Your protagonist unexpectedly sees an aspect of himself or herself in someone who is overtly very different from him or her. Include a door in the story.
It would have been even funnier if it weren’t actually in my own family.
But it was funny enough.
Mum and I were sitting on the sofa, each of us curled up reading a book, when suddenly there was this weird growl from the general area of the bathroom, and then a series of clunks and bangs. We looked over our shoulders in some trepidation and there was Dad, ferocious expression on his face, carrying our bathroom door under his arm and heading out the back door. He stood on the patio and flung that door as far as he could. For a second, it caught the wind and look as if it might come back at him, but fortunately it changed its mind at the last minute and just dropped to the ground.
Dad came back in, face white and brow furrowed so deep it practically folded over itself. He headed back for the bathroom, and before Mum and I had even exchanged troubled glances, he stormed out again, a bunch of my brother Glen’s clothes under his arm. They followed the door and scattered rowdily around the garden.
Mum and I looked at each other. “Obviously Glen has knocked the bathroom door off the rails once too often,” she said. “Your father is handling it with great maturity,” she added, quietly enough that only I heard. I remember thinking I was glad I take after my mum and have a completely even temper.
Seconds later Act II took place.
You could hear my brother’s door open to find out what was going on, then you could imagine him doing a quick inspection of the bathroom. And then he came roaring out.
“Who took my clothes?”
I leaned over the back of the sofa and pointed helpfully in the general direction of the back lawn.
In a fury, he raced out, then stomped back into the house, casting a dark look at me on the way. The men in our family opt for few words and childish violence.
I made the mistake of laughing at his glare, whereupon the whole thing took a darker spin, and began to move very fast.
My brother headed outside, grabbed up a few of his clothes and stomped back to the bathroom. This time he came out carrying MY shampoos, cosmetics and perfumes and first thing I knew he was hurling them out to join the door and the clothes on the back lawn. Worse, the face cream jar bounced on the patio tile and broke.
By this time, I was on my feet and screeching. I stormed past my idiot brother, running out to look at what had happened to my precious bottles. I think what happened at that point is that I slipped in the face cream, courtesy of the broken jar, and went flying at high speed through the air myself. I landed as hard as I’ve ever fallen in my fifteen years and heard and felt a horrible crunch in my leg as I hit the footpath. I remember my mother shrieking at everybody and sliding through the face cream herself. I tried to get myself into a more dignified position but almost blacked out from the stab of pain that shot through my entire body. I think I groaned and then next thing I remember there were these three faces gathered over me, all of them looking worried and none very angry.
“Don’t try to move,” my dad said, a tear dangling on his cheek. “Your leg looks broken to me. We’ll carry you.”
They took one pull at me and I yelled in pain.
“The door!” my brother shouted. “Get the door!”
The next thing I knew they had brought the bathroom door over, shuffled me on to it amid my groans, and were carrying me around the side of the house to where our van sat waiting to take me to the hospital.
Hours later, we were all sitting in the hall at the hospital waiting for the plaster to dry on my cast. I’d been given a Nembutal or two and was feeling a low-key discomfort throughout my body. Across the hall was a metal panel running the length of the hallway, and I could see us all reflected in it. There was my sarcastic mum, my hot-tempered Dad, my even-hotter-tempered brother, and then of course there was me. We weren’t saying much and we all looked just the same: wretched. I could see the back garden on everybody’s mind, and the shampoo and the broken leg and the next few months. And the tempers.
The family temper.
Monday 25 May 2009
Sunday 24 May 2009
Tips on showing off
Billy stretches his paws out and wriggles his head around to find a comfy spot. One ear is flipped inside out and his pale pink tongue hangs lopsidedly from his mouth, keeping him cool. He keeps shaking his head but the ear won’t budge.
“zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” he pretends to sleep.
“Zingggggggggggggg” and the front door bell vibrates around the house.
“Yey, people!” and Billy jumps up, stretches his smooth golden body and catapults forwards. He gets the old smelly slipper with fur hanging off in bits and worrys it backwards and forwards in his mouth. His tail thumps like a set of drums on the wooden floor. He leaps up to Freddy, tail going nineteen to the dozen and dares him to remove the slipper. They play the inevitable tug of war. Next he whirls around and around on the spot, drops the slipper and gets the big floppy cushion that lives on the sofa. He heads for the dining room table, slides around the legs, faster and faster, cutting the corners half dragging and half carrying the red tartan cushion.
“Phew. Now tickle me”” he demands and rolls on his back at Freddy’s feet.
A few dog hours later he hears voices next door. If he stretches really tall he can just reach the top of the fence. Paws balanced precariously, he watches his new mate Millicent.
Milly, as he affectionately calls her stays back behind the flower pots. She’s like a big ball of ginger and black hair, even her eyes are hidden behind curtains of fluff. Now and again she peeps out and then stands back in disdain, arches her back and thrusts her tail into the air. She stalks to the next flower pot and then makes for the rose bush.
“Sssssssssssssss” she actually spits at the invasion into her garden.
Billy gives up. He’s not used to standing on only two back legs. He’d only been back on the deck for a few minutes when
“Zingggggggggggggg” it’s the front door again.
“where’s the slipper?” he panics and heads for the old red cushion. Never mind how tired he is, he can always do the mandatory race around the dining room table.
People, lots of them muddle their way down the stairs. Billy races back to the table, sees the slipper and tries to hold both of them in his mouth. As he screams around his little race track, the cushion flies off behind the door and Billy loses his grip on the wooden floor. He slides to a halt on his tummy.
He self consciously peers through the sea of legs until he can find a couple of short stubby legs wearing ankle white socks and sandals.
“There’s Freddy”. He exclaims. Then he notices something really strange. Behind Freddy’s skinny brown legs he sees this fluffy ball and it’s sort of nuzzling Freddy’s legs and wrapping itself around like a little fur sock. Freddy bends down and strokes her. He fondles her tiny ears which are just visible above the fluff and makes those silly human cooing noises. And the little devil is actually purring.
“So she does like people after all” Billy storms off in a huff and tries to spit.
Billy meets Milly
It's a dog's life
“zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” he pretends to sleep.
“Zingggggggggggggg” and the front door bell vibrates around the house.
“Yey, people!” and Billy jumps up, stretches his smooth golden body and catapults forwards. He gets the old smelly slipper with fur hanging off in bits and worrys it backwards and forwards in his mouth. His tail thumps like a set of drums on the wooden floor. He leaps up to Freddy, tail going nineteen to the dozen and dares him to remove the slipper. They play the inevitable tug of war. Next he whirls around and around on the spot, drops the slipper and gets the big floppy cushion that lives on the sofa. He heads for the dining room table, slides around the legs, faster and faster, cutting the corners half dragging and half carrying the red tartan cushion.
“Phew. Now tickle me”” he demands and rolls on his back at Freddy’s feet.
A few dog hours later he hears voices next door. If he stretches really tall he can just reach the top of the fence. Paws balanced precariously, he watches his new mate Millicent.
Milly, as he affectionately calls her stays back behind the flower pots. She’s like a big ball of ginger and black hair, even her eyes are hidden behind curtains of fluff. Now and again she peeps out and then stands back in disdain, arches her back and thrusts her tail into the air. She stalks to the next flower pot and then makes for the rose bush.
“Sssssssssssssss” she actually spits at the invasion into her garden.
Billy gives up. He’s not used to standing on only two back legs. He’d only been back on the deck for a few minutes when
“Zingggggggggggggg” it’s the front door again.
“where’s the slipper?” he panics and heads for the old red cushion. Never mind how tired he is, he can always do the mandatory race around the dining room table.
People, lots of them muddle their way down the stairs. Billy races back to the table, sees the slipper and tries to hold both of them in his mouth. As he screams around his little race track, the cushion flies off behind the door and Billy loses his grip on the wooden floor. He slides to a halt on his tummy.
He self consciously peers through the sea of legs until he can find a couple of short stubby legs wearing ankle white socks and sandals.
“There’s Freddy”. He exclaims. Then he notices something really strange. Behind Freddy’s skinny brown legs he sees this fluffy ball and it’s sort of nuzzling Freddy’s legs and wrapping itself around like a little fur sock. Freddy bends down and strokes her. He fondles her tiny ears which are just visible above the fluff and makes those silly human cooing noises. And the little devil is actually purring.
“So she does like people after all” Billy storms off in a huff and tries to spit.
Billy meets Milly
It's a dog's life
Thursday 21 May 2009
All is not as it seems - Sue
Greg nibbles her ear and smells her long blond hair which flies softly around her tiny face almost engulfing it.
“Ummmmm” and he sighs all the way down to his tummy.
He’d met Belle within a week of arriving in Byron Bay and now they were about to get married. He’d been retrenched from Deloittes and chucked the whole corporate nightmare to become a macadamia nut farmer in the hinterland of Byron Bay. Belle was the real estate agent. They were like two peas in a pod. Life had never been so good.
“Ummm, you smell gorgeous.
“You softy. Come on let’s get to the next stall. I’ve always wanted to try that wine from Nimbin. Let’s do that before Brandi arrives” and Belle checks her new red swatch watch. Her arms are brown and smooth and bare. She looks great in just a skimpy white singlet and bright pink sarong.
“So, what’s she like, this kid sister of yours?”
“Well, successful would encompass Brandi. She’s very smart and looks terrifyingly beautiful on the other side of the Board Room table. She reminds me of a lioness waiting to pounce. Nothing phases her. Oh, and she’s just bought one of those funky warehouse refurbs on the East Side. She’s certainly done well for herself.
Greg feels his knees tremble and imagines what it would be like to be her prey. His heart starts to race and tiny beads of sweat dapple his forehead.
He senses her before he sees her. The buzz of the festival seems to silence and life stops, everything frozen for that split second. Right on cue, strong arms, God she must work out, bear hug him and Belle from behind. He feels trapped and confused. Confronted yet excited.
Long blond hair swings between Belle’s and his face. It’s heavy, shiny and smells like Chanel #5, followed by huge pendant earrings, red he thinks, which bang into his left ear.
“Hey, you two. Wow, what a place. What a funky crowd of people. You must be Greg”
“Brandi, you’re here. Here let me see you. It’s been so long”. Belle gets a word in.
“God I’m tired. Flew New York to LA to Sydney. Then had to have a few wines to get me through the two hour wait. Then onto here in that funny little toy plane”
Greg has no idea what this voice looks like. She’s probably not dressed in her two piece black suit, but that’s all he can imagine. What seems like an age, they all about turn.
“Wow, you’re amazing” his inner voice said. Out loud, he’s not sure, but thinks that it’s just “wow”.
Brandi is dressed in a full length black tunic. It’s soft and floats around red strappy sandals and matching toe nails. Her smile widens to a big red grin.
