Thursday 25 February 2010

Beating Mum

“Eleanor, for the last time, stop asking if you can go out on Friday night. You are just banging your head against a brick wall. There is no way you can go to party” argues Mum.

“I hate you, I hate you. You are mean” yells Eleanor

Eleanor pivots on her red strappy sandals and storms out of the kitchen. She flings the door back onto its hinges and stomps up the wooden stairs. Even though she is only tiny, she sounds like Mali, the baby elephant. Up in her room she slumps into the uncomfy wooden chair. She thinks about putting her feet up on the table, but changes her mind. She tugs at the pink and yellow duvet and drags it onto the floor. She flings herself onto the bed and furiously punches the yellow daisy pillows. She can’t sit still. She flings open her window and yells at Judy, her dog. She slams the window shut, the glass shudders in the frame. She storms back to the uncomfy chair.

She puts her feet up on the table, surveys her red sandals and thinks of Mary and Jane going to the party. Mary’s Mum has bought her a new purple cotton shift and Jane looks simply wonderful in that white trouser suit.

“How can I go too?” she muses

“I must. I need to”

“I need to be cleverer than Mum”

Eleanor starts to think. Who can she collude with? Who will take her to the party? Mum and Dad will be out, the baby sitter will arrive at 5 pm.

“That’s it, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll get Joanne to take me. To baby sit me at the party. It’s only round the corner, we can walk”.

“Phew” and Eleanor relaxes. “It will be easy peasy”

Eleanor starts to read her favourite book “Gulliver’s travels”. Now she is curled up on that uncomfy wooden chair, but she doesn’t notice the pain.

Unconsciously, she starts to rub her forehead.

“ooh, that hurts, oh no, my headache has come back”.

Eleanor has been sick for 2 weeks. She’s been in bed for most of that time. The doctor said it was a type of flu. Of course that’s why Mum had said no to the party.

She can feel her face getting hot and sweaty, little tears run down her face and run into the corner of her mouth. They taste salty but comforting. She wipes her face with her sleeve and pushes her blond ratty pigtails back behind her ears. Her head is thumping now, just like a couple of drums beating time in her ears. She’s also feeling a bit sick.

“Oh, Mum” she mumbles.

As if by magic, the door opens softly and Mum’s lovely kind face peers around the edge.

“Darling, are you OK?”” she eyes up the room but doesn’t say a word.

“Mum, I don’t feel very well”

“Poor you. Let’s have a cuddle. You will soon be better. You’ll be able to go to the next party. Don’t worry”

Going to the Wall (Eve)

(Write about the discovery that a 'brick wall' limitation is actually an illusion.)

As a teen-ager and well before he became a renowned swami, Yogananda was the equivalent of the 50 kg. weakling who gets sand kicked in his face while sunning at the beach. Of course there were not beaches per say in Yogananda’s native Bengal nor were there any gyms in the early part of the 20th century to build up one’s sadly flabby physique.

Besides Yogananda’s fitness regime was always going to be based on Indian tradition, more psychic than physical. Meditation and mentorship with a guru was the go.

Even as an adolescent, in the long sessions of his meditation practice, Yogananda learned to cultivate extraordinary powers of awareness. One day a vision beckoned to him; it was unmistakably his spiritual teacher. The young seeker donned his sandals and set off trudging the rocky hills, plains, and valleys of Uttar Pradesh, until one magnificent day at the end of a dry plateau, he discovered the teacher of his vision, Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri, living abstemiously in a thatched hut.

Swami Giri greeted his new pupil with a reverent Namaste and then, as Yogananda was later to describe: “We dissolved into a oneness of tranquility, words a barrier to what was for me a revolutionary new manner of dialogue – the Master communicating soundless content from his heart directly to mine.”

Thus commenced an intense year of mostly silent learning, Swami Giri mentally transmitting understanding to Yogananda. To borrow a modern notion, the process was rather like downloading the psyche of the guru into the acolyte.

Yogananda was a quick learner and with characteristic discipline practiced what are called in Sanskrit “siddhis”, mystical powers, like: clairvoyance, clairaudience, levitation, teleportation, and his personal favourite, psychometry, that is, being able to move matter just by the power of his mind.

Very nearly a year to the date, Swami Giri charged his young disciple with what would be his mission. He was to travel the world spreading his guru’s teachings on India's ancient practices and philosophy of yoga and its tradition of meditation.
By now, Yogananda was ready to take on the mantle of a great teacher himself. With his guru’s imprimatur and the powers now invested in him, Yogananda set off across the continents of Europe and North America.

