“Touch down!” I sang merrily into my trip recorder, affectionately known as Tommy. My capsule had hit the ground with a tremendous bone rattling thud. My whole body felt jarred to the core.
“The good news Tommy, is that the instruments indicate an earthling compatible atmosphere. No need to lug around the oxygen tank today. All the better for sampling.”
This was my 37th landing in as many days. I was growing weary. And lonely. Tommy was not a talker and I was getting sick of the sound of my own voice. But after the success of this mission I would surely be upgraded to Shuttle Supreme with my very own robotic assistant wired for sound. The thought of it was exhilarating.
“But don’t worry Tommy I will never forsake you, my faithful, only, friend.” I smiled to myself at the ridiculousness of it. Capsule craze was beginning to set in. Just as well this was the final drop off.
As far as I could tell I had landed in dense undergrowth. Very little could be seen through the portholes which were obscured by blinds of thick green leaves of a variety I didn’t recognise. I prepared for disembarkation, strapping my sample bag to my hip lanyard and testing my tazer for battery charge. You could never be too careful.
“OK Tommy lets go.”
I struggled to open the hatch. It seemed to be obstructed by the plant life. Finally, alighting from the capsule I adjusted my sensors against the strong sunlight peppering through the massive trees surrounding our landing site.
“Day 37. We have successfully negotiated an entry to Planet 462. At 10.28 pm the light source is still available and the temperature is approximately 35 degrees. It is dry, not a breath of wind. I am surrounded by huge trees of up to 150 feet tall. Trunk diameter is approximately the size of a large Humvee. A number of trunks appear to be hollowed out, not due to natural causes. They may be housing for local inhabitants. As yet no engagement with any superior life form.” I stop to take a sample of bark and soil.
“I am now heading towards a clearing. I can hear distant noise, rumbling. Possibly thunder although the sky looks clear. Now there is a tremor in the earth. I am emerging into a clearing.”
“Well Tommy, I think we can clearly identify the source of the noise.” I continued, lowering my voice.
With as little movement as possible I set up my digital camera to automatic. It quietly clicked off photo after photo of the massive herd of animals galloping by.
“The beasts are similar to earth’s rhinocerous species with a few exceptions. The largest beast is about the size of a dinosaur, the smallest, presumably an infant, is dog size. Triangular wings are formed in the upper middle back.”
TO BE COMPLETED AND EDITED!!!!
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Monday 19 April 2010
Forgetting (by Heather)
Write a story using the idea "the land that time forgot".
Tuesday, 6 April. 1:32 pm. Macchiato’s Restaurant
Sal glanced at her watch, grimaced and gulped a large slug of her wine. “Gotta get back to work,” she said. She rapped a knuckle on the brochure in front of her. “Okay, so it’s decided. I’ll book us for the cottage on St Lamaris Island.” She paused, stroking the curly blue font on the brochure’s front cover. “‘The land that time forgot.’ What does that even mean?”
“You always gotta philosophise,” Stuart said. “Look, everybody knows that’s travel-speak for secluded and pricey.”
“Well, it’s not very pricey.”
“In that case it’s travel-speak for secluded and primitive.”
Sal took a final swill of her wine. “The cottage on the cover looks nice enough. And God knows I could use some ‘secluded’, whether it’s basic or not.” She stood up, grabbing her folder. “Okay, hi ho, hi ho. I’m gonna have to whip the Nestlés account into shape if we’re taking a week off. Plus a half dozen other projects. I feel like a juggler with ’way too many balls in the air. I must be nuts to try to fit a vacation in right now.”
“All the more reason,” Stuart replied, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Take a chill pill, sweetie.” He brushed her cheek with a kiss. “High flyer though you are, the company isn’t going to fall apart without you. AND your thirtieth birthday doesn’t happen every day.”
“At least there’s some comfort in that!” she laughed.
“Ciao, baby. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, you. See you at home.”
The brochure, almost forgotten, reached up to touch her finger. Sal snatched it up, slipping it into her folder as she raced to the door.
Saturday, 17 April. 11:15 am. St Lamaris Island
Sal glanced at her watch, took a gulp of her wine, and stretched back in her chair. She could see glimpses of a tropical blue Pacific at the end of the short path through the band of rainforest. She pulled the elastic out of her ponytail and shook her hair loose. They had come walking up that path not a half hour ago, after their guide Harry had beached the motorboat on a sandy patch of tropical paradise. Harry had lugged a week’s supply (hopefully) of food up the path, then bade them farewell. They had dropped their suitcases inside, immediately cracking open a white from the wine cooler they had brought with them. Stuart had gone inside to explore.
She allowed herself a closer look around. The cottage behind her was sparing, to say the least – really, to be honest, it barely made it to “hut”. The deck table she was sitting at wobbled – whether from uneven legs or uneven floor was a fifty-fifty guess. Most likely both. Along with the rest of the place, it could have used a good scouring.
She removed the brochure from her pocket and secured it in the plastic napkin holder on the table in front of her. Who knew why she’d been carrying that thing around with her every minute for the past week and a half? She stripped off her watch and placed it beside the brochure.
She could hear Stu banging around in the hut behind her.
“Harry said he won’t be back for a week?” she called out.
“That’s what he said. Not exactly 5 star service, huh?”
She twirled her wine gently, regarding the brochure. “Well, what do you expect in the ‘land that time forgot’?”
More crashing and thumping. “Time also forgot soft pillows, it forgot sun-screen, it forgot coffee beans,” Stu’s voice said. “Most importantly, it forgot the beer. All we have to drink is the dozen bottles of white we brought ourselves.” He stuck his head out, looking reproachful. “Sal, there’s ‘basic’ and then there’s ‘BASIC’. You coulda checked. You coulda checked this place out on Trip Advisor or something.”
“I was too busy. You know I didn’t have the time.” She tried to feel guilty but couldn’t quite manage it. She identified an unusual feeling she could only think of as being in the right place at the right time.
Stuart stumbled out of the hut and fluffed her hair. “All right, pass the wine,” he said, straddling a chair. “We might as well make the most of this bloody week.”
Friday, 7 May. Pretty early in the morning. St Lamaris Island.
Sal slid her feet over to the rickety chair opposite her at the little deck table, reaching forward to finger the miracle of brown skin on her legs as she did so. She took a slow sip of her pineapple juice. She picked up her mobile and made her second phone call of the morning (and coincidentally, of the week).
“Stu?” she said. “I guess you’re on the way to work so I’ll just leave a message. Just wanted to let you know that all’s well here and I’ve had another fantastic few days. Spoke to Dave this morning and told him I’m taking another week off. Poor guy got a little upset and threatening this time. ‘Dave, do what you gotta do,’ I told him. ‘I’m doing what I gotta do.’ I told him I’ve been on the treadmill for so long that I don’t know how to get off it gracefully. But I do know I’m taking one more week here. By then I’ll know if I want to keep the job, assuming it’s still there for me. Miss you, sweetheart; love you madly. I’ll see you next weekend for sure,” she said, and hung up.
The brochure still sat on the table before her. She picked it up.