“G’day Greg. How’s that farm of yours? I can’t wait to see it. I’ve never heard of macadamias. What are they? They’re not related to almonds are they? The questions wooshed out like an express train. “Almonds give me the most horrendous hay fever”
Greg stifles a giggle and breathes a sigh of relief as he sees a little slice of vulnerability.
“Girls shall we go? Belle shall we go, give Brandi a tour of this beautiful, funky, hippy place?” and he throws his arms around the shoulders of both girls. They stride off all talking at a million miles an hour.
Alternative titles
Seachange
Is it love at first sight?
“Ummmmm” and he sighs all the way down to his tummy.
He’d met Belle within a week of arriving in Byron Bay and now they were about to get married. He’d been retrenched from Deloittes and chucked the whole corporate nightmare to become a macadamia nut farmer in the hinterland of Byron Bay. Belle was the real estate agent. They were like two peas in a pod. Life had never been so good.
“Ummm, you smell gorgeous.
“You softy. Come on let’s get to the next stall. I’ve always wanted to try that wine from Nimbin. Let’s do that before Brandi arrives” and Belle checks her new red swatch watch. Her arms are brown and smooth and bare. She looks great in just a skimpy white singlet and bright pink sarong.
“So, what’s she like, this kid sister of yours?”
“Well, successful would encompass Brandi. She’s very smart and looks terrifyingly beautiful on the other side of the Board Room table. She reminds me of a lioness waiting to pounce. Nothing phases her. Oh, and she’s just bought one of those funky warehouse refurbs on the East Side. She’s certainly done well for herself.
Greg feels his knees tremble and imagines what it would be like to be her prey. His heart starts to race and tiny beads of sweat dapple his forehead.
He senses her before he sees her. The buzz of the festival seems to silence and life stops, everything frozen for that split second. Right on cue, strong arms, God she must work out, bear hug him and Belle from behind. He feels trapped and confused. Confronted yet excited.
Long blond hair swings between Belle’s and his face. It’s heavy, shiny and smells like Chanel #5, followed by huge pendant earrings, red he thinks, which bang into his left ear.
“Hey, you two. Wow, what a place. What a funky crowd of people. You must be Greg”
“Brandi, you’re here. Here let me see you. It’s been so long”. Belle gets a word in.
“God I’m tired. Flew New York to LA to Sydney. Then had to have a few wines to get me through the two hour wait. Then onto here in that funny little toy plane”
Greg has no idea what this voice looks like. She’s probably not dressed in her two piece black suit, but that’s all he can imagine. What seems like an age, they all about turn.
“Wow, you’re amazing” his inner voice said. Out loud, he’s not sure, but thinks that it’s just “wow”.
Brandi is dressed in a full length black tunic. It’s soft and floats around red strappy sandals and matching toe nails. Her smile widens to a big red grin.
“G’day Greg. How’s that farm of yours? I can’t wait to see it. I’ve never heard of macadamias. What are they? They’re not related to almonds are they? The questions wooshed out like an express train. “Almonds give me the most horrendous hay fever”
Greg stifles a giggle and breathes a sigh of relief as he sees a little slice of vulnerability.
“Girls shall we go? Belle shall we go, give Brandi a tour of this beautiful, funky, hippy place?” and he throws his arms around the shoulders of both girls. They stride off all talking at a million miles an hour.
Alternative titles
Seachange
Is it love at first sight?
Sunday 17 May 2009
Discordant Melody (Kerry)
As she enters the room again, Brandi is transfixed by the cold stillness of the opened bottle on the side table. Their copy of Der Blaue Reiter lies innocently on the dark armchair. The chair is set beside the bed and its crumpled dishevelment of bedclothes. She is aware of the easel standing astride in the corner and of the unfinished nude resting mutely against the wall nearby. Only when she comes forward to inspect the bottle does she see his naked body slumped on the rug, and his empty glass.
Despite the chill of the autumn evening, she breaks out in a cold sweat as she hurries around the bed to Greg’s side. She scrambles to feel for his pulse. He is still alive. She pulls the blanket off the bed and covers him. The discordant sounds of the Schoenberg music on the gramophone player are grating on her already tense nerves. She reaches over, turns off the cacophony and sinks anxiously onto the rug beside Greg. Her fingers fumble restlessly with the tassels on the blanket.
She recalls the frenzy of the last few days in his studio.
She had responded to his ad for an artist’s model in the Cologne art almanac. He required a model to pose for him as the subject of a small painting, which was to be a gift for his fiancée. They were to be married the following weekend in Bonn where his fiancée lived. She had warmed immediately to his American affability and generosity and was delighted to take the job. He had asked her to start immediately. She realised now on reflection that she had offered only token resistance to his suggestion that she move in with him.
She was enveloped by his enthusiasm for the German Bauhaus movement, its search for the essence of a subject, for the harmony between form and function. Greg had spoken passionately about the connection between painting and the art of the distillery. Their visits to the pub in the evenings had been an opportunity for him to experiment with some of the products of Germany’s traditional distilleries.
Her mind returns to the present as he stirs beside her. She touches his thick hair. He sighs almost imperceptibly and rolls his head toward her, still unconscious.
She begins to wonder about their future and is alarmed by the tight constriction developing in her chest. The jealousy and hatred she feels for the unknown fiancée frightens her. Her hand clamps tightly on his hair.
With her other hand, Brandi reaches over for his empty glass and smells the bitter sweetness of the remains of the liqueur. The cause of his sudden collapse is clear. He had tasted her gift. She is certain now of his almond allergy. She stretches across the bed for the bottle on the side table and refills the glass. Raising his head from the floor, she slowly dribbles the Amaretto liqueur into his slack mouth until the glass is empty.
Alternative titles:
Brandi snifter
Bauhaus distilled
Despite the chill of the autumn evening, she breaks out in a cold sweat as she hurries around the bed to Greg’s side. She scrambles to feel for his pulse. He is still alive. She pulls the blanket off the bed and covers him. The discordant sounds of the Schoenberg music on the gramophone player are grating on her already tense nerves. She reaches over, turns off the cacophony and sinks anxiously onto the rug beside Greg. Her fingers fumble restlessly with the tassels on the blanket.
She recalls the frenzy of the last few days in his studio.
She had responded to his ad for an artist’s model in the Cologne art almanac. He required a model to pose for him as the subject of a small painting, which was to be a gift for his fiancée. They were to be married the following weekend in Bonn where his fiancée lived. She had warmed immediately to his American affability and generosity and was delighted to take the job. He had asked her to start immediately. She realised now on reflection that she had offered only token resistance to his suggestion that she move in with him.
She was enveloped by his enthusiasm for the German Bauhaus movement, its search for the essence of a subject, for the harmony between form and function. Greg had spoken passionately about the connection between painting and the art of the distillery. Their visits to the pub in the evenings had been an opportunity for him to experiment with some of the products of Germany’s traditional distilleries.
Her mind returns to the present as he stirs beside her. She touches his thick hair. He sighs almost imperceptibly and rolls his head toward her, still unconscious.
She begins to wonder about their future and is alarmed by the tight constriction developing in her chest. The jealousy and hatred she feels for the unknown fiancée frightens her. Her hand clamps tightly on his hair.
With her other hand, Brandi reaches over for his empty glass and smells the bitter sweetness of the remains of the liqueur. The cause of his sudden collapse is clear. He had tasted her gift. She is certain now of his almond allergy. She stretches across the bed for the bottle on the side table and refills the glass. Raising his head from the floor, she slowly dribbles the Amaretto liqueur into his slack mouth until the glass is empty.
Alternative titles:
Brandi snifter
Bauhaus distilled
The Two-Masted Yacht (Gordon)
Brandi Engler and Greg Sampson meet a week before his wedding.
One of them is allergic to almonds. Write their story.
Brandi Engler stood on the edge of a chaotic chasm in her life. She felt a welling within her that stirred at her very existence. She was wearing a pale pink and yellow silk dress with splashes of golden flowers randomly across the material that touched her with a shiver of electricity. She carried a bag with some of her favourite delicacies for breakfast including sultanas, almonds, peanuts and cashews. As she walked down the lane in the French seaside village her steps touched lightly on the ground. There was flight in her strides and purpose behind her rush to the jetty.
The water was flat with an eerie stillness that only the early morning can bring. Clouds stood still in the sky and the sun’s golden rays skated off the surface of the bay. With a slow and continuous movement, a two-masted yacht sailed up the bay with an elegance of a beautiful swan. There was no sound other then the ripple of the water against the hull of the boat and a small rustle of the zephyr like wind in the sails. Brandi stopped on the jetty to listen and take in the shear elegance of the moment. Her head was spinning yet her senses were so heightened that beauty was everywhere.
Brandi stopped and stood on the edge of the jetty, transfixed on the beautiful white boat that was approaching as it turned and sailed directly toward the jetty. Greg stood, almost motionless, holding the tiller. Ever so gently, the yacht slid beside the jetty and Brandi, taking Greg’s hand, jumped on board to a bone-crushing embrace and kisses.
Greg Sampson was rustic in character but with a trimmed beard and a weathered and sun-tanned face. He was dressed in a navy blue tea shirt and sharply fitting white shorts, sand shoes and white socks. He was a boatie with precision and a sense of class that was unusual for a sailor. He was to be married to Anna-Louise Bréchet next Saturday.
Breakfast was ready and served. “Brandi, how was Paris?” Greg said as they sat opposite each other across a small bench. “Great” was the reply. Brandi could feel her throat ceasing up as she tried to impress in response to the most mundane of questions. There was a silence. “How is Anna-Louise?” Brandi asked. “Great, and more beautiful than ever.” Greg replied as they ate the spread on the table. “Of course, she is beautiful, but you are elegant.” Brandi’s heart raced. What does it mean?
It was just a few more moments and Greg was starting to turn red in the face and look very shaky. Brandi sensed there was something wrong. Suddenly he said, “I don’t feel well I will go below.” He bent to go below and fell headlong down the small stairs to the floor of the cabin. There he lay, comatose and still.
With sirens blaring an ambulance arrived in a matter of minutes. Brandi was still kneeling beside him holding his hand as the ambulance officer arrived. With a quick and delicate kiss to his forehead she said farewell as they lifted his still body out of the boat.
Gordon MacAulay,
17 May 2009.
Word count 530
Other titles:
Lost at sea
A sailors friend
The Breakfast
One of them is allergic to almonds. Write their story.
Brandi Engler stood on the edge of a chaotic chasm in her life. She felt a welling within her that stirred at her very existence. She was wearing a pale pink and yellow silk dress with splashes of golden flowers randomly across the material that touched her with a shiver of electricity. She carried a bag with some of her favourite delicacies for breakfast including sultanas, almonds, peanuts and cashews. As she walked down the lane in the French seaside village her steps touched lightly on the ground. There was flight in her strides and purpose behind her rush to the jetty.