New York of the 1920’s, as much as now, has the reputation for nurturing a kind of tough, cynical breed of people, not likely to be pushovers for someone selling spiritual ideals. This was the site for the beginning of Yoganada’s American tour.

As a guest speaker at the Congress of World Religious Leaders being held in the Hotel Lexington ballroom, Yogananda knew he had to stage an attention-grabber for these flinty New Yorkers.

Yogananda briefed the President of the conference who was about to introduce him, and then he left the room.
The President, at the end of his formal introduction, asked the delegates to stand, turn 180 degrees and face the wall at the back of the room. They did so slowly and reluctantly. In short order, smooth as a knife going through warm butter, Yoganada materialized in front of the delegation.

Stunned (one woman fainted), and completely silent, this group of religious seekers experienced the very cells in their brains being re-ordered to accommodate an event completely out of their ken.

Needless to say, Yogananda’s dazzling demonstration of the dissolution of matter guaranteed a felicitous welcome to New York City and entry into major city of the United States.

Wednesday 24 February 2010

Animal Instincts by Peta

It was early afternoon and I awoke refreshed but ravenous after a long nap. A soft mewing sound escaped as I yawned widely. Uncurling I stretched out, arching my back. As I performed the ritual downward echidna pose, my spines came to life, the protective arrows pointing in all directions. I stood unsteadily, shaking my bootie in an effort to inject some enthusiasm into my sleepy joints and limbs. The dusty film that had settled like a blanket clouded the air around me.

As I emerged from my shelter in the rocky crevice the bright afternoon sun seared into my small dark eyes. “Ouch” I muttered blinking back tears.

Below my kingdom lay before me. The only discernable movement was the bugs and butterflies littering the airspace. Spiderwebs crisscrossed from trunk to trunk creating lacey patterns on the dry earth as the sunlight streaked through the trees. The air was stiflingly humid.

It was hard adjusting to this solitary life. Not long ago as a puggle I was surrounded by the comfort of mummy’s love and guidance. I missed the warmth of her body cuddled up to me, her heart beating in time with mine. She fed me well, kept me warm and protected. But then the spines grew and everything changed. I was cast out on my own, alone and lonely.

My tummy rumbled loudly like the night skies. Hmm lunchtime. I hadn’t yet got the hang of this hunting thing but there was nothing like an appetite to focus my attention. I quickly found the tracks of other echidna to lead me to a fertile feeding ground. I ambled along, my barrel-like body rolling from side to side. With short stout limbs, mummy had always said we were made for comfort not speed. Then that funny sensation started again. My nose was vibrating and it felt really weird. Mum had explained “the electro-receptors in your snout will let you know a meal is nearby”.

Lunch, bring it on.

Saliva pooled in my mouth and my tummy gurgled. My long tongue filled my mouth uncomfortably. It seemed to swell on queue. I stuck it out and it flicked back and forth, limbering up for the task ahead. “Natural Instincts” mum had said.

I marched on now with more determination. The vibrating was really getting strong, it must be close. Then there it was. A large ochre mound rose up from the earth before me. Ha, soldier ants are on the menu today.

With my long beak, I burrowed into the anthill, using my legs to scratch and dig at the soil. The ants dispersed in all directions. Antfantrymen attacked me. I hated this part. They ran straight up my legs biting away. When would they learn not to bother? I flicked my tongue out, up and around sucking the insects into my mouth. It was full to overflowing. Ants popped as I crushed them between the horny plates on the roof of my mouth and tongue. Delicious!

Tuesday 23 February 2010

The Fox and the Rabbitt--Gordon

The Fox and the Rabbit

You are an animal (pick any animal) and you are stalking your prey - write a scene from the animal's perspective

Suddenly, I heard a squeal and woke with a start.

The day was brilliant sunshine and I had had a long sleep but there was a constant wariness and readiness that left me tired. I lay on the ground in the dappled sunlight hidden in a hollow in the shade of the covering scrub. It was the perfect den.

The rabbit ran and I chased. She ran slowly at first as though nothing had happened. Then with a spurt of speed turned sharply left. Then with a confusion of left turns and right turns, turned right. There was hesitancy and more confusion, with small leaps and then runs. I was close but it was hard to turn right or left. I could lengthen my stride and gallop but the turns were very difficult. The rabbit ran for a big log lying on the ground and rapidly squeezed through a hole underneath the log. I had no chance of going through. Quickly I bounded around the end of the log and a long way before me was the grey rabbit, running through the grass, down the hill. I stood and pondered another loss.