The land that time forgot, she mused. Man, have they got that backwards! Time can’t forget anything – it’s not real, it doesn’t exist – or if it DOES exist, it was created by me, not by the land. Time can’t forget the land. But the land can forget time. Oh, yes, the land can certainly forget time. I’m learning from you, St Lamaris.
She slid to her feet and wandered into the hut. It was immaculate, the windows were gleaming, the path to the ocean was trimmed and tamed. She looked affectionately at the quirky little basket she’d woven, at the outline for a novel that had sprung into mind a few days ago, at the fish in the sink she’d reeled in at dawn this morning. Yum, supper!
She reached for the phone to make her last call for a week. Again, the call went to voicemail.
“Harry? Is that you?” she said. “Listen, I’m staying one more week so I’m hoping you can bring some more supplies over. And thanks for the fishing tackle – you’d be proud of me if you could see this monster I’ve got in the sink!
“One more thing, Harry. Could you track down a set of watercolour paints and a watercolour notebook? Nothing fancy – I’ve just had this urge to try my hand at painting.
“Thanks again, Harry. You’re The Man!”
She clicked the phone shut, then opened it again in order to turn it off. She tossed it into the suitcase in the corner.
And grinned.
She had to admit, if there were such a thing as time, she was having a good one.
Tuesday, 6 April. 1:32 pm. Macchiato’s Restaurant
Sal glanced at her watch, grimaced and gulped a large slug of her wine. “Gotta get back to work,” she said. She rapped a knuckle on the brochure in front of her. “Okay, so it’s decided. I’ll book us for the cottage on St Lamaris Island.” She paused, stroking the curly blue font on the brochure’s front cover. “‘The land that time forgot.’ What does that even mean?”
“You always gotta philosophise,” Stuart said. “Look, everybody knows that’s travel-speak for secluded and pricey.”
“Well, it’s not very pricey.”
“In that case it’s travel-speak for secluded and primitive.”
Sal took a final swill of her wine. “The cottage on the cover looks nice enough. And God knows I could use some ‘secluded’, whether it’s basic or not.” She stood up, grabbing her folder. “Okay, hi ho, hi ho. I’m gonna have to whip the Nestlés account into shape if we’re taking a week off. Plus a half dozen other projects. I feel like a juggler with ’way too many balls in the air. I must be nuts to try to fit a vacation in right now.”
“All the more reason,” Stuart replied, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Take a chill pill, sweetie.” He brushed her cheek with a kiss. “High flyer though you are, the company isn’t going to fall apart without you. AND your thirtieth birthday doesn’t happen every day.”
“At least there’s some comfort in that!” she laughed.
“Ciao, baby. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks, you. See you at home.”
The brochure, almost forgotten, reached up to touch her finger. Sal snatched it up, slipping it into her folder as she raced to the door.
Saturday, 17 April. 11:15 am. St Lamaris Island
Sal glanced at her watch, took a gulp of her wine, and stretched back in her chair. She could see glimpses of a tropical blue Pacific at the end of the short path through the band of rainforest. She pulled the elastic out of her ponytail and shook her hair loose. They had come walking up that path not a half hour ago, after their guide Harry had beached the motorboat on a sandy patch of tropical paradise. Harry had lugged a week’s supply (hopefully) of food up the path, then bade them farewell. They had dropped their suitcases inside, immediately cracking open a white from the wine cooler they had brought with them. Stuart had gone inside to explore.
She allowed herself a closer look around. The cottage behind her was sparing, to say the least – really, to be honest, it barely made it to “hut”. The deck table she was sitting at wobbled – whether from uneven legs or uneven floor was a fifty-fifty guess. Most likely both. Along with the rest of the place, it could have used a good scouring.
She removed the brochure from her pocket and secured it in the plastic napkin holder on the table in front of her. Who knew why she’d been carrying that thing around with her every minute for the past week and a half? She stripped off her watch and placed it beside the brochure.
She could hear Stu banging around in the hut behind her.
“Harry said he won’t be back for a week?” she called out.
“That’s what he said. Not exactly 5 star service, huh?”
She twirled her wine gently, regarding the brochure. “Well, what do you expect in the ‘land that time forgot’?”
More crashing and thumping. “Time also forgot soft pillows, it forgot sun-screen, it forgot coffee beans,” Stu’s voice said. “Most importantly, it forgot the beer. All we have to drink is the dozen bottles of white we brought ourselves.” He stuck his head out, looking reproachful. “Sal, there’s ‘basic’ and then there’s ‘BASIC’. You coulda checked. You coulda checked this place out on Trip Advisor or something.”
“I was too busy. You know I didn’t have the time.” She tried to feel guilty but couldn’t quite manage it. She identified an unusual feeling she could only think of as being in the right place at the right time.
Stuart stumbled out of the hut and fluffed her hair. “All right, pass the wine,” he said, straddling a chair. “We might as well make the most of this bloody week.”
Friday, 7 May. Pretty early in the morning. St Lamaris Island.
Sal slid her feet over to the rickety chair opposite her at the little deck table, reaching forward to finger the miracle of brown skin on her legs as she did so. She took a slow sip of her pineapple juice. She picked up her mobile and made her second phone call of the morning (and coincidentally, of the week).
“Stu?” she said. “I guess you’re on the way to work so I’ll just leave a message. Just wanted to let you know that all’s well here and I’ve had another fantastic few days. Spoke to Dave this morning and told him I’m taking another week off. Poor guy got a little upset and threatening this time. ‘Dave, do what you gotta do,’ I told him. ‘I’m doing what I gotta do.’ I told him I’ve been on the treadmill for so long that I don’t know how to get off it gracefully. But I do know I’m taking one more week here. By then I’ll know if I want to keep the job, assuming it’s still there for me. Miss you, sweetheart; love you madly. I’ll see you next weekend for sure,” she said, and hung up.
The brochure still sat on the table before her. She picked it up.
The land that time forgot, she mused. Man, have they got that backwards! Time can’t forget anything – it’s not real, it doesn’t exist – or if it DOES exist, it was created by me, not by the land. Time can’t forget the land. But the land can forget time. Oh, yes, the land can certainly forget time. I’m learning from you, St Lamaris.
She slid to her feet and wandered into the hut. It was immaculate, the windows were gleaming, the path to the ocean was trimmed and tamed. She looked affectionately at the quirky little basket she’d woven, at the outline for a novel that had sprung into mind a few days ago, at the fish in the sink she’d reeled in at dawn this morning. Yum, supper!
She reached for the phone to make her last call for a week. Again, the call went to voicemail.
“Harry? Is that you?” she said. “Listen, I’m staying one more week so I’m hoping you can bring some more supplies over. And thanks for the fishing tackle – you’d be proud of me if you could see this monster I’ve got in the sink!
“One more thing, Harry. Could you track down a set of watercolour paints and a watercolour notebook? Nothing fancy – I’ve just had this urge to try my hand at painting.
“Thanks again, Harry. You’re The Man!”
She clicked the phone shut, then opened it again in order to turn it off. She tossed it into the suitcase in the corner.
And grinned.
She had to admit, if there were such a thing as time, she was having a good one.
The land that time forgets (by Sue)
Molly loves her new home. The water and the plants taste salty and the view of endless water and rocky outcrops are perfect for many adventures. She is never bored.