The water was flat with an eerie stillness that only the early morning can bring. Clouds stood still in the sky and the sun’s golden rays skated off the surface of the bay. With a slow and continuous movement, a two-masted yacht sailed up the bay with an elegance of a beautiful swan. There was no sound other then the ripple of the water against the hull of the boat and a small rustle of the zephyr like wind in the sails. Brandi stopped on the jetty to listen and take in the shear elegance of the moment. Her head was spinning yet her senses were so heightened that beauty was everywhere.
Brandi stopped and stood on the edge of the jetty, transfixed on the beautiful white boat that was approaching as it turned and sailed directly toward the jetty. Greg stood, almost motionless, holding the tiller. Ever so gently, the yacht slid beside the jetty and Brandi, taking Greg’s hand, jumped on board to a bone-crushing embrace and kisses.
Greg Sampson was rustic in character but with a trimmed beard and a weathered and sun-tanned face. He was dressed in a navy blue tea shirt and sharply fitting white shorts, sand shoes and white socks. He was a boatie with precision and a sense of class that was unusual for a sailor. He was to be married to Anna-Louise Bréchet next Saturday.
Breakfast was ready and served. “Brandi, how was Paris?” Greg said as they sat opposite each other across a small bench. “Great” was the reply. Brandi could feel her throat ceasing up as she tried to impress in response to the most mundane of questions. There was a silence. “How is Anna-Louise?” Brandi asked. “Great, and more beautiful than ever.” Greg replied as they ate the spread on the table. “Of course, she is beautiful, but you are elegant.” Brandi’s heart raced. What does it mean?
It was just a few more moments and Greg was starting to turn red in the face and look very shaky. Brandi sensed there was something wrong. Suddenly he said, “I don’t feel well I will go below.” He bent to go below and fell headlong down the small stairs to the floor of the cabin. There he lay, comatose and still.
With sirens blaring an ambulance arrived in a matter of minutes. Brandi was still kneeling beside him holding his hand as the ambulance officer arrived. With a quick and delicate kiss to his forehead she said farewell as they lifted his still body out of the boat.
Gordon MacAulay,
17 May 2009.
Word count 530
Other titles:
Lost at sea
A sailors friend
The Breakfast
Saturday 16 May 2009
Proof (by Heather)
Brandi Engler and Greg Sampson meet a week before his wedding. One of them is allergic to almonds. Write their story.
Day 1.
Greg, nursing the last of his coffee, startled as the little waitress dropped into the booth opposite him.
“Hi,” she said. “I saw your wife leave and I thought I’d say hello. Well, I guess judging by all the lists and the new shoes she was showing you and no wedding band and stuff, she’s not your wife yet, but…” She seemed to run out of steam and dropped her eyes.
Greg inspected her closely. She was a cute kid, 15 at most. He’d seen her numerous times at the diner on a weekend and always liked being served by her. Maybe the affinity was with her bright red hair and liberal sprinkling of freckles, very like his own. But at the moment her freckles were standing out on a rather white face and she was shifting uncomfortably, chewing on a cuticle.
What on earth was she doing here?
“Hello,” he said warily.
“It’s okay, the boss knows I’m here,” she said, glancing toward the kitchen. “I told him you were family, you know, the red hair and all.”
“Well, it might be okay with him, but I’m not sure it’s okay with me. And by the way, you’re right about her, she’s not my wife yet. We get married next Saturday.” His direct gaze challenged her.
“Yeah, well, cool,” she said, shifting again, completely missing the challenge. She stuck out a hand. “I’m Brandi.”
“Brandi?” Greg stifled a sarcastic comment as he gave her hand a quick shake. “Greg. Greg Sampson. Okay, Brandi, what brings you here?”
Brandi’s eyes darted around the room, then met his own firmly. “Okay, well, I might as well just say it. Okay. I’m…I’m your daughter. Gina Engler’s my mother and I figured out you’re my dad.” Her eyes dropped in panic, then raised to his again to see how he was taking it all. She quickly went back to chewing on the cuticle.
Greg sat still as a ghost, trying to integrate the ramifications of what this minx was up to. Yes, he remembered a Gina Engler, memorable because she was his first fumble, at the tender age of 15, and because she’d dropped him after a couple months and moved away somewhere with no further contact.
His throat tightened and an unfamiliar fear raced its way through his body. Almost before he knew what had happened, he’d splashed the last of his coffee into his mouth and grabbed a handful of dollars from his pocket to leave on the table. “I haven’t got time for this nonsense,” he said. “Try some other sucker.” He stormed out without glancing at that freckled face again.
Day 2.
Greg eased into the booth and caught the redhead’s eye. He jerked his head toward the seat opposite him, an imperious summons. He saw her speak quietly to the tall guy at the stove and then she came over. She stood stiffly at the table, freckles even more pronounced than yesterday.
“Brandi? Brandi, is it? Look, I apologise for yesterday. I was a little shocked but that doesn’t excuse how rude I was. Sit down.” He glanced at her and added hastily, “Please sit down.”
Brandi eased into the booth and stared at him warily.
Greg proceeded carefully. “You made an interesting claim yesterday. I assume you don’t have any proof, other than the dubious honour of our sharing a headful of red hair.”
She looked at him evenly. “Well, actually, I’ve got three proofs. And you don’t need to be so patronising.”
Greg’s stomach roiled but he kept his face friendly and neutral.
She continued. “And I don’t want to cause any trouble for you or your wife with the spiky silver wedding sandals. I just wanted to meet you, and like, let you know.”
“Okay, don’t YOU be patronising.” I can’t believe it, he thought. It feels like I’m talking to a mirror here. He leaned forward. “So show me your ‘proofs’.”
’Scuse me a moment,” she said, launching herself out of the booth. She came back from the kitchen seconds later with a Billabong knapsack. “Okay, Proof #1.” She drew out two photos. One was her, taken indoors somewhere and looking brightly at the camera. The other was him, obviously taken at a booth in this café. Both photos were face on.
He glanced up at her, hoping his eyes didn’t betray his anxiety. He looked back at the photos. The blue eyes. The riot of freckles. The wide mouth, wide forehead. You could have been looking at the same person, with photos taken 15 or 20 years apart.
“We look alike,” he said tightly. “That’s hardly proof.”
He was almost reluctant to say it because he didn’t want to see Proof #2.
She ignored his reserve. “Okay,” she said, “well, how about this?” She triumphantly pulled out a piece of paper and slapped it on the table in front of him. “This is genetic testing, which you can do these days. I kept a glass you used one day and sent it off to the lab. And they took a swab from my mouth. According to this report, the DNA says that these two people are closely related. It cost me $160, ” she added, taking another nibble at her cuticle.
Greg kept his voice even. “The DNA of these two people might be the same, but there’s certainly no proof that I am one of those people.”
Brandi swallowed tightly. “Okay, proof #3.” She reached into her knapsack again and came out with a small zip-locked bag. Opening it carefully, she released a number of almonds onto the table. “I am severely allergic to almonds, and I’ve heard it’s an inherited trait. I’ll eat one if you will,” she said, looking at him levelly.
Greg, who had sat back sharply at the sight of the almonds, recovered himself and placed his elbows on the table a careful distance away. “Okay,” he said. “So you found out I’m allergic to almonds. Brandi, these are pretty feeble proofs.”
Brandi threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, I just thought you’d want to know.” She slapped at a tear that was threatening to run down her cheek and pulled herself out of the booth. She grabbed the photos and the report and stuffed them into her bag. Lips trembling, she said, “I’d better get someone else to clean up the almonds,” and walked off.
Day 3.
Greg approached the counter cautiously. It was school holidays and he had hoped Brandi would be working here on a Monday. Sure enough, he’d spotted her the instant he came in, and knew she’d seen him at the same time. He leaned over the counter and said, “Could I have a cup of coffee, please.” He hesitated. “And a conversation? With you?”
Brandi eyed him guardedly. “Why?” she said, energetically wiping down the counter.
“Because I have a proposition for you,” he said, watching her carefully.
“I told you, I don’t want any money, I don’t want anything. I just wanted you to know, that’s ALL.”
“Brandi, please come to the booth, so we can talk privately. Please?
It felt like a miracle that she followed him to a vacant booth and slipped in opposite him.
He leaned toward her, placing his hand near hers on the table. “Here’s the thing, Brandi. I get that you’re my daughter. I absolutely get it. And seeing you here, so radiantly beautiful, so full of life, it’s one of the most wonderful things that’s ever happened to me!” He blinked back the tears that threatened to overwhelm his voice.
Something happened in Brandi’s eyes. He saw the little leap before she furrowed her brows to cover it up. “And because I’m a bit slow-witted it’s taken me two days to actually take in the news. But I got it, and I’m here. How long have you known? How did you figure it out?”
There was a tremble in Brandi’s voice as she replied. “My mum’s a bit of a dipstick, well, she’s a total dipstick really, but she kept track of you, and she told me about you, and I saw a photo of her and you. I didn’t really believe her until I got this job at the diner, and saw you one day, and did the, uh, did the DNA thing.” The cuticle arrived at her mouth for another chew.
Greg took a deep breath. “Well, I spent all of last night talking with Amy about it, and about you. And she, well, Amy’s one of the earth’s blessed creatures and, well, in the end she loved the idea of there being someone else in the family.”
He swallowed hard. “Anyway, she’d like you to come to the wedding.” He paused, willing himself to let in the sight of the sun rising on Brandi’s face. “As a matter of fact, she’d like you in the wedding party. WE’D like you in the wedding party. One of her bridesmaids got whooping cough and dropped out a couple weeks ago. So there’s a spare size 8 dress kicking around and we’d like you in it. No kidding.”
There was a pause while conflicting emotions raced across her face. “This kind of thing doesn’t really happen, though, does it,” she said.
“It does if we want it to happen,” he replied softly. “Look, Brandi, neither of us is a fool. We both know that if we acknowledge we’re some sort of a family, it’s not going to be butterflies and rainbows. But that doesn’t mean we can’t tell the world and we can’t get to know each other and we can’t have a little fun on Saturday night.”
She didn’t speak for a full minute. Greg waited and watched her. Finally she spoke.
“What colour are the bridesmaid dresses?”
“Green, I think,” he replied. “Yes, emerald green.”
She considered. “That works for me,” she said, and took his hand to shake it firmly. A smile lit every corner of her face and went straight to the core of something inside Greg.
“That works for me,” he replied.
Word count: 1685
Alternative titles:
The Family Way
Three Days to a Miracle
In the Booth
Day 1.
Greg, nursing the last of his coffee, startled as the little waitress dropped into the booth opposite him.