The peace and quiet of the den seemed far away and lost in the excitement of the chase I had forgotten my three pups also sleeping in the den.

From above I had a sense of something in the sky as a tiny shadow passed before me. I looked up and a large eagle was gliding across the patch of scrub covering the den. “My pups”, I thought and I looked back. The three small pups were playing outside the bush covering the den. The eagle landed on the thin branch on the large eucalypt overlooking the bush. The branch swayed with the weight of the eagle. He balanced on it and then looked straight at the three pups. I yelped with a bark and the pups stopped and searched with a startled look. I yelped again and they came running toward me across the paddock. I ran toward the three, now scampering across the grass and oblivious to the danger from above.

As I ran at full speed, the eagle swooped toward my smallest pup and missed. With his big wings he quickly soared into the air again and turned for another swoop. This time he held his claws downward and swooped again with a crunching stop on the small pup. I raced toward the eagle and with a mighty leap bit at his neck just as he started to flap to lift off from the ground. I held tight. The great wings flapped in panic and feathers started to fly around us. I still held on tight and flipped the eagle from one side to the other. Slowly, the flapping subsided and I began to relax my grip. My pup was free and the other pups scampered back to the den. The little pup seemed dazed but not harmed. This was a lesson never to be forgotten.

I dragged the eagle toward the den and ate. The pups joined in.

Gordon MacAulay
23 February 2010

Sunday 21 February 2010

Bird brain (by Heather)

You are an animal (pick any animal) and you are stalking your prey – write a scene from the animal's perspective.

I do not take my eye off the river below.

I feel the lift of an updraft. I ride it for a moment, never letting up my watchfulness. I see the shape I am looking for, but it is too deep below the surface of the water. It is Fish. I twist my wing to draw into a circle, all the while watching, watching. Fish comes a little closer to surface. I tighten circle, banking to increase my speed. I do not take my eye off him.

Fish dives deep into the water. Bugger. I pull out of circle, easing up my speed.

Rest time. I will sit on the pier for a few moments to catch some sun. I slow the beat of my wings, I drop my tail to brake. I glide to a smooth landing.

Cousin Gull flies in immediately. Bugger. He sits beside me, not too close. I stand on one foot and fluff. Cousin Gull steps slightly away.

I fluff more. Wind whips my down feathers. Feels cool! I preen, nibbling each feather shaft from base to tip. Wind blows a feather out of position. I tease it back into place.

I secretly eye Cousin Gull. He pretends to ignore me. I turn to stare at him, both eyes. He falls forward, then soars into the air. Good riddance.

Sun warming, wind cooling. All good.

But stomach rumbling. Not good. Go look for bugger Fish again.

I check feathers. Most are smooth; one needs fix. I nibble shaft, vanes, even barbs. Perfect now.

Good to go.

I squeeze feathers small, ready to fly. I lift into the air, make wings big, open slots, flap hard. I feel for currents. Sun high now so will be updrafts. I find a thermal that wants to whisk me up. So up I go, soaring high. Getting hard to breathe, but fun! I tilt a wing and find more lift. Many sparkles on water below. I glide, glide, glide.

Many things I can do! Choice!

Stomach rumbles again; yes, I remember mission. I cast an eye to the water below. Too high to see Fish.

I fall into fast dip. Wings stretch to widest. I pitch forward, find air resistance. Want to do loop! Take wingtip and tilt sharply, go fast into loop.

Oh, right; hungry. Look out, Fish.

I level out at just right height, stare into river below. Fish will come. Fish will come. Fish will come.

Fish! Fish slides through water, not thinking about sky above. I tilt into large circle, waiting for Fish to rise a little. Fish comes higher. I tighten the circle, watching always. I build speed. My circle gets smaller and smaller until I stop completely. I sit on the air, on the wind, on my yearning.

I know how Fish will swim. I twist my head down, flap strong one time, then drop like a lightning bolt. I crash through air, wind, sun. I film my eyes as I strike the water. One heartbeat into the water I have Fish! He is easy this time, I have him by his middle. I twist to return to the air. Fish wiggles, he wants back to water, but sorry, he is mine. Cousin Gull suddenly appears beside me, gliding and hoping I will make a mistake. Can you imagine? – he would rather mooch my Fish than find his own. He has no pride. A cousin with no pride is a danger.