And she had been so fed up in that fish tank. It was tiny, she had no friends, the water was often brackish and the food was just little specks of dried up plankton. Molly is a goldfish. She used to live at The Kitchen, No 5, Smith Avenue in Los Angeles. That is until the massive earthquake of 2022 had the whole coastline of North America fall into the sea. It had taken a few months to adjust to the sea, the salt and the space but she had made some amazing friends and had created a full and rewarding daily routine.
Her home amongst the tall green clumps of seaweed is a haven during the night. She nestles into the base of the plants and has made a comfy bed of weed and sand. She stays very quiet and no-one comes close. In the morning, her daily exercise regime is a lap around the bay. She dives out across the rocks, skims through the surf to the beach where she rests for a few minutes in the warm shallows. Then off again across the sand to the rocks on the other side. These are sheer and high and she swims parallel to the bottom of the sea, checking out the caves and tunnels. At 11 o’clock she meets up with her mates. 2 Angel fish and a couple of sardines and they take in turns to choose the venue. They chat and gossip, nibble on the seaweed bugs and plan the rest of the day. Today it’s swimming lessons.
Life becomes quite dull when all a fish can do is crawl so some time ago Molly had encouraged her friends to join a swimming class. This week it’s breaststroke. Molly calls out the strokes.
“OK girls. Push your fins out in front of you, making sure they are firm and pointing forwards. Now pull back to bring your fins back to the side of your body. Feel the power as you glide through the water. Now focus on your head. It makes a big difference to maintain your head in line with your body. Imagine a straight line, like an arrow.”
(unfinished)
And she had been so fed up in that fish tank. It was tiny, she had no friends, the water was often brackish and the food was just little specks of dried up plankton. Molly is a goldfish. She used to live at The Kitchen, No 5, Smith Avenue in Los Angeles. That is until the massive earthquake of 2022 had the whole coastline of North America fall into the sea. It had taken a few months to adjust to the sea, the salt and the space but she had made some amazing friends and had created a full and rewarding daily routine.
Her home amongst the tall green clumps of seaweed is a haven during the night. She nestles into the base of the plants and has made a comfy bed of weed and sand. She stays very quiet and no-one comes close. In the morning, her daily exercise regime is a lap around the bay. She dives out across the rocks, skims through the surf to the beach where she rests for a few minutes in the warm shallows. Then off again across the sand to the rocks on the other side. These are sheer and high and she swims parallel to the bottom of the sea, checking out the caves and tunnels. At 11 o’clock she meets up with her mates. 2 Angel fish and a couple of sardines and they take in turns to choose the venue. They chat and gossip, nibble on the seaweed bugs and plan the rest of the day. Today it’s swimming lessons.
Life becomes quite dull when all a fish can do is crawl so some time ago Molly had encouraged her friends to join a swimming class. This week it’s breaststroke. Molly calls out the strokes.
“OK girls. Push your fins out in front of you, making sure they are firm and pointing forwards. Now pull back to bring your fins back to the side of your body. Feel the power as you glide through the water. Now focus on your head. It makes a big difference to maintain your head in line with your body. Imagine a straight line, like an arrow.”
(unfinished)
Monday 12 April 2010
The heart that won’t quit (Heather)
Write about a heart that wouldn’t quit.
We’re thrummin’ along on the Wagga-Sydney bus. It’s sometime after midnight. Gordie’s sleeping beside me, his dumb little head bouncin’ against my shoulder.
I got nothin’ to do but think.
I check out his reflection in the bus window and I don’t feel a thing.
That’s ’cause I don’t have a heart.
I mean, I’m not stupid; I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t have something in there going kathump, kathump. But I mean it in the sense the ol’ lady meant when she used to say, “Emma, you got no heart.”
I’d drag her home from the pub or I’d pour her bottle of rubbing alcohol down the drain or I wouldn’t give her the money I’d panhandled down in front of the laundry. This great cloud would move over her face, lips quiverin’, tears wellin’ up, the whole deal. She’d moan, “Emma, you got no heart.” And you know what? She was absolutely right. I didn’t feel a thing about it. Not a thing. I suppose I coulda felt guilty or I coulda felt smug or I coulda felt all noble, but, nah, none of the above.
I got a lump of stone inside me right behind these ribs and these stupid little tits.
Same thing when I left home. The ol’ lady was drunk as a drongo and one night I just stuffed me extra T-shirt into a backpack and walked out the door. Not a feeling in my heart.
I came back four nights later to get Gordie. Don’t ask me why – I just couldn’t stand the thought of him sittin’ there on that grubby sofa watching reruns and then goin’ into the kitchen to peel the mould off the bread so he could make a cheese-spread sandwich. I figured at least when he was with me, I’D take the mould off the bread. I’d make good and sure ALL the mould came off.
But don’t get me wrong: I didn’t feel nothin’. I don’t have a great big goosh of love that comes over me like in the movies. I honestly don’t have a heart. I just do stuff for whatever reason.
I also didn’t feel nothin’ when I got picked up for panhandling and me and Gordie ended up down at the station. We spend a few nights at the Protective Services place and then bingo, some super-smiley childcare worker takes us for a long drive and deposits us in foster care out on a farm near Wagga. With good ol’ Mrs Wayton. Heart of solid gold, yeah right, and by coincidence she collects $450 a month for each of us. She doesn’t let me go to school, not that I care. She takes in ironing which means I do the ironing and she collects the money. Not that I care about that either.
Did that sign say, “Yass”? What kind a name for a town is that? Yass, I’d like to go to Yass, please. Yass, ma’am. Dumb.
But I kinda like bein’ on the road at night like this.
I look down at Gordie again. I can see a big purple bruise on his skinny arm. Mrs Wayton beat him something fierce yesterday, when he mouthed off at her. After he run out of the kitchen, she stood acrost the kitchen from me, eyeing me with those beady little black eyes set deep in her puffy face. She says to me, “You’re one stony cold little son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?” I looked right back at her, didn’t say a word, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. It crossed my mind to put a knife into her but I didn’t and I wouldn’t. Instead I snuck out this afternoon, loaded up with a few hundred in cash from the box she keeps in with her knickers. I picked Gordie up from school and we walked into town. We caught the late bus into Sydney.
I’m not sure how it’s going to work out but it’ll work out. I can make it work out.
We’re thrummin’ along on the Wagga-Sydney bus. It’s sometime after midnight. Gordie’s sleeping beside me, his dumb little head bouncin’ against my shoulder.
I got nothin’ to do but think.
I check out his reflection in the bus window and I don’t feel a thing.
That’s ’cause I don’t have a heart.
I mean, I’m not stupid; I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t have something in there going kathump, kathump. But I mean it in the sense the ol’ lady meant when she used to say, “Emma, you got no heart.”
I’d drag her home from the pub or I’d pour her bottle of rubbing alcohol down the drain or I wouldn’t give her the money I’d panhandled down in front of the laundry. This great cloud would move over her face, lips quiverin’, tears wellin’ up, the whole deal. She’d moan, “Emma, you got no heart.” And you know what? She was absolutely right. I didn’t feel a thing about it. Not a thing. I suppose I coulda felt guilty or I coulda felt smug or I coulda felt all noble, but, nah, none of the above.