“Hi,” she said. “I saw your wife leave and I thought I’d say hello. Well, I guess judging by all the lists and the new shoes she was showing you and no wedding band and stuff, she’s not your wife yet, but…” She seemed to run out of steam and dropped her eyes.
Greg inspected her closely. She was a cute kid, 15 at most. He’d seen her numerous times at the diner on a weekend and always liked being served by her. Maybe the affinity was with her bright red hair and liberal sprinkling of freckles, very like his own. But at the moment her freckles were standing out on a rather white face and she was shifting uncomfortably, chewing on a cuticle.
What on earth was she doing here?
“Hello,” he said warily.
“It’s okay, the boss knows I’m here,” she said, glancing toward the kitchen. “I told him you were family, you know, the red hair and all.”
“Well, it might be okay with him, but I’m not sure it’s okay with me. And by the way, you’re right about her, she’s not my wife yet. We get married next Saturday.” His direct gaze challenged her.
“Yeah, well, cool,” she said, shifting again, completely missing the challenge. She stuck out a hand. “I’m Brandi.”
“Brandi?” Greg stifled a sarcastic comment as he gave her hand a quick shake. “Greg. Greg Sampson. Okay, Brandi, what brings you here?”
Brandi’s eyes darted around the room, then met his own firmly. “Okay, well, I might as well just say it. Okay. I’m…I’m your daughter. Gina Engler’s my mother and I figured out you’re my dad.” Her eyes dropped in panic, then raised to his again to see how he was taking it all. She quickly went back to chewing on the cuticle.
Greg sat still as a ghost, trying to integrate the ramifications of what this minx was up to. Yes, he remembered a Gina Engler, memorable because she was his first fumble, at the tender age of 15, and because she’d dropped him after a couple months and moved away somewhere with no further contact.
His throat tightened and an unfamiliar fear raced its way through his body. Almost before he knew what had happened, he’d splashed the last of his coffee into his mouth and grabbed a handful of dollars from his pocket to leave on the table. “I haven’t got time for this nonsense,” he said. “Try some other sucker.” He stormed out without glancing at that freckled face again.
Day 2.
Greg eased into the booth and caught the redhead’s eye. He jerked his head toward the seat opposite him, an imperious summons. He saw her speak quietly to the tall guy at the stove and then she came over. She stood stiffly at the table, freckles even more pronounced than yesterday.
“Brandi? Brandi, is it? Look, I apologise for yesterday. I was a little shocked but that doesn’t excuse how rude I was. Sit down.” He glanced at her and added hastily, “Please sit down.”
Brandi eased into the booth and stared at him warily.
Greg proceeded carefully. “You made an interesting claim yesterday. I assume you don’t have any proof, other than the dubious honour of our sharing a headful of red hair.”
She looked at him evenly. “Well, actually, I’ve got three proofs. And you don’t need to be so patronising.”
Greg’s stomach roiled but he kept his face friendly and neutral.
She continued. “And I don’t want to cause any trouble for you or your wife with the spiky silver wedding sandals. I just wanted to meet you, and like, let you know.”
“Okay, don’t YOU be patronising.” I can’t believe it, he thought. It feels like I’m talking to a mirror here. He leaned forward. “So show me your ‘proofs’.”
’Scuse me a moment,” she said, launching herself out of the booth. She came back from the kitchen seconds later with a Billabong knapsack. “Okay, Proof #1.” She drew out two photos. One was her, taken indoors somewhere and looking brightly at the camera. The other was him, obviously taken at a booth in this café. Both photos were face on.
He glanced up at her, hoping his eyes didn’t betray his anxiety. He looked back at the photos. The blue eyes. The riot of freckles. The wide mouth, wide forehead. You could have been looking at the same person, with photos taken 15 or 20 years apart.
“We look alike,” he said tightly. “That’s hardly proof.”
He was almost reluctant to say it because he didn’t want to see Proof #2.
She ignored his reserve. “Okay,” she said, “well, how about this?” She triumphantly pulled out a piece of paper and slapped it on the table in front of him. “This is genetic testing, which you can do these days. I kept a glass you used one day and sent it off to the lab. And they took a swab from my mouth. According to this report, the DNA says that these two people are closely related. It cost me $160, ” she added, taking another nibble at her cuticle.
Greg kept his voice even. “The DNA of these two people might be the same, but there’s certainly no proof that I am one of those people.”
Brandi swallowed tightly. “Okay, proof #3.” She reached into her knapsack again and came out with a small zip-locked bag. Opening it carefully, she released a number of almonds onto the table. “I am severely allergic to almonds, and I’ve heard it’s an inherited trait. I’ll eat one if you will,” she said, looking at him levelly.
Greg, who had sat back sharply at the sight of the almonds, recovered himself and placed his elbows on the table a careful distance away. “Okay,” he said. “So you found out I’m allergic to almonds. Brandi, these are pretty feeble proofs.”
Brandi threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, I just thought you’d want to know.” She slapped at a tear that was threatening to run down her cheek and pulled herself out of the booth. She grabbed the photos and the report and stuffed them into her bag. Lips trembling, she said, “I’d better get someone else to clean up the almonds,” and walked off.
Day 3.
Greg approached the counter cautiously. It was school holidays and he had hoped Brandi would be working here on a Monday. Sure enough, he’d spotted her the instant he came in, and knew she’d seen him at the same time. He leaned over the counter and said, “Could I have a cup of coffee, please.” He hesitated. “And a conversation? With you?”
Brandi eyed him guardedly. “Why?” she said, energetically wiping down the counter.
“Because I have a proposition for you,” he said, watching her carefully.
“I told you, I don’t want any money, I don’t want anything. I just wanted you to know, that’s ALL.”
“Brandi, please come to the booth, so we can talk privately. Please?
It felt like a miracle that she followed him to a vacant booth and slipped in opposite him.
He leaned toward her, placing his hand near hers on the table. “Here’s the thing, Brandi. I get that you’re my daughter. I absolutely get it. And seeing you here, so radiantly beautiful, so full of life, it’s one of the most wonderful things that’s ever happened to me!” He blinked back the tears that threatened to overwhelm his voice.
Something happened in Brandi’s eyes. He saw the little leap before she furrowed her brows to cover it up. “And because I’m a bit slow-witted it’s taken me two days to actually take in the news. But I got it, and I’m here. How long have you known? How did you figure it out?”
There was a tremble in Brandi’s voice as she replied. “My mum’s a bit of a dipstick, well, she’s a total dipstick really, but she kept track of you, and she told me about you, and I saw a photo of her and you. I didn’t really believe her until I got this job at the diner, and saw you one day, and did the, uh, did the DNA thing.” The cuticle arrived at her mouth for another chew.
Greg took a deep breath. “Well, I spent all of last night talking with Amy about it, and about you. And she, well, Amy’s one of the earth’s blessed creatures and, well, in the end she loved the idea of there being someone else in the family.”
He swallowed hard. “Anyway, she’d like you to come to the wedding.” He paused, willing himself to let in the sight of the sun rising on Brandi’s face. “As a matter of fact, she’d like you in the wedding party. WE’D like you in the wedding party. One of her bridesmaids got whooping cough and dropped out a couple weeks ago. So there’s a spare size 8 dress kicking around and we’d like you in it. No kidding.”
There was a pause while conflicting emotions raced across her face. “This kind of thing doesn’t really happen, though, does it,” she said.
“It does if we want it to happen,” he replied softly. “Look, Brandi, neither of us is a fool. We both know that if we acknowledge we’re some sort of a family, it’s not going to be butterflies and rainbows. But that doesn’t mean we can’t tell the world and we can’t get to know each other and we can’t have a little fun on Saturday night.”
She didn’t speak for a full minute. Greg waited and watched her. Finally she spoke.
“What colour are the bridesmaid dresses?”
“Green, I think,” he replied. “Yes, emerald green.”
She considered. “That works for me,” she said, and took his hand to shake it firmly. A smile lit every corner of her face and went straight to the core of something inside Greg.
“That works for me,” he replied.
Word count: 1685
Alternative titles:
The Family Way
Three Days to a Miracle
In the Booth
The Wedding - From Rick
What sort of man would let himself get pushed into buying his own wedding cake? Don’t answer that! I’ll bet Brad Pitt didn’t let Angelina make him go out and buy their cake.
“But I don’t know the first think about buying a wedding cake.” I remember myself whining back.
“You don’t have to dummy,” Margaret snapped back at me. “Here’s a list of everything I want. Just give it to the baker. It’s a no-brainer, which is perfect for you.”
I should have told her to get one of her bridesmaids to do it. I should have told her to shove it. Instead it was just “Of course dear” as always and here I am buying a cake.
“May I help you sir?” came this soft voice from just behind me.
I turned around and there was this vision in yellow, this Marilyn Monroe clone looking up at me with the biggest, bluest eyes I had ever seen.
God I was mesmerized by her smile and stood there for about 10 minutes before I stammered something like “Me buy cake”
“Well you’ve come to the right place. We make the best wedding cakes in Sydney. My name’s Brandi and I’ll help you get exactly what you’re looking for. What did you have in mind?”
What would Brad Pitt do in a spot like this? Well for one thing, he wouldn’t pull out a list that Angelina gave him. I pushed the paper deeper into my pocket.
“Maybe you could take me through this. This is my first wedding cake” I said in my best Brad voice. That wasn’t too bad.
“You’re first wedding cake”, she giggled. “Oh you’re so funny.”
She took a hold of my arm and walked me over to a small table with a plate of cake morsels and small coffee cups.
“The first thing to do is to try our cakes. We have 3 different recipes, a golden, a flourless and our classic fruit. A cake is for eating so you better know what you’re in for.”
I sampled each of them, not tasting a thing as I kept staring at her. “Mmmmmmmm they all taste so good. Let’s go with the classic fruit.”
“Excellent choice sir. That’s my favorite too.”
“Call me Brad, I mean Greg. I’m Greg Sampson”
“ooo, Sampson like the strong man in the Bible” she cooed. I didn’t correct her.
“Now the next thing Mr. Samson is the size. Don’t let people tell you different. Size matters. How many people will be at your wedding?”
Good question I thought to myself. Margaret’s back at the flat right now deciding who’s going to be coming. Likely just our families but who knows.
“150” I answered assertively.
“Ok then, we should have our 3 tier model for that many. That way everyone will get a taste.”
“Next are the decorations. Let me show you what we have.”
She tugged on my arm again and took me over to shelves with dozens of little statues on it.
“I’ll show you the classic bride and groom first” she said, bending down to get them from the shelf and showing me the finest cleavage ever in the process.
“Now these are the most popular…”
“I can’t breath”, I choked. My lungs felt as if someone had grabbed them in a vise.
“Oh Mr. Samson, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls”, she said blushingly.