I swing away, leaving a trail of scorn behind me. He does not care. I care. I fly to a post where only one can fit, and carefully raise my beak to the sun. Fish still wiggles but he drops down the gullet perfectly.

Stomach will soon be happy.

Now, where was I?

Monologue to the Mosquito (Kerry)

You are an animal stalking your prey. Write about it from an animal’s perspective.

-Did you hear that? That tapping noise. It’s coming from outside. I’m not going out until it’s stopped. Could be a magpie. Probably won’t be a problem but it’s better to be cautious.

-Move over a bit, will you? You’re crowding me. I don’t usually share this space. Generally a loner, see. I suppose in the zoo you were used to mobs, crowded in together.

-No need to get grumpy. The rule is whoever gets here first gets best place. That’s me, OK. This cool spot under the leaves suits me. See how I’ve hollowed out a little hiding place. Now, unless you’ve got something useful to contribute, go back to sleep.

-You awake? I can’t sleep. I’m so hungry. It must nearly be dark surely. Seems to be cooling down. Since you’re the new boy, how about you poke your nose out the end there and see how the land lies.

-Anything around?

-I mean dangerous things, of course. Didn’t they teach you anything? Kookaburras, number one. There’s often a couple sitting in the branch up above us. Snakes, number two. Slippery customers, snakes. Never seen one myself but heard plenty of stories of lucky escapes. And humans, number three. They blunder around and are easy to spot. Noisy, no respect. I know you probably think humans are the ant’s pants but not out here, buddy. Got the idea? See anything like that?

-No? Well, let’s go. You follow me. If you haven’t done this by yourself before, just watch my signals.

-Ease yourself out gently. The edge of the log is a bit rough. Now follow the smell of water. Pick it up? That cool, reedy tang. It’s strongest over this way. We should be safe if we move quickly through the long grass. Speed in the air is the key. But stay low. Strong take-off but swift. Got the idea? And break the rhythm every so often. Stay down for a bit then a couple of quick ones.

-This is going to be a good night. Plenty of moisture in the air after that thunderstorm. Pretty violent, wasn’t it? Love ‘em myself. Washed you out of your enclosure, did it?

-Hold it!

-I saw a movement. Keep your head down. It’s a human, sitting on that rock. Very restless, keeps hitting himself. Thank God for the mosquitoes. OK, he’s had enough. He’s going away.

-Now, on this last section keep the pace slow. Here near the pond is where we’re most likely to encounter a problem. I just want to get in close. There are a few special places I have in mind where I can hide and knock off the mozzies as they come in.

-Freeze!

-That was close. I forgot to warn you about ducks. They’re vicious. And fast.

-Be on guard now. Wait for the mozzie to land then flick. Tongue out, tongue in. You’ve got to keep your eye on the target. Watch me.

-Oh, yes! Delicious.

-And again. Ah, bliss!

Friday 19 February 2010

The Hunt - by Rick

Man it’s good to be stretching my wings again. The missus is watching the chicks today so I’m on chow roster.

Perfect day for hunting. The cloudless sky has let the sun heat the Earth and the thermals are out in force. I’m taking this one up another 500 meters and I’ll start my soaring there. I love hunting in the mid-morning. The shadows are near perfect and help pinpoint any motion way down at the bottom. Barely a breeze so it’ll be easy to hang in place as I scan back and forth. And the rodents are all hungry too, so they’ll get careless while they graze. Might even catch me a big jack rabbit if fortune favors me.

Man the lift today is fantastic. Hardly moved a muscle getting up here. This looks like a good place to soar from. I can see the rocks over towards the river where the rabbits hang out and the grasses below with the gopher colony. Good thing I saved all that energy. I’ll need at least 4 or 5 kills today to keep the family fed and the trip back to the nest is all uphill plus cargo.

Not a lot of motion yet. Just some grasses shifting in the breeze. Patience is my middle name. I can do this all day if I have to.

There! What’s that? Looks like a gopher. Yes! Now let’s watch what it does. Still too close to its hole for a sure kill. Gack! It’s gone back down. Next time little one.

Think I’ll move over a bit towards the rocks. Not much happening in the grasses. Maybe some bloody sparrow hawk has spooked them.

Something moving, something big. Just laying on that rock sunning itself. Bad move my friend, but don’t stop. I’ll drop a bit.

Marmot! This is better than rabbit. It’s almost too big for me. Just a bit lower…. NOW.