I got a lump of stone inside me right behind these ribs and these stupid little tits.
Same thing when I left home. The ol’ lady was drunk as a drongo and one night I just stuffed me extra T-shirt into a backpack and walked out the door. Not a feeling in my heart.
I came back four nights later to get Gordie. Don’t ask me why – I just couldn’t stand the thought of him sittin’ there on that grubby sofa watching reruns and then goin’ into the kitchen to peel the mould off the bread so he could make a cheese-spread sandwich. I figured at least when he was with me, I’D take the mould off the bread. I’d make good and sure ALL the mould came off.
But don’t get me wrong: I didn’t feel nothin’. I don’t have a great big goosh of love that comes over me like in the movies. I honestly don’t have a heart. I just do stuff for whatever reason.
I also didn’t feel nothin’ when I got picked up for panhandling and me and Gordie ended up down at the station. We spend a few nights at the Protective Services place and then bingo, some super-smiley childcare worker takes us for a long drive and deposits us in foster care out on a farm near Wagga. With good ol’ Mrs Wayton. Heart of solid gold, yeah right, and by coincidence she collects $450 a month for each of us. She doesn’t let me go to school, not that I care. She takes in ironing which means I do the ironing and she collects the money. Not that I care about that either.
Did that sign say, “Yass”? What kind a name for a town is that? Yass, I’d like to go to Yass, please. Yass, ma’am. Dumb.
But I kinda like bein’ on the road at night like this.
I look down at Gordie again. I can see a big purple bruise on his skinny arm. Mrs Wayton beat him something fierce yesterday, when he mouthed off at her. After he run out of the kitchen, she stood acrost the kitchen from me, eyeing me with those beady little black eyes set deep in her puffy face. She says to me, “You’re one stony cold little son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?” I looked right back at her, didn’t say a word, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. It crossed my mind to put a knife into her but I didn’t and I wouldn’t. Instead I snuck out this afternoon, loaded up with a few hundred in cash from the box she keeps in with her knickers. I picked Gordie up from school and we walked into town. We caught the late bus into Sydney.
I’m not sure how it’s going to work out but it’ll work out. I can make it work out.
Ya Gotta Have Heart - by Rick
Write about a heart that wouldn’t quit.
As I sat at my keyboard staring at the nothingness displaying on my monitor, I became very aware that sometimes something besides a keen and determined mind might be necessary to crank out a story. So I thought to myself, “What if I made this prompt autobiographical? What if I just wrote something from the heart instead of the brain? What would that be like?”
Well given the poor track record that brain was having, I thought why not, “Take it away, heart.” And here’s what heart came up with.
“Brain”, said Heart, “sometimes I think (if I could think) that you’re highly overrated. As I see it (if I could see), you think too much, feel too little. And that’s where I come in. All of the bards and poets that last, last in the hearts of man. They wrote poems and stories that moved people to tears, inspired them to accomplish great deeds. They didn’t write sonnets or sagas about splitting the atom. They took on telling the tales of daring do all the way from The Little Engine that Could through to Les Miserables and Dante’s Inferno. They shot their arrows at the heart, not the head. I’ve been told that the best writers picked up their pens and almost went unconscious letting the inner voice (that’s me!) push the ink out on to the paper. Then they read over what they had written and wept at the beauty. This is what heart can do.”
“So when things are getting a bit cloudy up there and you’ve thought yourself around and around into such a tight spiral that you can see the back of your head, tell Lungs to take a deep breath, count to 10, and turn the job over to me.”
“I won’t promise you a coherent essay about the ills of mankind and how to solve them. I won’t promise you a clever mystery that will make you the next Stieg Larsson. What I promise you is that I will tackle whatever mission you throw my way with all my heart and that I will never quit on you. Ever.”
“I know that you’ve taken me for granted but that’s ok. As well as think up all sorts of nifty things, you also have to tell all the other parts what to do, including me. So thanks for that and it’s been a privilege to support you. But from time to time, take a break and turn things over to me. We’ll make an unconquerable duo.”
As I sat at my keyboard staring at the nothingness displaying on my monitor, I became very aware that sometimes something besides a keen and determined mind might be necessary to crank out a story. So I thought to myself, “What if I made this prompt autobiographical? What if I just wrote something from the heart instead of the brain? What would that be like?”
Well given the poor track record that brain was having, I thought why not, “Take it away, heart.” And here’s what heart came up with.
“Brain”, said Heart, “sometimes I think (if I could think) that you’re highly overrated. As I see it (if I could see), you think too much, feel too little. And that’s where I come in. All of the bards and poets that last, last in the hearts of man. They wrote poems and stories that moved people to tears, inspired them to accomplish great deeds. They didn’t write sonnets or sagas about splitting the atom. They took on telling the tales of daring do all the way from The Little Engine that Could through to Les Miserables and Dante’s Inferno. They shot their arrows at the heart, not the head. I’ve been told that the best writers picked up their pens and almost went unconscious letting the inner voice (that’s me!) push the ink out on to the paper. Then they read over what they had written and wept at the beauty. This is what heart can do.”
“So when things are getting a bit cloudy up there and you’ve thought yourself around and around into such a tight spiral that you can see the back of your head, tell Lungs to take a deep breath, count to 10, and turn the job over to me.”
“I won’t promise you a coherent essay about the ills of mankind and how to solve them. I won’t promise you a clever mystery that will make you the next Stieg Larsson. What I promise you is that I will tackle whatever mission you throw my way with all my heart and that I will never quit on you. Ever.”
“I know that you’ve taken me for granted but that’s ok. As well as think up all sorts of nifty things, you also have to tell all the other parts what to do, including me. So thanks for that and it’s been a privilege to support you. But from time to time, take a break and turn things over to me. We’ll make an unconquerable duo.”
Sue - Exercising at '95
The heart that wouldn’t quit
The snow is so soft and light that it sticks to the window panes and completely obliterates the view to the garden. Mary can only imagine how icy the driveway is going to be. With a mix of concern and excitement she waits by the window for her lift to the Bridge Club. At 95, Mary still runs her large 4BR home, with the help of cleaners and gardeners, and only uses a stick to negotiate the outside world.
Headlights sweep into the circular driveway, a door bangs and after a few minutes, loud clangs vibrate around the house. Mary swings open the timber door and there is Harry, her long-time partner. He’s dressed in his usual tweed suit and yellow cravat and his grey bushy beard makes his broad smile warm and friendly.
“Your arm, M’lady”, he grins.
“Oh, Harry. You are such a card”. She relaxes and gently hugs his tweed jacket sleeve.
“Let’s see what we can make of those devilish cards tonight. No more jumping to a grand slam, Harry”. She giggles. With a stick in one hand and Harry on the other, the two of them gradually and gingerly get to the car.
They always sit north south at the bridge table. That way they never have to move between the tables. That is, except for the strong cup of tea and shortbread biscuit served mid way through the session and the essential loo break when Mary is dummy.