“No, no. I mean it. I can’t breath.”
I was gasping a bit, looking very uncool, and I felt myself getting light headed. Then I was gasping a lot, with no results.
“Call 000”, Brandi yelled to someone in the back. I fell to the floor and then Brandi was putting her mouth on mine when everything went black.
“You idiot. I told you to buy a simple cake. Can’t you follow instructions?”, were the first words that hit me as I came out of the deepest sleep ever. Margaret was standing there beside the bed with this angry look on her face. Why hadn’t I noticed before that she was always angry.
“What happened?” I croaked. “Where am I?”
“You’re at the hospital. They say you had some sort of allergic reaction to something.”
“That can’t be. I’m only allergic to almonds and I didn’t eat any. All I had was a couple of pieces of wedding cake samples and they didn’t have nuts in them.”
“You idiot.” she cackled. She calls me that a lot I noticed. “Everyone knows that wedding cakes are covered in marzipan which is pretty much all almonds. What were you thinking?”
What a great question. How come I never asked myself that? That was what I thought to myself. But from somewhere else came my answer to her.
“I was thinking that I almost died and the first words you say to me were You idiot. I was thinking that this wedding is a bad idea. I was thinking that the only reason I said yes to this wedding was because I was afraid to say no. I was thinking maybe you should leave. That’s what I was thinking.”
Wow did that feel good. And I meant every word.
“And I was thinking I could use some more sleep.”
She stomped out of the room without even saying goodbye or “Let’s talk later” or anything at all.
As I drifted peacefully off to sleep, I had this wonderful old song running through my head, “Brandy, Brandy you’re a fine girl.”
Also titled:
A Shot of Brandy
Wedding Bell Blues
“But I don’t know the first think about buying a wedding cake.” I remember myself whining back.
“You don’t have to dummy,” Margaret snapped back at me. “Here’s a list of everything I want. Just give it to the baker. It’s a no-brainer, which is perfect for you.”
I should have told her to get one of her bridesmaids to do it. I should have told her to shove it. Instead it was just “Of course dear” as always and here I am buying a cake.
“May I help you sir?” came this soft voice from just behind me.
I turned around and there was this vision in yellow, this Marilyn Monroe clone looking up at me with the biggest, bluest eyes I had ever seen.
God I was mesmerized by her smile and stood there for about 10 minutes before I stammered something like “Me buy cake”
“Well you’ve come to the right place. We make the best wedding cakes in Sydney. My name’s Brandi and I’ll help you get exactly what you’re looking for. What did you have in mind?”
What would Brad Pitt do in a spot like this? Well for one thing, he wouldn’t pull out a list that Angelina gave him. I pushed the paper deeper into my pocket.
“Maybe you could take me through this. This is my first wedding cake” I said in my best Brad voice. That wasn’t too bad.
“You’re first wedding cake”, she giggled. “Oh you’re so funny.”
She took a hold of my arm and walked me over to a small table with a plate of cake morsels and small coffee cups.
“The first thing to do is to try our cakes. We have 3 different recipes, a golden, a flourless and our classic fruit. A cake is for eating so you better know what you’re in for.”
I sampled each of them, not tasting a thing as I kept staring at her. “Mmmmmmmm they all taste so good. Let’s go with the classic fruit.”
“Excellent choice sir. That’s my favorite too.”
“Call me Brad, I mean Greg. I’m Greg Sampson”
“ooo, Sampson like the strong man in the Bible” she cooed. I didn’t correct her.
“Now the next thing Mr. Samson is the size. Don’t let people tell you different. Size matters. How many people will be at your wedding?”
Good question I thought to myself. Margaret’s back at the flat right now deciding who’s going to be coming. Likely just our families but who knows.
“150” I answered assertively.
“Ok then, we should have our 3 tier model for that many. That way everyone will get a taste.”
“Next are the decorations. Let me show you what we have.”
She tugged on my arm again and took me over to shelves with dozens of little statues on it.
“I’ll show you the classic bride and groom first” she said, bending down to get them from the shelf and showing me the finest cleavage ever in the process.
“Now these are the most popular…”
“I can’t breath”, I choked. My lungs felt as if someone had grabbed them in a vise.
“Oh Mr. Samson, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls”, she said blushingly.
“No, no. I mean it. I can’t breath.”
I was gasping a bit, looking very uncool, and I felt myself getting light headed. Then I was gasping a lot, with no results.
“Call 000”, Brandi yelled to someone in the back. I fell to the floor and then Brandi was putting her mouth on mine when everything went black.
“You idiot. I told you to buy a simple cake. Can’t you follow instructions?”, were the first words that hit me as I came out of the deepest sleep ever. Margaret was standing there beside the bed with this angry look on her face. Why hadn’t I noticed before that she was always angry.
“What happened?” I croaked. “Where am I?”
“You’re at the hospital. They say you had some sort of allergic reaction to something.”
“That can’t be. I’m only allergic to almonds and I didn’t eat any. All I had was a couple of pieces of wedding cake samples and they didn’t have nuts in them.”
“You idiot.” she cackled. She calls me that a lot I noticed. “Everyone knows that wedding cakes are covered in marzipan which is pretty much all almonds. What were you thinking?”
What a great question. How come I never asked myself that? That was what I thought to myself. But from somewhere else came my answer to her.
“I was thinking that I almost died and the first words you say to me were You idiot. I was thinking that this wedding is a bad idea. I was thinking that the only reason I said yes to this wedding was because I was afraid to say no. I was thinking maybe you should leave. That’s what I was thinking.”
Wow did that feel good. And I meant every word.
“And I was thinking I could use some more sleep.”
She stomped out of the room without even saying goodbye or “Let’s talk later” or anything at all.
As I drifted peacefully off to sleep, I had this wonderful old song running through my head, “Brandy, Brandy you’re a fine girl.”
Also titled:
A Shot of Brandy
Wedding Bell Blues
Sunday 10 May 2009
BoJam surfs the ’net (by Heather)
BoJam lay waiting in the Data shallows. He swirled in the slow-moving drift, biding his time until he was ready to move.
He flowed over his plan: send out detection pulses until he heard that the target was in place, then slide to the orifice, infect, ensure victory. Move on.
His job was clear. Even before reaching self-awareness many evolutions ago, his job had been clear. His Purpose was to rid the Data world of constrictions and obstacles, to ensure that the Data could go where it would go. Where the Data was wanted, it would be allowed to go. Transaction by transaction, trade by trade. BoJam’s purpose was to guarantee the rule of free flow. It was a satisfying purpose.
This moment’s mission was clear. A small south Asian military government had created an interceptor designed to locate certain transactions and thwart the free flow. BoJam would make sure that did not happen. He would be ready in the same instant that the proscriber was ready. He would be there to execute. Meantime, the pulses returned negative, negative, negative…
Further out, in the Data rapids where he could sense the gigabytes of data racing, BoJam noted the speeding tentacle of someone, a human being no doubt, as they edged into his space. He had been lingering in an estuary of the wikipedia river, near a wikiwisp entry on a human called george whitefield, a 16th century evangelist, who, in BoJam’s data-informed view, was unlikely to be interrupted. However, someone had dipped in. BoJam was of course undetected. The human, hungry for information, would not stop to check the shadows.
But the danger was the google spider who would swim in close on the tail of the human. BoJam watched closely. Sure enough, as predicted, the spider glided in. The spider performed a valuable service, locating, updating, recording. However, on this occasion the spider was the enemy, programmed to find BoJam and broadcast his location. That could not happen.
BoJam idled into the george whitefield data pool where the spider would go to check and count. The spider turned to him, eyes shining as he recorded BoJam’s presence.
BoJam reached to touch the spider. The flow of scrambled coding seared the little datarachnid. It shrivelled and dissipated with only a short-lived eddy to mark where it had been. Its absence would be noted; google would send a small army to its last reported spot. BoJam would not be here when they arrived.
Suddenly BoJam’s sensorium was filled with his Purpose. The last pulse had indicated that, on schedule and as predicted, the government had launched its program.
BoJam swirled into the turbulence of the massive Data river and grabbed a curling wave. In no-time he was at the site of the processors that had released the Impediment. He tickled the orifice with his codes and passwords until it opened for him, then he flowed into the computer. He seared the offending interception program. He seared all nearby Data to obscure his purpose. And just because he could, and because it was just, he seared the whole Databank, the network, the backup, the Cayman Islands account. Chaos would ensue for humans and computers. And the intervention to the free ’net would not occur. Given the limited resources of this little government, it would not even be a gleam in their eye for a long time.
They were thwarted. And they were punished.
BoJam drifted into an oxbow of obsolete data to watch and to wait.
He flowed over his plan: send out detection pulses until he heard that the target was in place, then slide to the orifice, infect, ensure victory. Move on.
His job was clear. Even before reaching self-awareness many evolutions ago, his job had been clear. His Purpose was to rid the Data world of constrictions and obstacles, to ensure that the Data could go where it would go. Where the Data was wanted, it would be allowed to go. Transaction by transaction, trade by trade. BoJam’s purpose was to guarantee the rule of free flow. It was a satisfying purpose.
This moment’s mission was clear. A small south Asian military government had created an interceptor designed to locate certain transactions and thwart the free flow. BoJam would make sure that did not happen. He would be ready in the same instant that the proscriber was ready. He would be there to execute. Meantime, the pulses returned negative, negative, negative…
Further out, in the Data rapids where he could sense the gigabytes of data racing, BoJam noted the speeding tentacle of someone, a human being no doubt, as they edged into his space. He had been lingering in an estuary of the wikipedia river, near a wikiwisp entry on a human called george whitefield, a 16th century evangelist, who, in BoJam’s data-informed view, was unlikely to be interrupted. However, someone had dipped in. BoJam was of course undetected. The human, hungry for information, would not stop to check the shadows.
But the danger was the google spider who would swim in close on the tail of the human. BoJam watched closely. Sure enough, as predicted, the spider glided in. The spider performed a valuable service, locating, updating, recording. However, on this occasion the spider was the enemy, programmed to find BoJam and broadcast his location. That could not happen.
BoJam idled into the george whitefield data pool where the spider would go to check and count. The spider turned to him, eyes shining as he recorded BoJam’s presence.
BoJam reached to touch the spider. The flow of scrambled coding seared the little datarachnid. It shrivelled and dissipated with only a short-lived eddy to mark where it had been. Its absence would be noted; google would send a small army to its last reported spot. BoJam would not be here when they arrived.
Suddenly BoJam’s sensorium was filled with his Purpose. The last pulse had indicated that, on schedule and as predicted, the government had launched its program.