Lay my wings back and drop like a stone. This is the best, the plunge for the kill. I’m like a lightning bolt. The ground rushes to meet me and at the last second possible I open my wings just as I sink my talons into its spine. I hear a snap as the back breaks and the marmot goes limp. I’m thankful for the easy kill.

It is big, almost too big to lift. I’m famished and it’ll make my return easier if I eat a bit first. Fat back legs. Yum. I rip off large chunks of flesh and gulp them down. The blood is delicious, the meat warm and fresh.

I quickly gorge myself. Lots left over for the family. Time to go. This part is hard work, the flight home, but I love pitting my wings against the marmot’s pull to earth. One or two beats and I’m back in my air. I’ll use the thermals too on the quick return and then it’s back to the hunt.

The Lift - From Rick

As the Friday 5:30 mob scrambles out of the lift like lemmings leaping into the Arctic Ocean, Mike finds himself not unexpectedly as the only passenger going up. He presses 44 and just as the doors near closure, a slender hand foists its way between them followed by “Wait, wait.”

The doors open and Mike’s reality shifts. Cleavage. Suddenly this is his world. And from somewhere above the cleavage a voice utters, “Oh lucky me. You’ve already pushed my button.”

Reality shifts again as Mike realizes that the voice came out of the sexiest lips on the prettiest face he has ever seen in his life. The doors close and the lift starts to rise and for some reason Dickens pops into his mind – “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”

He’s got to say something clever, something cool but his brain has turned to Pablum. As the numbers on the display go up, he can feel his chances going down. And then the miracle/disaster takes place. Suddenly there’s a loud grinding sound, the lift jolts and the display freezes on 10.

“Thank you God”, blurts out of Mike’s mouth.

“Thank you God?”, the lips reply. “Is that supposed to be clever?”

The lift has stopped.

Nothing.

“Oh this is great. And I’ve got a job to do in 3 minutes.”

“Are you an accountant?”, is the next bit of cool wit to escape Mike’s mouth while his brain starts sending signals to his teeth to bite off his tongue.

“Do I look like an accountant?” snaps back the lips.

“Not really, but nothing is on level 44 except Burns Badger and Bennett and they’re all accountants so I thought you might be one.”

“Gee a regular Sherlock Holmes. Since you must know, today I’m an entertainer. Now why don’t you use that sharp mind of yours and figure out how to get us back in motion.”

“An entertainer? Are you part of Brian’s birthday party? I didn’t know it was going to be THAT kind of party.”

“Turn your deductive powers on to getting us out of here Sherlock. And what exactly is ‘THAT kind of party’ supposed to mean?”

“I think a bearing has fractured on the lift motor, judging by the sound. I’ll see if I can raise someone on the emergency phone.” Mike drops cool and takes up practical. Quit while you’re behind has always been his motto.

“Nope, dead as a doornail.” says Mike putting the phone back in the box. “I’ll see if my mobile phone has any reception. These lifts can be murder for a good signal.”

As Mike punches in the numbers that are on the emergency phone box, there are dark thunderclouds breaking out of “Lips’” eyes. “Don’t change the subject. What do you mean, “THAT kind of party?”

Mike holds up a finger hoping the universal signal for “Hold on” works. “Hello. Is this the Schindler Lift Company? Oh good. Listen we’re stuck here in a lift at 16 Market Street. Can you send someone over to get us out? Uh huh. Uh huh. Ok, that would be great.” He disconnects and pockets his phone.

“They’ll have someone over by 7:30, 8 at the latest.”

“Good. No, not good. I can’t be late for this.” Lips takes out her phone. “Damn. No bars at all. Listen can I borrow your phone for one quick call?” For a short second or two, the thunderclouds are replaced with rainbows as Mike hands over his phone.

“Hello Fred? Hi, it’s Molly. Emergency time. I’m stuck in the lift for the Burns Badger and Bennett gig and there’s no way I’ll make it. You’ll have to get someone else and let them know what’s happened. Sorry Fred. Talk to you later.”

Molly hands the phone back to Mike. “Don’t think this favour gets you off the hook. So what do you mean by ‘THAT kind of party’?”

(To be concluded)

That’s as far as I’m taking this for now. I reckon I’m less than a quarter into the story of Molly and Mike. I’m not sure where I want to take it and I’m letting them write the script. Who they are and what they are doing is clear to me but where they might go isn’t. I think I’m looking at around 3000 words and wanted to at least get something posted.