Mary lines up her props. There’s a little wooden stand that holds her 13 cards so she can easily sort the cards. The fingers on her right hand are fine, but the knobbly, disfigured left hand just can’t hold her cards any more. Her half-moon specs sit on the end of her nose and she twiddles her new hearing aid to get the right balance of background and table noise. Then there are the little bidding boxes which she had eventually got used to, where each combination of bid is printed on a card and laid down onto the table in front of each player. As she waits for the first lot of boards to come to the table, she recalls the good old days when everyone used to bid out loud. There was a wonderful atmosphere of fun and excitement as the bids bounced around the room or there was laughter and giggles as people got their bids wrong, or bid out of turn. These days however, it was all quiet and serious.
But she loved it. She had loved the game from the days when she was a little girl, hanging onto Granny’s armchair, peering at the cards and trying to remember the sequence of clubs, diamonds hearts and then spades. No-trumps confused her immensely. How could a hand be played with no trumps?
The director calls the move for the night. Mary fills out the paperwork for the table, who’s who, the table and everyone’s pair number. And she always does the scores. She insists. It has been a brilliant way to keep her brain active and alert.
She grins at Harry. Harry smiles into his beard. They sort their cards for the first game of the night and Harry opens the bidding.
“1NT”. He says. They smoothly, with a minimum number of fancy conventions, bid to a final contract of 6H. Which, of course, Mary plays to perfection.
“Getta boyo”. She yells, unable to contain her excitement. The contract relies on the ace of hearts being on the right side and a favourable finesse of the queen of clubs.
“Well bid Harry”.
The snow is so soft and light that it sticks to the window panes and completely obliterates the view to the garden. Mary can only imagine how icy the driveway is going to be. With a mix of concern and excitement she waits by the window for her lift to the Bridge Club. At 95, Mary still runs her large 4BR home, with the help of cleaners and gardeners, and only uses a stick to negotiate the outside world.
Headlights sweep into the circular driveway, a door bangs and after a few minutes, loud clangs vibrate around the house. Mary swings open the timber door and there is Harry, her long-time partner. He’s dressed in his usual tweed suit and yellow cravat and his grey bushy beard makes his broad smile warm and friendly.
“Your arm, M’lady”, he grins.
“Oh, Harry. You are such a card”. She relaxes and gently hugs his tweed jacket sleeve.
“Let’s see what we can make of those devilish cards tonight. No more jumping to a grand slam, Harry”. She giggles. With a stick in one hand and Harry on the other, the two of them gradually and gingerly get to the car.
They always sit north south at the bridge table. That way they never have to move between the tables. That is, except for the strong cup of tea and shortbread biscuit served mid way through the session and the essential loo break when Mary is dummy.
Mary lines up her props. There’s a little wooden stand that holds her 13 cards so she can easily sort the cards. The fingers on her right hand are fine, but the knobbly, disfigured left hand just can’t hold her cards any more. Her half-moon specs sit on the end of her nose and she twiddles her new hearing aid to get the right balance of background and table noise. Then there are the little bidding boxes which she had eventually got used to, where each combination of bid is printed on a card and laid down onto the table in front of each player. As she waits for the first lot of boards to come to the table, she recalls the good old days when everyone used to bid out loud. There was a wonderful atmosphere of fun and excitement as the bids bounced around the room or there was laughter and giggles as people got their bids wrong, or bid out of turn. These days however, it was all quiet and serious.
But she loved it. She had loved the game from the days when she was a little girl, hanging onto Granny’s armchair, peering at the cards and trying to remember the sequence of clubs, diamonds hearts and then spades. No-trumps confused her immensely. How could a hand be played with no trumps?
The director calls the move for the night. Mary fills out the paperwork for the table, who’s who, the table and everyone’s pair number. And she always does the scores. She insists. It has been a brilliant way to keep her brain active and alert.
She grins at Harry. Harry smiles into his beard. They sort their cards for the first game of the night and Harry opens the bidding.
“1NT”. He says. They smoothly, with a minimum number of fancy conventions, bid to a final contract of 6H. Which, of course, Mary plays to perfection.
“Getta boyo”. She yells, unable to contain her excitement. The contract relies on the ace of hearts being on the right side and a favourable finesse of the queen of clubs.
“Well bid Harry”.
Sunday 11 April 2010
Man of the Hour (Eve)
Thelma Wilson was a slim septuagenarian with a precise manner of speaking that showed her refined education. She and her companion, Edith Law, had worked as English teachers in the New South Wales school system before their retirement. They moved to Lismore in the early nineties, enjoying the mild climate and ample time for gardening.
Their Tasmanian holiday was partly a reward for the hard work of fundraising for Camp Quality, for whom they served as tireless volunteers. The $25,000 they helped raise from Lismore businesses and residents would pay half of an entire one-week residential camp for children with cancer.
John Cresswell, retired from a career as a RAAF officer, was slightly younger than Thelma and Edith and also a Camp Quality volunteer.
Neither John nor the women realised on this lovely April day that John’s military experience and presence of mind would save all three of their lives.
Considering himself to be a man of action, John had had to work hard at mustering enthusiasm for the tour of the gardens he and his older friends had just completed. He was much more interested in the convict history and even archaeology of Port Arthur. Nevertheless, Thelma and Edith so obviously appreciated viewing such things as early 20th century flower and vegetable gardens and strolling the very same paths sauntered by the ladies and officers of an earlier era, that he was willing surrender to their tastes.
The threesome was worn out by the extensive sightseeing they’d done in relatively warm weather on a near-perfect Sunday afternoon. So they agreed to stop and have lunch at the Broad Arrow Café.
The restaurant was full of boisterous tourists. John, ever gentlemanly, steered the two women towards an empty table. Thelma and Edith chattered excitedly about the heritage gardens they’d just seen.
John queued in the buffet line to collect the women’s two Caesar salads and his own roast dinner. “It’s no wonder these two are slim and I’m portly,” John thought, looking down at the trays he was carrying.
As he began to settle himself comfortably at the table, he heard sounds that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Three large, loud bangs at close quarters occurred in quick succession. Instead of finding them alarming, Thelma commented, “That must be one of those historical re-enactments going on outside.”
But, John knew immediately, without having to look, that what he’d heard was a high-powered rifle. A longhaired pale-skinned man now stood at the entrance of the restaurant and was arbitrarily shooting the patrons. Because he was blocking the entrance, no one could escape and major chaos ensued.
Adrenalised and on gut instinct, John leapt up from the table, jumped on his friends and, in landing on top of them, rolled them to the floor. Shielding them with his big body, he whispered hoarsely, “Lay dead still!”
John could see the shooter’s feet as he walked around the room, targeting those who were still seated and those running for the doors. He then walked into the serving area, firing more deadly rounds.
The shooter then doubled back and saw John moving. At this moment, John was sure he and his companions were about to be killed. The shooter’s close-range bullet got him in the buttocks, but fortunately missed the two women.
Walking back and forth, never running, looking for those still alive, the silent shooter finally walked to the door, reloaded his gun and went out.
The gunfire was still exploding, now in the next-door gift shop, but John was already mobilising the two women to get them out the back door of the café. Edith and Thelma looked like they’d aged ten years just in the past few minutes. He managed to hide them in some dense bush, and returned to the café to see if there was anything he could do.