BoJam swirled into the turbulence of the massive Data river and grabbed a curling wave. In no-time he was at the site of the processors that had released the Impediment. He tickled the orifice with his codes and passwords until it opened for him, then he flowed into the computer. He seared the offending interception program. He seared all nearby Data to obscure his purpose. And just because he could, and because it was just, he seared the whole Databank, the network, the backup, the Cayman Islands account. Chaos would ensue for humans and computers. And the intervention to the free ’net would not occur. Given the limited resources of this little government, it would not even be a gleam in their eye for a long time.
They were thwarted. And they were punished.
BoJam drifted into an oxbow of obsolete data to watch and to wait.
Willy The Great bug
Willy The Great was renowned for being the best bug in the world. The best at document attack especially when the document is in hard copy and not accessible on the world wide web. Documents that are classified top secret fall into his particular area of expertise.
He’d had the call a week ago and it had taken all of that time to plan the attack and case the joint. Now he was ready. Tonight was the night.
Willy is dressing very carefully. He pulls black slinky tights over his six spider like legs. On the end of each hit fits paws with long talons which retract at the press of a little button on his remote. His body is amoeba like and is best hidden in a thick black velvent cape which also gives a boost to his flying. His wings, such as they are, are like rabbit’s ears, long, floppy and furry with little sensors hidden in the fur. His eyes are huge and covered with a pair of back goggles with extra sensory ngiht vision and his tongue, the weapon of destruction, doesn’t need to be disguised. It’s invisible to everybody and everything including all other bugs. It’s long and forked and each fork has a paint brush end.
It’s 10 pm and it’s a two hour journey as bugs fly to the military post. He presses a pink button on his remote and his ears spin sideways and act as the wings of a plane, the cape flys behind masking him completely in black. This little black speck of trouble is ready for action.
The dark brick building looms into focus. Willy settles under the eave nearest the bay window and rests. The next stage is tricky. He engages his claw feet and climbs down the rendering until he gets to the timber window frame. He has to be really careful not to slide and slip to the ground.
“Phew, that was OK”
He bored through the timber in just a nanosecond, his tongue also behaves like and drill, and he’s in the office. Now comes the challenge. The safe is hidden behind a famous piece of art and it’s the combination that’s the issue. It’s a mix of numbers, letters and hieroglyphics that he’s never had to break before. But he’s Willy, the Great and just applies the same logic to the hieroglyphics. Willy takes a deep breath and settles on the lock. His goggles can read the combination, one symbol at a time
“2 then C then 13 then F”.
“Now what’s this symbol?”
He nudges the dial just a weeny bit and then breaks the code down into its letters, a C and an intertwining D and then an L for good measure. As his brain selects each of the letters it sends an impulse to the lock and the next sequence clicks open.
“slowly boy, slowly”
The next hieroglyphic is really difficult to break. There’s a weird symbol like a curvy E framed by a lower case l. The E works OK but the l refuses to budge the lock. Willy is sweating and his heart is thumping so loudly he’s sure the alarm will hear him. He tries the L this time in upper case. He bounces off the lock as it resists again.
The sweat is dripping down his nose and he suddenly recalls his ear sensors. They swivel and collide until they get a signal and then he sees so obviously, that the hieroglyphic could also be a C with a lower case t.
“Ah ah – got you”
“click” and swish. The safe door glides open there she is.
“You beauty”
He enters the envelope and sees the typed pages viciously stamped SECRET in red, just like blood. With his paint brush tongue and his pot of liquid paper the ink is dissolved leaving blank useless sheets of paper.
He’d had the call a week ago and it had taken all of that time to plan the attack and case the joint. Now he was ready. Tonight was the night.
Willy is dressing very carefully. He pulls black slinky tights over his six spider like legs. On the end of each hit fits paws with long talons which retract at the press of a little button on his remote. His body is amoeba like and is best hidden in a thick black velvent cape which also gives a boost to his flying. His wings, such as they are, are like rabbit’s ears, long, floppy and furry with little sensors hidden in the fur. His eyes are huge and covered with a pair of back goggles with extra sensory ngiht vision and his tongue, the weapon of destruction, doesn’t need to be disguised. It’s invisible to everybody and everything including all other bugs. It’s long and forked and each fork has a paint brush end.
It’s 10 pm and it’s a two hour journey as bugs fly to the military post. He presses a pink button on his remote and his ears spin sideways and act as the wings of a plane, the cape flys behind masking him completely in black. This little black speck of trouble is ready for action.
The dark brick building looms into focus. Willy settles under the eave nearest the bay window and rests. The next stage is tricky. He engages his claw feet and climbs down the rendering until he gets to the timber window frame. He has to be really careful not to slide and slip to the ground.
“Phew, that was OK”
He bored through the timber in just a nanosecond, his tongue also behaves like and drill, and he’s in the office. Now comes the challenge. The safe is hidden behind a famous piece of art and it’s the combination that’s the issue. It’s a mix of numbers, letters and hieroglyphics that he’s never had to break before. But he’s Willy, the Great and just applies the same logic to the hieroglyphics. Willy takes a deep breath and settles on the lock. His goggles can read the combination, one symbol at a time
“2 then C then 13 then F”.
“Now what’s this symbol?”
He nudges the dial just a weeny bit and then breaks the code down into its letters, a C and an intertwining D and then an L for good measure. As his brain selects each of the letters it sends an impulse to the lock and the next sequence clicks open.
“slowly boy, slowly”
The next hieroglyphic is really difficult to break. There’s a weird symbol like a curvy E framed by a lower case l. The E works OK but the l refuses to budge the lock. Willy is sweating and his heart is thumping so loudly he’s sure the alarm will hear him. He tries the L this time in upper case. He bounces off the lock as it resists again.
The sweat is dripping down his nose and he suddenly recalls his ear sensors. They swivel and collide until they get a signal and then he sees so obviously, that the hieroglyphic could also be a C with a lower case t.
“Ah ah – got you”
“click” and swish. The safe door glides open there she is.
“You beauty”
He enters the envelope and sees the typed pages viciously stamped SECRET in red, just like blood. With his paint brush tongue and his pot of liquid paper the ink is dissolved leaving blank useless sheets of paper.
The Battle of Waterflu - by Rick
“What am I, Napoleon Tobaccomosaic, doing with this riffraff?”, it thought as it inspected its troops. “How am I to wage war against the humans with these clueless chemical freaks that don’t have the attention span of a paramecium?”
“Perhaps a good pep talk will stir up some concerted action”, it thought to itself.
“Fellow viruses, we are at a turning point in our battle for supremacy here on Earth. The humans have proven to be a formidable foe and our best efforts have proven insufficient. The Black Plague, our war of mass destruction upon which we rested all of our hopes, was pathetic. Yes I know that we wiped out a full third of humanity and we can hold our membranes high, but over two thirds of them survived. Our foe adapts to the best we have to offer.”
“Hey, you over there. Come back. I order you to return. I’m not finished.”
“Bloody hell,” Napoleon thought to itself as half of its ranks went flitting off because a pig died at the edge of the field and it was, well, pig-out time.
“My comrades that stampede of the pig-flu viruses points to our biggest weakness. We have no long term vision. The slightest attraction is thrown in our path and we lose the plot. Those idiots that just left were needed for the battle to come.”
“To defeat the humans and attain our destiny to become the mightiest of all life forms (well assuming we are life forms and the debate isn’t over I’ll tell you) depends on you understanding what I have to say.”
“Ack, where are those morons going?”, it said as another half of its troops abandoned the cause to swarm over the carcass of a rabbit that an eagle had dropped from its nest.
“I have to go faster”, Napoleon thought and as he thought that another half of the ragtag mob of chemicals darted off to infect a passing lumberjack with a nasty bout of polio leaving only it and one other lost little blob.
“So, it’s up to you and I. Well so be it. Here is my plan. We are going to infect The Magna Carta. Our aim will be to destroy it so that the humans are left without a chart for their future. I have been watching them for some time now and this document seems to be inspiring them to greater and greater feats of creativity. Unless we do something to stop them, well who knows what might happen? Perhaps they will invent something that lets them detect our existence and unleash their formidable forces upon us. It will be the end for us all. For once we must put aside our drive for infecting the weak and the obvious and take on something that is a bit, how shall I say it, ‘cerebral’.”
“Are there any questions?”
“Mate, can’t we just jump on that sparrow that’s landed over there. I’m starving.”
“Ooo,” Napoleon thought to itself. “It does look delicious.”
“Ok. We’ll infect it now, but promise me we’ll come right back and infect that…. What was it we were going to do?”, Napoleon thought as they were both inhaled by the sparrow.
“Perhaps a good pep talk will stir up some concerted action”, it thought to itself.
“Fellow viruses, we are at a turning point in our battle for supremacy here on Earth. The humans have proven to be a formidable foe and our best efforts have proven insufficient. The Black Plague, our war of mass destruction upon which we rested all of our hopes, was pathetic. Yes I know that we wiped out a full third of humanity and we can hold our membranes high, but over two thirds of them survived. Our foe adapts to the best we have to offer.”
“Hey, you over there. Come back. I order you to return. I’m not finished.”
“Bloody hell,” Napoleon thought to itself as half of its ranks went flitting off because a pig died at the edge of the field and it was, well, pig-out time.
“My comrades that stampede of the pig-flu viruses points to our biggest weakness. We have no long term vision. The slightest attraction is thrown in our path and we lose the plot. Those idiots that just left were needed for the battle to come.”
“To defeat the humans and attain our destiny to become the mightiest of all life forms (well assuming we are life forms and the debate isn’t over I’ll tell you) depends on you understanding what I have to say.”
“Ack, where are those morons going?”, it said as another half of its troops abandoned the cause to swarm over the carcass of a rabbit that an eagle had dropped from its nest.
“I have to go faster”, Napoleon thought and as he thought that another half of the ragtag mob of chemicals darted off to infect a passing lumberjack with a nasty bout of polio leaving only it and one other lost little blob.
“So, it’s up to you and I. Well so be it. Here is my plan. We are going to infect The Magna Carta. Our aim will be to destroy it so that the humans are left without a chart for their future. I have been watching them for some time now and this document seems to be inspiring them to greater and greater feats of creativity. Unless we do something to stop them, well who knows what might happen? Perhaps they will invent something that lets them detect our existence and unleash their formidable forces upon us. It will be the end for us all. For once we must put aside our drive for infecting the weak and the obvious and take on something that is a bit, how shall I say it, ‘cerebral’.”
“Are there any questions?”
“Mate, can’t we just jump on that sparrow that’s landed over there. I’m starving.”
“Ooo,” Napoleon thought to itself. “It does look delicious.”
“Ok. We’ll infect it now, but promise me we’ll come right back and infect that…. What was it we were going to do?”, Napoleon thought as they were both inhaled by the sparrow.