Thursday 18 February 2010

The still of the night - Sue

You are an animal and you are stalking your prey. Write a scene from the animal’s perspective.

The slender leaves rustle softly, lulling Lucy to sleep, inviting her to dream. Then a shadow passes over her eyes and the wind abruptly stops. More shadows creep across the grass and the sun disappears below the African plains. She snorts and wakes up with a start. She stretches her paws, examines her long pointy nails and preens her shaggy yellow coat. It’s time.

In the stillness of dusk, Lucy pricks up her ears, alert to any slight movement or noise. She pivots her head listening and waiting, her ears act like a radar catching every rustle, every broken twig. It’s a challenging time, that time between sunset and night, when the wind is non-existent and animal scents just linger and die in the air.

It’s not so much the smell or the noise that quickens Lucy’s pulse. It is more a sixth sense that something else is in her territory. She stretches again and nudges Maisy and Freda, her twin cubs who are just old enough to join in the hunt. They wake up and start to giggle. Lucy snarls, silently, but the message is clear. All three lions stand to attention. Lucy watches. The twins wait.

A herd of impala spring into action and dance across the plain.

“Wait” growls Lucy, “there’s plenty of time”.

The little animals jump over each other, playing leap frog then hop scotch. They run off towards the woods, then back again to feed on the lush green grass. After a while they stop cavorting and start grazing. It’s time.

“Down” growls Lucy, and all three lions spread themselves flat on the ground. They start to creep along on their tummys. Cleverly the grass barely moves as these huge cats just slither along like snakes in the grass. About 10 feet from the impala, the lions stop. No one moves a muscle. They are like statues, not even breathing. They know they only have one chance.

“Wait” Lucy says with her eyes. Maisy and Freda grin wickedly at each other. Lucy eye-balls them to be quiet.

Lucy is watching one particular impala. He seems to be grazing a few feet away from the rest of the herd and as he feeds he is becoming more and more alone. The lions silently strategize. Then they leap into action.

Maisy runs in between the loner and the main herd, attacking head on whilst Freda attacks from the side. Lucy leaps through the air, trips up the innocent animal from behind and brings it crashing to the ground in a muddle of long legs.

Maisy throws all her weight across the neck of the impala and quickly chomps through the neck and the jugular. Lucy drags and tears the leathery skin from the hind quarters and Freda is through the soft belly and half inside the carcass.

Then, Leo struts into the scene, his long mane swings majestically across his lean and angled face. He is in no hurry, he knows that the girls will leave the best of the impala for him.

Monday 15 February 2010

Alarm bells (Kerry)

You enter the lift with another person on the ground floor. Somewhere between the 10th and 11th floors, the lift stops and won’t move further.
Tell the story of what happens, using plenty of dialogue.

The lift shudders to a halt. The lights go out. Silence creeps up on me.

I wait for a few seconds for it all to start up again. Nothing happens. I shuffle nervously and feel around in the darkness. I am already disorientated.

“Shit, we’re in a pickle,” a voice murmurs behind me. It’s a male voice. I struggle to recall who else is in the lift.

“I’m on my way to a meeting with the Board,” I explain. “I can’t afford to be late. I expect this will be fixed in no time,” I add optimistically, countermanding the other voice in the lift.

“Lady, didn’t you notice the weather outside?” the voice rejoins accusingly. “That was one hell of a storm. Never seen rain like it, real cats and dogs stuff. And the lightning. Wow, I love it. Nothing like a good storm. I bet the power’s cut. We’ll be here until the firies rescue us, I betcha.”

“Isn’t there a phone or something? Can’t we let someone know where we are?” I fumble in my bag for my mobile phone.

“Well, sure, you can ring someone if it makes you feel better. But they’re not going to come any sooner. Unless you’re about to have a baby or something.”

I feel mildly irritated by his outlook. Why is he so sure about what’s going to happen? It’s as though he’s prepared to just lie down and accept whatever his fate. That’s certainly not my attitude. I switch on my phone and dial my colleague’s number.

While it rings I toss back to him, “You can sit there and do nothing if you like but I’m going see what’s possible here. And, by the way, I’m not the baby kind. Just like a man to think of every woman as a baby production machine. I have a perfectly…Ah, Marie, where are you? I’m stuck in the lift. Between the 10th and 11th floors. What’s going on?”

There’s a lot of static and Marie’s voice fades in and out. “I’m…the street…fire alarms…hurry…gone off…got to get out.” The phone dies. I fold it away thoughtfully.