There were now only two people left alive from what had been a large lunch crowd, and John realised that he needed to take care of his own wounds and look after his friends who he'd so hastily concealed.
John left the restaurant and couldn't believe his eyes. He saw people running towards him. “They must think that this disaster is play-acting,” John thought. He tried to wave them away and then went to save his friends.
As it turned out, John and the two elderly women had just lived through a killing spree that snuffed out 35 lives and wounded 21 others, making it the scene of the worst mass murder event in recent Australian history.
Their Tasmanian holiday was partly a reward for the hard work of fundraising for Camp Quality, for whom they served as tireless volunteers. The $25,000 they helped raise from Lismore businesses and residents would pay half of an entire one-week residential camp for children with cancer.
John Cresswell, retired from a career as a RAAF officer, was slightly younger than Thelma and Edith and also a Camp Quality volunteer.
Neither John nor the women realised on this lovely April day that John’s military experience and presence of mind would save all three of their lives.
Considering himself to be a man of action, John had had to work hard at mustering enthusiasm for the tour of the gardens he and his older friends had just completed. He was much more interested in the convict history and even archaeology of Port Arthur. Nevertheless, Thelma and Edith so obviously appreciated viewing such things as early 20th century flower and vegetable gardens and strolling the very same paths sauntered by the ladies and officers of an earlier era, that he was willing surrender to their tastes.
The threesome was worn out by the extensive sightseeing they’d done in relatively warm weather on a near-perfect Sunday afternoon. So they agreed to stop and have lunch at the Broad Arrow Café.
The restaurant was full of boisterous tourists. John, ever gentlemanly, steered the two women towards an empty table. Thelma and Edith chattered excitedly about the heritage gardens they’d just seen.
John queued in the buffet line to collect the women’s two Caesar salads and his own roast dinner. “It’s no wonder these two are slim and I’m portly,” John thought, looking down at the trays he was carrying.
As he began to settle himself comfortably at the table, he heard sounds that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Three large, loud bangs at close quarters occurred in quick succession. Instead of finding them alarming, Thelma commented, “That must be one of those historical re-enactments going on outside.”
But, John knew immediately, without having to look, that what he’d heard was a high-powered rifle. A longhaired pale-skinned man now stood at the entrance of the restaurant and was arbitrarily shooting the patrons. Because he was blocking the entrance, no one could escape and major chaos ensued.
Adrenalised and on gut instinct, John leapt up from the table, jumped on his friends and, in landing on top of them, rolled them to the floor. Shielding them with his big body, he whispered hoarsely, “Lay dead still!”
John could see the shooter’s feet as he walked around the room, targeting those who were still seated and those running for the doors. He then walked into the serving area, firing more deadly rounds.
The shooter then doubled back and saw John moving. At this moment, John was sure he and his companions were about to be killed. The shooter’s close-range bullet got him in the buttocks, but fortunately missed the two women.
Walking back and forth, never running, looking for those still alive, the silent shooter finally walked to the door, reloaded his gun and went out.
The gunfire was still exploding, now in the next-door gift shop, but John was already mobilising the two women to get them out the back door of the café. Edith and Thelma looked like they’d aged ten years just in the past few minutes. He managed to hide them in some dense bush, and returned to the café to see if there was anything he could do.
There were now only two people left alive from what had been a large lunch crowd, and John realised that he needed to take care of his own wounds and look after his friends who he'd so hastily concealed.
John left the restaurant and couldn't believe his eyes. He saw people running towards him. “They must think that this disaster is play-acting,” John thought. He tried to wave them away and then went to save his friends.
As it turned out, John and the two elderly women had just lived through a killing spree that snuffed out 35 lives and wounded 21 others, making it the scene of the worst mass murder event in recent Australian history.
Thursday 8 April 2010
Good Ole Boys by Peta
“Thank you folks, thanks a bunch”. Johnnie Parker bowed at the applauding, cheering crowd, a wide grin fixed to his strong handsome face. As he held the Golden Horse trophy high above his head, the fans went wild, hooting and whistling, jumping up and down, beside themselves with excitement. The young groupies near the podium grabbed at his well worn boots. Johnnie soaked it up.
“And folks, I’d just like to add a word of commiseration for my good buddy Dan. Bad luck Dan. Third year in a row you are the bridesmaid again. What can I say. It could have happened to any one but I guess the best man won. Again!” The crowd loved it and whooped some more.
“But Danny Boy, keep on try’n, you never know one of these days maybe it’ll be me that falls off the horse.” Johnnie doubled over with laughter. The crowd laughed with him.
At the back of the throng, Dan Fewings stood dejected and embarrassed. His head hung forward as he stared at the red dirt beneath his well worn boots. He kicked at an imaginary stone.
“Bugger” Dan muttered to himself. “Not again. How can this have happened again?”
Dan had trained hard all season for the King of the Rodeo competition. Every spare moment, when he was not working the farm or jackarooing, he’d be practicing his holds and riding the bulls. Surely if he could stay on a bull he could stay on a horse? The moment of truth had come. He knew his only true rival was Johnnie Parker. It was the same every year. And the result had been the same every year, Johnnie beat him by seconds. Dan had been determined that this year would be different. He was as ready as he could be. He had a good draw and was riding last so he knew exactly what he had to do. Hang on for 28 seconds. That was all it would take. He knew he could do it.
The crowd was silent as he mounted the horse. It was a brumby piebald. 18 hands. A big mother, solid as. Climbing on its back, he took deep breaths, concentrating hard. He carefully wrapped his left hand into the tether. 28 seconds. His confidence was building. Dan sensed the crowd growing restless. It was nearly time.
“Ladies and Gentlemen”, Jock Peters, the master of ceremonies’ voice heralded over the PA system. A hush fell over the crowd.
“Now for our final contestant for the afternoon. That good ole boy, Dan Fewings. Dan comes here today with great expectations. Second in the event for the last few years, Dan told me earlier today that he is a shoe in this year. Riding one of the nastiest brumbies we know, Piebald Pete, he’ll have his work cut out. Can he do it? Can he finally take the Golden Horse from our Johnnie Parker, currently in the lead with a 27 second hold. Well let’s see shall we? What do you say gang?”
The roar was deafening.
Dan cringed. Why did Jock have to lay it on so thick? Dan felt the pressure building. The horn sounded, the gate opened and in an instant Piebald Pete was bucking and turning and bucking. Dan held on for dear life. His right arm extended above his head as a counterbalance. His body hurled this way and that as the mighty beast beneath him did his upmost to throw Dan into oblivion. The clock in Dan’s head ticked slowly over. Faces in the crown rushed in a blur past him as the horse continued its dance. Just a few more seconds he reckoned.
From the corner of his eye he saw an object travelling towards him. Dan grit his teeth and tried to stay focused. His head jolted sideways unexpectedly. He felt a pulling suck on his cheek. Automatically his right hand went to his face and grabbed at the kids toy arrow sticking out. In the same moment his body wiggled to the left then right. His balance lost he slithered down the side of the piebald hitting the deck with an audible thud. The crown moaned in unison, feeling his pain. The big clock stopped at 26.8 seconds.