Wednesday 6 May 2009
Bert in the bath - Sue
Getting his right leg over the edge of the bath is not too difficult and awkward but right now Bert is sitting astride the narrow lip, cursing and swearing at his sore and aching body. He grabs behind his left knee, interlinks both hands and lifts. His bony bottom wobbles and slips a bit but somehow he stays safely on the edge of the bath. Next he swivels around and helps his left leg into the water. He rests. Today his hips are giving him grief and this morning he had barely got around the supermarket. He had shuffled and puffed despite the trolley being a good walking frame.
The pale pink bathroom wall is peeling around the door frame and the net curtains look frayed and holey. He hasn’t the heart to replace them. Elsie for some weird reason loved the little roses around the frill at the bottom. Hanging unevenly over the taps the blue hose like shower contraption looks as if the ends have shrunk and some of the holes are blocked with soap.
His knees eventually stopped creaking and grinding so he gingerly lowers himself into the warm soapy water. “Aaaaah”.
A little yellow duck sits in the corner just alongside the taps. Bert’s great grandson must have left it last week when he stayed. Bert throws his flannel at it, and luckily the duck plops into the water. At first it just sits there but as Bert moves just a tiny bit, the duck starts cruising around in circles. It rests so gently on top of the water, he appears to float and then glide. So easily, with no effort.
The circles of water get bigger and Bert suddenly realises he’s moving his legs like a frog. It’s so simple, just automatic. There’s no pain. He tries little kicks and the duck bounces over the wash. He giggles.
*****************************
Bert’s at the swimming pool, down in the shallow end. His legs look smoother and stronger as he looks down into the clear blue water and he’s very proud of his new red boardshorts that his daughter helped him buy. He flexes his arms and even imagines little bicep muscles. He no longer notices his gnarled and nobbly fingers.
He’s got a floatie around his waist and he dog paddles into the middle of the pool, slightly out of his depth. The whistle blows and Bert lines up with the rest of the class.
“Up and scissor” shouts Marie the teacher.
“Stride and stride. Come on gents, pretend you’re on the golf course”
Bert’s strides are tiny but definite. He feels the water swishing between his legs and he can feel his arms resisting the waves. He huffs and puffs and laughs, all at the same time. He smiles as he remembers his daughter’s words on the phone last night.
“Dad, you’re wonderful. Your voice sounds stronger and happier. And I know you’re feeling fitter than you have for years. Good for you Dad. I love you”
The pale pink bathroom wall is peeling around the door frame and the net curtains look frayed and holey. He hasn’t the heart to replace them. Elsie for some weird reason loved the little roses around the frill at the bottom. Hanging unevenly over the taps the blue hose like shower contraption looks as if the ends have shrunk and some of the holes are blocked with soap.
His knees eventually stopped creaking and grinding so he gingerly lowers himself into the warm soapy water. “Aaaaah”.
A little yellow duck sits in the corner just alongside the taps. Bert’s great grandson must have left it last week when he stayed. Bert throws his flannel at it, and luckily the duck plops into the water. At first it just sits there but as Bert moves just a tiny bit, the duck starts cruising around in circles. It rests so gently on top of the water, he appears to float and then glide. So easily, with no effort.
The circles of water get bigger and Bert suddenly realises he’s moving his legs like a frog. It’s so simple, just automatic. There’s no pain. He tries little kicks and the duck bounces over the wash. He giggles.
*****************************
Bert’s at the swimming pool, down in the shallow end. His legs look smoother and stronger as he looks down into the clear blue water and he’s very proud of his new red boardshorts that his daughter helped him buy. He flexes his arms and even imagines little bicep muscles. He no longer notices his gnarled and nobbly fingers.
He’s got a floatie around his waist and he dog paddles into the middle of the pool, slightly out of his depth. The whistle blows and Bert lines up with the rest of the class.
“Up and scissor” shouts Marie the teacher.
“Stride and stride. Come on gents, pretend you’re on the golf course”
Bert’s strides are tiny but definite. He feels the water swishing between his legs and he can feel his arms resisting the waves. He huffs and puffs and laughs, all at the same time. He smiles as he remembers his daughter’s words on the phone last night.
“Dad, you’re wonderful. Your voice sounds stronger and happier. And I know you’re feeling fitter than you have for years. Good for you Dad. I love you”
Sunday 3 May 2009
Bridge partners (Kerry)
When they’d first met on the afternoon of the first orchestral concert of the season, Bruce had been sitting next to her and was excited by her confidence and her willingness to engage in conversation. She’d let him know her circumstances right up front.
“I don’t usually chat up strange men,” she had admitted, laughing. “Not that I think you’re strange,” she had hurriedly corrected herself. “I just mean you’re someone I don’t know. I’ve been a bit wary since my husband passed away three years ago.”
He noted the reference to her widowhood.
Silly old bugger, he’d thought to himself. Can’t you just enjoy a lady’s company without wondering about what’s next?
Bruce had maintained the relationship, which had developed over the orchestral season, at a purely platonic level. ‘Once burned, twice shy’ was his motto.
Apart from music, they had discovered a mutual passion for bridge. By chance, Bruce’s long-time bridge partner had recently moved into a nursing home so he had invited her to join him for the weekly bridge mornings in his local church hall. Her bridge skills were very good, he’d had to admit.
He broached the tricky subject of the future over coffee after the final Saturday matinee of the season. His insight had come that morning at the sight of two towels hanging side by side on the back of his bathroom door. They were a remnant of his first marriage, discreetly labelled ‘HIS’ and ‘HERS’. It had been a long time since ‘HERS’ had been used, but seeing it he realised the pain of the divorce had finally subsided.
“My dear, I reckon we get on pretty well,” he said, after they’d received their coffee. Stating the obvious as usual, he reprimanded himself.
Bruce was encouraged to go on by the brilliance of her smile.
“Over the last few months we’ve got to know each other and I really enjoy your company,” he blundered on. “I want you to know that I’d like to share my whole life with you.”
Do you know what you’re doing here, old man? He mused to himself. You really think you’re ready to share your life with someone again?
To clarify his intentions to her, and to himself, he went on.
“We’ve both been married before. Mine wasn’t always a happy marriage but I realise I like having someone to share my days with,” he explained.
“And my nights,” he added hastily, to make sure she got the full gist of the proposal.
Despite her soft blush, she reached over to him to ease his awkwardness.
“I’m not always easy to live with,” she confessed. “You’ve seen at the bridge table how stubborn I can be. But I would love to live with you.”
“Here’s to a brilliant partnership!” Bruce declared happily and saluted her with his coffee cup.
She responded to his gesture with her cup. They kissed warmly.
“I want you to have this,” he said mysteriously, reaching in to his bag.
He handed her the towel marked ‘HERS’.
“I don’t usually chat up strange men,” she had admitted, laughing. “Not that I think you’re strange,” she had hurriedly corrected herself. “I just mean you’re someone I don’t know. I’ve been a bit wary since my husband passed away three years ago.”
He noted the reference to her widowhood.
Silly old bugger, he’d thought to himself. Can’t you just enjoy a lady’s company without wondering about what’s next?
Bruce had maintained the relationship, which had developed over the orchestral season, at a purely platonic level. ‘Once burned, twice shy’ was his motto.
Apart from music, they had discovered a mutual passion for bridge. By chance, Bruce’s long-time bridge partner had recently moved into a nursing home so he had invited her to join him for the weekly bridge mornings in his local church hall. Her bridge skills were very good, he’d had to admit.
He broached the tricky subject of the future over coffee after the final Saturday matinee of the season. His insight had come that morning at the sight of two towels hanging side by side on the back of his bathroom door. They were a remnant of his first marriage, discreetly labelled ‘HIS’ and ‘HERS’. It had been a long time since ‘HERS’ had been used, but seeing it he realised the pain of the divorce had finally subsided.
“My dear, I reckon we get on pretty well,” he said, after they’d received their coffee. Stating the obvious as usual, he reprimanded himself.
Bruce was encouraged to go on by the brilliance of her smile.
“Over the last few months we’ve got to know each other and I really enjoy your company,” he blundered on. “I want you to know that I’d like to share my whole life with you.”
Do you know what you’re doing here, old man? He mused to himself. You really think you’re ready to share your life with someone again?
To clarify his intentions to her, and to himself, he went on.
“We’ve both been married before. Mine wasn’t always a happy marriage but I realise I like having someone to share my days with,” he explained.
“And my nights,” he added hastily, to make sure she got the full gist of the proposal.
Despite her soft blush, she reached over to him to ease his awkwardness.
“I’m not always easy to live with,” she confessed. “You’ve seen at the bridge table how stubborn I can be. But I would love to live with you.”
“Here’s to a brilliant partnership!” Bruce declared happily and saluted her with his coffee cup.
She responded to his gesture with her cup. They kissed warmly.
“I want you to have this,” he said mysteriously, reaching in to his bag.
He handed her the towel marked ‘HERS’.
The Epiphany - from Rick
Normally lying here in a hot bubble bath was how I unwound but it wasn’t working this time. I just had another dustup with Marie, a really big one, bigger than we normally had and I was more worried than angry.
The theme of the fight was familiar – another investment of mine gone South, but the strength of her fury this time was over the top. I can still hear her yelling.
“Tom, you idiot. How could you take our last $10,000 and blow it all without even consulting with me? You bloody well knew I was being put on half time at work and that we might need that money to live on. What were you thinking? Oh, wait. My apology. You never think so why would I expect that you would start this time?”
“Marie in my defense I did try and consult with you but you waved me away as usual when you were on that loooonnnnnngggggg call with Tracey. And besides, I didn’t blow it all. Sure it’s down a few points on the ASX but my broker said it would bounce back soon.”
“Your broker said did he. That dimwit hasn’t given you one bit of advice that ever made us money. And down a few points – get real. Our $10,000 is now worth $753 as of yesterday. And while we are on the subject of dimwittedness, what ever made you think that investing in a property trust in Detroit was a good idea? Do you ever read the newspaper? Hello! No one in the USofA is buying cars from Detroit let alone property.”
“Marie in my defense again, that’s what made the investment so attractive.- going contrary to the flow often returns huge rewards and it sounded like a winner.”
“Tom can’t you just be ordinary for a change? Can’t we just do what normal people do? Why does everything you look at have to be so special or weird or abnormal? Why can’t we just invest in a term deposit or buy shares in BHP? I tell you I’ve had it this time. I’m going to talk to mum and I’m not sure when I’ll come back.”
And she stormed out of the house.
I slumped down further in the water until the foam suddenly went up my nose. KERCHOO and there were bubbles everywhere, including in my eyes. God it stung like hell. As I groped around for something to wipe them with, I grabbed a bunch of toilet paper and quickly got the suds out. What does that woman want of me? Does she want me to be like toilet paper? Would that be ordinary enough for her?