“What did you find out then?” he asks, curious now to hear what’s going on outside.

“I think the building has been evacuated. Perhaps we’re the only ones left. It was very hard to hear what Marie was saying. I still don’t know what’s happened. She mentioned the fire alarm.”

Putting my concerns into words now, I can feel my heart pumping perceptibly faster. A slight perspiration has formed on my forehead. The temperature is going up in the lift. It’s stuffy.

“I wonder if this is what it’ll be like when I die,” the voice continues quietly. “No sounds, darkness, completely cut off, alone.”

“You’re not alone,” I remind him. He’s beginning to sound a bit depressed, I think to myself. “We should introduce ourselves. My name’s Joyce. I work in this building, have done for ten years.”

“Pleased to meet you, Joyce. I’m Ben. I’ve seen you around. I work here too. The cleaner. Been doing it for forty years next year.”

“Warm in here, isn’t it, Ben? Can you smell something?” I ask cautiously. In the confined space I have become hyper-sensitive to sounds, smells, sensations.

“God, it’s smoke,” he cries. “Not a good sign.”

I sense the panic in his voice. It sends a shiver down my back. I bang on the lift door in a vain attempt to draw attention to our whereabouts. We both shout.

“We’re here. In the lift. Help.”

The smell of smoke is much stronger and we slide to the floor to try to avoid breathing too much of it. I grab at Ben and he puts his arm around me as we lie on the floor. Together. Not alone.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper.

In the Lift - Peta

“I’ve seen you before. You work for Beau Whitehead right?”

God, I remember this obnoxious dickhead from the staff Christmas party. Justine thought.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“A guess. Your uber trendy clothes are a give away. Everyone in that office wears designer shit. My mate Jacko works there.”

“Well it’s advertising. It’s part of the package, it’s expected.”

“Brownie.” He said extending his hand.

“Justine.” His hand was unpleasantly clammy.

It had only been a couple of minutes since the lift jolted to a halt, but the air was already thickening with their breath and Brownie’s body odour. Justine was feeling nauseous. She hated small spaces and Brownie made her uncomfortable. She could feel her armpits moistening. That was all she needed, sweat marks on her Donna Karan.

“So what about you? Where do you work?” Small talk at least would take her mind off the situation. She seemed to recall he was some sort of courier.

“ASX. Just delivering paperwork to a client. My luck the bloody lift breaks down. But hey it could be worse right? Here I am stuck with you and you have my undivided attention.” A rakish sneer crossed Brownie’s acne scarred face.

Oh please, Justine thought. More of this and I really will throw up.

“May be we should try the emergency phone.” Justine stretched towards the handset.

“Waste of time.” Brownie said as he moved between her and the control panel. “The lifts are monitored 24 7. They know we’re here. It won’t speed things up.”

“Sure but they don’t know who’s in here, do they? My boss will be shitted with me for not getting back from lunch.”

“Come on. You advertising types are lunch alots, he won’t even know you’re missing for a couple of hours.”

“God, you don’t think we’ll be in here that long do you?”

He was beginning to creep her out. His eyes seemed permanently transfixed on her breasts. They were impressive of course and she used them to maximum effect but this was definitely one time she wished she’d gone for the higher neckline. She remembered now how he’d leered at all the girls at the party. He’d had way too much to drink and staggered around spilling his beers down any blouse he could get near. He thought it was hilarious. No one else was impressed except his stupid mate. Also a dickhead.

“Relax.” He moved closer and touched her arm. Her skin reacted immediately, prickling against unwanted advance.

“Piss off.” Justine hissed.

With that he slammed his body into her, shoving her back into the corner, her arms pinned to her side. His foul breath cascaded over her face as he groped her with his free hand, moving up her leg and under her mini dress. He fingered the lacy top of her g string. Her chest heaved against the weight of him, as she retched involuntarily.

“Get off me now.” Justine was verging on hysteria. She felt faint yet ready to explode at the same time. She could barely breathe. Justine was acutely aware of his arousal as Brownie pressed harder against her. The tears started, hot and heavy, searing as they rolled down her flushed cheeks.

The lift shifted slightly and Brownie pulled back in surprise and confusion. It was only a moment but all she needed. Justine rammed her knee into his groin. Brownie folded in pain. Only then did Justine notice the key in the control panel turned to STOP.

“You bastard” she yelled kicking Brownie in the ribs with her pointed Jimmy Choo. “How dare you!”