“And folks, I’d just like to add a word of commiseration for my good buddy Dan. Bad luck Dan. Third year in a row you are the bridesmaid again. What can I say. It could have happened to any one but I guess the best man won. Again!” The crowd loved it and whooped some more.
“But Danny Boy, keep on try’n, you never know one of these days maybe it’ll be me that falls off the horse.” Johnnie doubled over with laughter. The crowd laughed with him.
At the back of the throng, Dan Fewings stood dejected and embarrassed. His head hung forward as he stared at the red dirt beneath his well worn boots. He kicked at an imaginary stone.
“Bugger” Dan muttered to himself. “Not again. How can this have happened again?”
Dan had trained hard all season for the King of the Rodeo competition. Every spare moment, when he was not working the farm or jackarooing, he’d be practicing his holds and riding the bulls. Surely if he could stay on a bull he could stay on a horse? The moment of truth had come. He knew his only true rival was Johnnie Parker. It was the same every year. And the result had been the same every year, Johnnie beat him by seconds. Dan had been determined that this year would be different. He was as ready as he could be. He had a good draw and was riding last so he knew exactly what he had to do. Hang on for 28 seconds. That was all it would take. He knew he could do it.
The crowd was silent as he mounted the horse. It was a brumby piebald. 18 hands. A big mother, solid as. Climbing on its back, he took deep breaths, concentrating hard. He carefully wrapped his left hand into the tether. 28 seconds. His confidence was building. Dan sensed the crowd growing restless. It was nearly time.
“Ladies and Gentlemen”, Jock Peters, the master of ceremonies’ voice heralded over the PA system. A hush fell over the crowd.
“Now for our final contestant for the afternoon. That good ole boy, Dan Fewings. Dan comes here today with great expectations. Second in the event for the last few years, Dan told me earlier today that he is a shoe in this year. Riding one of the nastiest brumbies we know, Piebald Pete, he’ll have his work cut out. Can he do it? Can he finally take the Golden Horse from our Johnnie Parker, currently in the lead with a 27 second hold. Well let’s see shall we? What do you say gang?”
The roar was deafening.
Dan cringed. Why did Jock have to lay it on so thick? Dan felt the pressure building. The horn sounded, the gate opened and in an instant Piebald Pete was bucking and turning and bucking. Dan held on for dear life. His right arm extended above his head as a counterbalance. His body hurled this way and that as the mighty beast beneath him did his upmost to throw Dan into oblivion. The clock in Dan’s head ticked slowly over. Faces in the crown rushed in a blur past him as the horse continued its dance. Just a few more seconds he reckoned.
From the corner of his eye he saw an object travelling towards him. Dan grit his teeth and tried to stay focused. His head jolted sideways unexpectedly. He felt a pulling suck on his cheek. Automatically his right hand went to his face and grabbed at the kids toy arrow sticking out. In the same moment his body wiggled to the left then right. His balance lost he slithered down the side of the piebald hitting the deck with an audible thud. The crown moaned in unison, feeling his pain. The big clock stopped at 26.8 seconds.
Monday 5 April 2010
Schadenfreude (by Heather)
Use the idea of schadenfreude in your story this week.
I am about to come out of the closet.
Schadenfreude (meaning to take pleasure in another person’s troubles, for those of you who haven’t an unkind bone in your body) is not just a remote German concept to me – it’s a way of being. I can’t imagine a more horrible or socially unacceptable thing, but there you are. I’m a schadenfreuder.
I can’t help it. I’m German. Well, at least I’m one quarter German. My father was one half German and he was about twice as naughty as I am. My grandmother was ALL German and she was total mischief.
You’ve probably heard me speak reverently about my father, who I idolised (and still do). However, you may NOT have heard the story about one Easter when he was fourteen and his sister six. On the evening before Easter Sunday he put out a trap and told his little sister to her horror that he was going to catch the Easter bunny. After bedtime, he took out his rifle and bagged a rabbit. He then carefully placed it in a trap for his worried little sister to find on Easter morning. There was apparently quite a furore about that incident. Not everyone in the family took such pleasure as he did in my aunt’s wails of distress and loss of innocence.
I myself was brought into the Schadenfreude fold early. I remember being very small, and having my Grandmother teach me how to make the sign of the cross on my chest at mealtime. She would have been quite aware that my mother was violently anti-Catholic and that it would create some distress all around when I demonstrated my new-found skill at the dinner table. There’d have been a gleam in her eye as she sent me home that day.
But my grandmother may have realised she’d met her match when a few months later (I was 3 at the time) I literally pulled the chair out from under her. She was partly crippled and zipped about the house on a wooden kitchen chair that had had wheels drilled into its legs. She was not a little woman. I have a clear image of standing there behind her, looking up through the spokes of the back of her chair, and thinking that if I rolled the chair away, she’d go to sit down and, as there’d be no chair there, she’d fall in a great funny crash. That’s pretty much how it happened, and I remember scooting under the kitchen table to wait, thumb in mouth, for the furore to die down.
Shadenfreude continued to play itself out in my life on a pretty much daily basis after that. Over the years, I have taken it to an art form. I well remember a time when my six year old son was rocketing about his grandmother’s gardens, putting his new runners to the test. While I watched, he spun on his heel and shot across the lawn, obviously intending to leap over the little hedge. What he had forgotten is that a fairly steep cliff riddled with blackberries lay on the other side. He soared through the air and, as he suddenly saw the perils below him, did a kind of Wiley Coyote thing where he tried to stop in mid-air. As I watched him, powerless to do anything, I felt something snap inside. Before I knew it I was shrieking with laughter and rolling about so hard I couldn’t be part of the delegation that went down to rescue him.
I have to admit, I still can’t help grinning at the thought of it.
I had a similar experience a few years later when my husband Rick was playing volleyball in a friend’s big back yard. Someone lobbed the ball far out of play, and Rick went running after it. Backwards. And downhill. He was reversing straight toward a low lying shrub. When he connected with it, he did a perfect backward somersault right over it. That thing in my chest constricted and then snapped again. I’m sure I waited until I saw he was alive and in one piece before going hysterical with laughter.
Well. Here I am, out of the closet and feeling a bit of relief about it. Eighty-two million Germans can’t be wrong (and that’s not even counting all the one-quarter Germans like myself) – there is joy to be had in practically anything – but in particular the misfortune of others.
I am about to come out of the closet.
Schadenfreude (meaning to take pleasure in another person’s troubles, for those of you who haven’t an unkind bone in your body) is not just a remote German concept to me – it’s a way of being. I can’t imagine a more horrible or socially unacceptable thing, but there you are. I’m a schadenfreuder.
I can’t help it. I’m German. Well, at least I’m one quarter German. My father was one half German and he was about twice as naughty as I am. My grandmother was ALL German and she was total mischief.
You’ve probably heard me speak reverently about my father, who I idolised (and still do). However, you may NOT have heard the story about one Easter when he was fourteen and his sister six. On the evening before Easter Sunday he put out a trap and told his little sister to her horror that he was going to catch the Easter bunny. After bedtime, he took out his rifle and bagged a rabbit. He then carefully placed it in a trap for his worried little sister to find on Easter morning. There was apparently quite a furore about that incident. Not everyone in the family took such pleasure as he did in my aunt’s wails of distress and loss of innocence.