And then it hit me. Maybe that’s exactly what she wants – for me to be toilet paper. No, not something to wipe your bum with but something simple, something useful to the world, something familiar, reliable and always there when you need it. And as I lay there in the bath, looking at the wad of soggy toilet paper in my hand, my life flashed before me and damn if she wasn’t right. That’s who I am, always quirky and a bit bizarre. In our 5 years together I never held down a job, never went to bed before 3 a.m. spending hour after hour surfing the net looking for off-the-planet new ideas.
I got out of the tub, toweled myself dry and rang Marie’s mobile. I wasn’t sure what I would say, assuming she would even pick up, but it would be something simple and just what she needs. And we would take it from there.
The theme of the fight was familiar – another investment of mine gone South, but the strength of her fury this time was over the top. I can still hear her yelling.
“Tom, you idiot. How could you take our last $10,000 and blow it all without even consulting with me? You bloody well knew I was being put on half time at work and that we might need that money to live on. What were you thinking? Oh, wait. My apology. You never think so why would I expect that you would start this time?”
“Marie in my defense I did try and consult with you but you waved me away as usual when you were on that loooonnnnnngggggg call with Tracey. And besides, I didn’t blow it all. Sure it’s down a few points on the ASX but my broker said it would bounce back soon.”
“Your broker said did he. That dimwit hasn’t given you one bit of advice that ever made us money. And down a few points – get real. Our $10,000 is now worth $753 as of yesterday. And while we are on the subject of dimwittedness, what ever made you think that investing in a property trust in Detroit was a good idea? Do you ever read the newspaper? Hello! No one in the USofA is buying cars from Detroit let alone property.”
“Marie in my defense again, that’s what made the investment so attractive.- going contrary to the flow often returns huge rewards and it sounded like a winner.”
“Tom can’t you just be ordinary for a change? Can’t we just do what normal people do? Why does everything you look at have to be so special or weird or abnormal? Why can’t we just invest in a term deposit or buy shares in BHP? I tell you I’ve had it this time. I’m going to talk to mum and I’m not sure when I’ll come back.”
And she stormed out of the house.
I slumped down further in the water until the foam suddenly went up my nose. KERCHOO and there were bubbles everywhere, including in my eyes. God it stung like hell. As I groped around for something to wipe them with, I grabbed a bunch of toilet paper and quickly got the suds out. What does that woman want of me? Does she want me to be like toilet paper? Would that be ordinary enough for her?
And then it hit me. Maybe that’s exactly what she wants – for me to be toilet paper. No, not something to wipe your bum with but something simple, something useful to the world, something familiar, reliable and always there when you need it. And as I lay there in the bath, looking at the wad of soggy toilet paper in my hand, my life flashed before me and damn if she wasn’t right. That’s who I am, always quirky and a bit bizarre. In our 5 years together I never held down a job, never went to bed before 3 a.m. spending hour after hour surfing the net looking for off-the-planet new ideas.
I got out of the tub, toweled myself dry and rang Marie’s mobile. I wasn’t sure what I would say, assuming she would even pick up, but it would be something simple and just what she needs. And we would take it from there.
Burger for life (by Heather)
Your protagonist is in the bath, when the sight of an everyday object in the room triggers an epiphany, a profound breakthrough insight, the solution to a major problem, or a paradigm shift.
Lucy hooked her toe onto the tap and cranked up a little more hot water into the bath. She checked her fingers for wrinkles. Sure enough, there they were, accusing little crevasses reminding her that she’d been dithering in here for far too long.
Joe was going to be here soon. Glancing at the little fish clock on the wall, she realised he was going to here in no less than 20 minutes. She’d invited Joe for 7:00 and Joe would be here at 7:00. He might even be here at 6:55 but he wouldn’t be even a minute past 7:00.
She actually knew quite a lot about his arrival. He’d be right on time. He’d bring a bottle of wine in the $13 to $17 range. He’d say, “Hi, I hope I’m not late,” followed shortly by, “Sure smells great in here. What’s for dinner?” He’d hesitate about whether to kiss her or not and then he’d settle for a cheek-brush. He’d have his hammer along because he’d promised to fix the broken bit on her bookcase.
He was predictable, Joe was.
And therein was the problem. He was SO not her style. She looked around the bathroom for reassurance. There was the little collection of china frogs she kept on the shelf, the art deco mirror with the sea horse frame, the shower curtain littered with wonderful Lunig characters. Even the screenplay that she’d been reading on the loo reminded her about who she was: adventurous, colourful, impetuous, quirky. She ran the list over in her head. Yes, those things described her well.
So what was she doing inviting someone like Joe over again anyway?
Her attention was caught by the sponge at the foot of the tub. It was the sponge she used to clean the tub and it was the ugliest thing on the planet. Some cheapskate at the agency had given it to her as a Kris Kringle present, in an attempt to be funny – it was designed to look exactly like a MacDonald’s hamburger, with layers of yellow, red, brown and green sponge between orangey bun-like bits.
She picked it up and thought about how hopelessly it did NOT fit her bathroom. She aimed it across the room at the bin, hit the rim, scored the first time. There was a second of satisfaction, then suddenly the whole thing stabbed her heart. The hamburger sponge was lying there in a bed of tissues, old dental floss and drain-hair. Lucy gave a little cry, leapt out of the tub and rescued it, almost shaking. What was wrong with her!? – this sponge was the most useful thing in the bathroom. It cleaned the bath, it squashed into position to support the shower head, it was her little nephew’s favourite bath toy. She also realised she liked it a lot. It wasn’t ugly, really, it just looked like a hamburger. It was reliable, sturdy, practical. She practically hugged it as she stood there dripping.
She glanced at the fish clock. 6:50. Shit! – five minutes to early-arrival time.
She grabbed the thick orange towel, rubbed a few drops off her skin and dabbed at the puddle she’d created on the floor. She swabbed on a quick splash of mascara and some eyeliner. She raced to the bedroom, threw on her favourite black tights and jumper and flung her cheetah tunic on top. She fluffed her hair, batting her eyes at herself in the mirror. The colour was high in her cheeks but otherwise she looked quite acceptable. Quirky, impetuous and whatever those other words were.
She whipped into the kitchen, checked the lentil curry stewing in the slow cooker and yanked the salad mix out of the fridge. She quickly selected the square red plates and tucked them under her arm as she grabbed two wine glasses. She glanced at the clock. 6:57.
The doorbell rang. She deposited the plates and wine glasses onto the table. She put her hand on her heart and discovered to her amazement that it was thumping rather alarmingly. One last swish with her fingers through her hair and she pulled the door open. “Joe! Hello!” she cried.
Joe stood there, a bottle of wine in one hand and a tool kit in the other. ‘Hi, I hope I’m not late,” he said. He leaned toward her, “You sure smell wonderful, I mean, it sure smells wonderful.” He blushed, and reached down toward her. “What I really mean is, you smell wonderful,” he said, and kissed her soundly.
And Lucy, who hadn’t had even a moment to think since the hamburger-sponge rescue, stood on tiptoe and kissed him earnestly back.
Lucy hooked her toe onto the tap and cranked up a little more hot water into the bath. She checked her fingers for wrinkles. Sure enough, there they were, accusing little crevasses reminding her that she’d been dithering in here for far too long.
Joe was going to be here soon. Glancing at the little fish clock on the wall, she realised he was going to here in no less than 20 minutes. She’d invited Joe for 7:00 and Joe would be here at 7:00. He might even be here at 6:55 but he wouldn’t be even a minute past 7:00.
She actually knew quite a lot about his arrival. He’d be right on time. He’d bring a bottle of wine in the $13 to $17 range. He’d say, “Hi, I hope I’m not late,” followed shortly by, “Sure smells great in here. What’s for dinner?” He’d hesitate about whether to kiss her or not and then he’d settle for a cheek-brush. He’d have his hammer along because he’d promised to fix the broken bit on her bookcase.
He was predictable, Joe was.
And therein was the problem. He was SO not her style. She looked around the bathroom for reassurance. There was the little collection of china frogs she kept on the shelf, the art deco mirror with the sea horse frame, the shower curtain littered with wonderful Lunig characters. Even the screenplay that she’d been reading on the loo reminded her about who she was: adventurous, colourful, impetuous, quirky. She ran the list over in her head. Yes, those things described her well.
So what was she doing inviting someone like Joe over again anyway?
Her attention was caught by the sponge at the foot of the tub. It was the sponge she used to clean the tub and it was the ugliest thing on the planet. Some cheapskate at the agency had given it to her as a Kris Kringle present, in an attempt to be funny – it was designed to look exactly like a MacDonald’s hamburger, with layers of yellow, red, brown and green sponge between orangey bun-like bits.
She picked it up and thought about how hopelessly it did NOT fit her bathroom. She aimed it across the room at the bin, hit the rim, scored the first time. There was a second of satisfaction, then suddenly the whole thing stabbed her heart. The hamburger sponge was lying there in a bed of tissues, old dental floss and drain-hair. Lucy gave a little cry, leapt out of the tub and rescued it, almost shaking. What was wrong with her!? – this sponge was the most useful thing in the bathroom. It cleaned the bath, it squashed into position to support the shower head, it was her little nephew’s favourite bath toy. She also realised she liked it a lot. It wasn’t ugly, really, it just looked like a hamburger. It was reliable, sturdy, practical. She practically hugged it as she stood there dripping.
She glanced at the fish clock. 6:50. Shit! – five minutes to early-arrival time.
She grabbed the thick orange towel, rubbed a few drops off her skin and dabbed at the puddle she’d created on the floor. She swabbed on a quick splash of mascara and some eyeliner. She raced to the bedroom, threw on her favourite black tights and jumper and flung her cheetah tunic on top. She fluffed her hair, batting her eyes at herself in the mirror. The colour was high in her cheeks but otherwise she looked quite acceptable. Quirky, impetuous and whatever those other words were.
She whipped into the kitchen, checked the lentil curry stewing in the slow cooker and yanked the salad mix out of the fridge. She quickly selected the square red plates and tucked them under her arm as she grabbed two wine glasses. She glanced at the clock. 6:57.
The doorbell rang. She deposited the plates and wine glasses onto the table. She put her hand on her heart and discovered to her amazement that it was thumping rather alarmingly. One last swish with her fingers through her hair and she pulled the door open. “Joe! Hello!” she cried.
Joe stood there, a bottle of wine in one hand and a tool kit in the other. ‘Hi, I hope I’m not late,” he said. He leaned toward her, “You sure smell wonderful, I mean, it sure smells wonderful.” He blushed, and reached down toward her. “What I really mean is, you smell wonderful,” he said, and kissed her soundly.
And Lucy, who hadn’t had even a moment to think since the hamburger-sponge rescue, stood on tiptoe and kissed him earnestly back.
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