landing several days before. Oh, they showed up all right; they came down from their interplanetary hiding place; they grabbed you and experimented on your brave body, then threw you away like so much garbage. We don’t know exactly what happened. Your VW van, who watched it all, isn’t talking. Nor is your flashlight, lying not far from you, dented and drenched in your blood.
We know you were right – we know they did indeed come because the crop circle was flattened even deeper. We know that they’d taken you aboard their ship because of the inexplicable things that had been done to your body (although it was difficult to tell exactly what THEY’d done to you after the farmer’s bull had gored you and the wild animals had had their way).
But I personally know that you wouldn’t have had it any other way – that no matter what happened to you in the alien space craft that night, you would not change a thing in your life.
The spirit world will welcome you. You will be joining some of the others who you felt such a close connection with – Marilyn and JFK to name but two who also died under mysterious circumstances. And of course you will be reconnecting with Elvis, who as we all know is probably still alive somewhere – but if he’s not, if he’s really dead, then you will be tipping a glass with him somewhere tonight. You fought hard for the world to understand the conspiracies against these soulmates, and they will wish to repay that debt.
The world owes you and your kind a great deal.
May you finally rest in peace after the pressure of the burdens that you’ve so willingly carried.
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