I myself was brought into the Schadenfreude fold early. I remember being very small, and having my Grandmother teach me how to make the sign of the cross on my chest at mealtime. She would have been quite aware that my mother was violently anti-Catholic and that it would create some distress all around when I demonstrated my new-found skill at the dinner table. There’d have been a gleam in her eye as she sent me home that day.
But my grandmother may have realised she’d met her match when a few months later (I was 3 at the time) I literally pulled the chair out from under her. She was partly crippled and zipped about the house on a wooden kitchen chair that had had wheels drilled into its legs. She was not a little woman. I have a clear image of standing there behind her, looking up through the spokes of the back of her chair, and thinking that if I rolled the chair away, she’d go to sit down and, as there’d be no chair there, she’d fall in a great funny crash. That’s pretty much how it happened, and I remember scooting under the kitchen table to wait, thumb in mouth, for the furore to die down.
Shadenfreude continued to play itself out in my life on a pretty much daily basis after that. Over the years, I have taken it to an art form. I well remember a time when my six year old son was rocketing about his grandmother’s gardens, putting his new runners to the test. While I watched, he spun on his heel and shot across the lawn, obviously intending to leap over the little hedge. What he had forgotten is that a fairly steep cliff riddled with blackberries lay on the other side. He soared through the air and, as he suddenly saw the perils below him, did a kind of Wiley Coyote thing where he tried to stop in mid-air. As I watched him, powerless to do anything, I felt something snap inside. Before I knew it I was shrieking with laughter and rolling about so hard I couldn’t be part of the delegation that went down to rescue him.
I have to admit, I still can’t help grinning at the thought of it.
I had a similar experience a few years later when my husband Rick was playing volleyball in a friend’s big back yard. Someone lobbed the ball far out of play, and Rick went running after it. Backwards. And downhill. He was reversing straight toward a low lying shrub. When he connected with it, he did a perfect backward somersault right over it. That thing in my chest constricted and then snapped again. I’m sure I waited until I saw he was alive and in one piece before going hysterical with laughter.
Well. Here I am, out of the closet and feeling a bit of relief about it. Eighty-two million Germans can’t be wrong (and that’s not even counting all the one-quarter Germans like myself) – there is joy to be had in practically anything – but in particular the misfortune of others.
Sunday 4 April 2010
Pleasure from Pain (Eve)
There’s always one, and likely more than one, in every grammar school class – the Picked-On One.
Hayley Humphries was surely it. Milky, transparent skin, with wispy pale hair. Hayley’s body language appeared for the entire world like a deer caught in a car’s headlights - fearful and agitated. But she would invariably try to cover her anxiety up by being cool, only making her seem ridiculous.
Her light-coloured eyes, a little too big for her face, were always hungrily seeking acceptance from her schoolmates. Rather than the welcome she craved, Hayley was spurned and scape-goated at every opportunity.
She was going to end up living to 89 years old, having attained a doctorate in biophysics. She would make it to her advanced age with all of her intellect intact, but never having had children, never being married, and the worst of it, never ever succeeding in being liked by friends or colleagues.
The ironic truth is that such a pitiful youngster will make her peers totally happy. It’s the law of schadenfreude: Hayley made one and all – classmates and her siblings, too - feel glad they weren’t her.
She was popular in a kind of perverted way as there would always be a ready audience for her faux pas which were numerous and exasperated by expectations of failure.
When the family went ice-skating, for instance, a crowd would gather at the rink to watch her clumsy slips. Every predictable fall would be greeted by boos, jeers and whistles. Hayley’s parents, brother and sisters had worked out long ago that she was hopelessly gauche and the more distance they could create between her and them, the happier they would be.
Nothing made the kids happier at school than when Hayley received B’s rather than A’s in her best subject, mathematics. Naturally enough, this intelligent young girl had her confidence eroded by these little hellions because of the unrelenting bullying that went on before, during and after school.
On rainy days, Hayley’s classmates would hide her umbrella at school and enjoy watching her distress as she got soaked in the wet weather – often ending up with a head cold, as her health was delicate.
Simple things like catching the lift from the ground floor at school were a complete nightmare for Hayley as no kid would ever hold the door for her. Rather they would taunt her with, “Use the stairs, that’s what they’re for, you hopeless cretin.”
Through all the difficulties of grammar and tertiary education, one annus horribilis after another, remarkably and heroically, Hayley had very occasional bouts of optimism.
The early years of struggle were transformed by one simple bit of positive thinking. She realised (call her a masochist if you will) that she was one of a select minority on the planet who provided a singular service to society.
The world actually needed people like her and her kind. She was willing to sacrifice her own happiness so that other people could be happy.
It would be written in Hayley Humphries obituary, a direct quote from the octogenarian, “The world needs people like us because they don’t want to be us.”
Hayley Humphries was surely it. Milky, transparent skin, with wispy pale hair. Hayley’s body language appeared for the entire world like a deer caught in a car’s headlights - fearful and agitated. But she would invariably try to cover her anxiety up by being cool, only making her seem ridiculous.
Her light-coloured eyes, a little too big for her face, were always hungrily seeking acceptance from her schoolmates. Rather than the welcome she craved, Hayley was spurned and scape-goated at every opportunity.
She was going to end up living to 89 years old, having attained a doctorate in biophysics. She would make it to her advanced age with all of her intellect intact, but never having had children, never being married, and the worst of it, never ever succeeding in being liked by friends or colleagues.
The ironic truth is that such a pitiful youngster will make her peers totally happy. It’s the law of schadenfreude: Hayley made one and all – classmates and her siblings, too - feel glad they weren’t her.
She was popular in a kind of perverted way as there would always be a ready audience for her faux pas which were numerous and exasperated by expectations of failure.
When the family went ice-skating, for instance, a crowd would gather at the rink to watch her clumsy slips. Every predictable fall would be greeted by boos, jeers and whistles. Hayley’s parents, brother and sisters had worked out long ago that she was hopelessly gauche and the more distance they could create between her and them, the happier they would be.
Nothing made the kids happier at school than when Hayley received B’s rather than A’s in her best subject, mathematics. Naturally enough, this intelligent young girl had her confidence eroded by these little hellions because of the unrelenting bullying that went on before, during and after school.
On rainy days, Hayley’s classmates would hide her umbrella at school and enjoy watching her distress as she got soaked in the wet weather – often ending up with a head cold, as her health was delicate.
Simple things like catching the lift from the ground floor at school were a complete nightmare for Hayley as no kid would ever hold the door for her. Rather they would taunt her with, “Use the stairs, that’s what they’re for, you hopeless cretin.”
Through all the difficulties of grammar and tertiary education, one annus horribilis after another, remarkably and heroically, Hayley had very occasional bouts of optimism.
The early years of struggle were transformed by one simple bit of positive thinking. She realised (call her a masochist if you will) that she was one of a select minority on the planet who provided a singular service to society.
The world actually needed people like her and her kind. She was willing to sacrifice her own happiness so that other people could be happy.
It would be written in Hayley Humphries obituary, a direct quote from the octogenarian, “The world needs people like us because they don’t want to be us.”
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