As she flicked the key to GO, Brownie grabbed her ankle and the lift lurched into action. Within seconds the lift doors opened at level 11 and Justine tumbled out into the reception foyer leaving Brownie writhing in pain.

Friday 12 February 2010

Sister-danger (by Heather)

You enter the lift with another person on the ground floor. Somewhere between the 10th and 11th floors, the lift stops and won’t move further. Tell the story of what happens, using plenty of dialogue.

If there were a god, he would not have chosen to have the lift get stuck on the exact occasion where I was alone in it with my sister.

I mean, I knew I was going to have to see her. But seeing her in a room padded with three or four lawyers while we go through mechanical details of our father’s will is a very different thing from getting stuck alone in a lift with her. I was prepared for the one but definitely not for the other.

It was bad enough that we arrived at the bank of lifts at the same time, requiring us to acknowledge each other with a brief nod of the head. But when the lift ground to a stop somewhere between the tenth and eleventh floors of the Medway Building, I could feel threads of panic gripping me. I leaned against the chrome railing, pretending to be cool while I assessed the situation. The situation was this: not only might I plunge ten floors to my death, but now I was going to have to speak to my sister, whom I hadn’t exchanged a word with in over twelve years. A camera might only have seen my sister Ellen and myself in the lift. But we could both have told you there was another passenger as well: a bag full of gremlins. History gremlins.

As I reached indecisively toward the instrument panel, words practically spat out of her mouth. “Yes, go ahead,” she growled. “Fix this if you can. You’re always the action one.”

One of the gremlins tussled inside the bag, threatening to escape.
I glanced at her. She glowered at me in a way I remembered well.

He who stays out of the battle wins, is my life strategy, so I searched for something neutral to say in reply. Out of my mouth came: “And you’re still the same sarcastic bitch, aren’t you?”

Whoops. So much for life strategies.

She turned fully toward me. “Well, I guess that justifies jumping into bed with my husband, doesn’t it?”

And there we were, three sentences into it after twelve years of silence. The gremlins spilled out of the bag and littered the floor.

It must be something about being locked in a small space together that has you get very quickly to the core issues. Or it might just be that you’re thinking about that hundred foot drop and knowing you may not have to face the consequences of anything you say.

Either way, this time I didn’t bother searching for something neutral. “It was just once, for chrissakes, you grudge-carrying bitch. Just one drunken night. I’m SORRY. I was sorry then, I’ve been sorry ever since, I’m sorry now,” I shouted, my voice escalating out of control. “I’ve never been so sorry about anything. What do you want me to say?!”

Her anger sprayed all over me. “THAT’S what I wanted you to say, and you never did. You made excuses, you blamed him, you even blamed me. I mean, you even blamed mother’s parenting, for god’s sake…but you never once said you were sorry.”

“Well, I’m saying it now!” I shrilled. I was aware that I sounded like one of those sirens whooping at a factory, but considerably less musical.

“I hear you, I hear you,” she shouted back. “You don’t actually need to shout. This is an eight foot square room, there are no machinery noises and I can hear you.”

I looked at her. Her face was beet red, tendons were standing out in her neck, her mouth was twisted and ugly. I saw myself in the mirror panel. Face red, neck tendons standing out, mouth twisted and ugly. You’ve never seen anything less attractive, and, well, funny. A hiccup escaped my unruly body. I couldn’t tell what was coming out next, but it turned out to be an explosive laugh.

“I’m sorry,” I coughed, holding my sides while I doubled over with laughter. “It’s not funny, well, it IS funny, but…I’m sorry, I can’t stop.” The more I tried to suppress the laughter, the stranger the sobbing wail that came out of me.

I knew Ellen would kill me but I was beyond caring. She bent over, winding up to punch me one, and that struck me as funnier yet. And then a wild sound escaped HER lips and I realised to my astonishment that she was laughing as well. She reached toward me for support, unable to hold herself up any longer, and next thing I knew we were in each other’s arms, laughing uncontrollably (or was it crying?), and pounding each other’s backs (or was it trying to kill each other?). She smacked my shoulder with her handbag, causing her makeup and things to fall out all over the floor, and we screamed with laughter again. I yanked the scarf from my neck and swung it at her, succeeding in striking only myself. More howls of laughter.

I slid down the wall of the lift to the floor, holding my sides. I couldn’t breathe. There she was sitting right beside me, tears streaming down her face.

“I destroyed your marriage,” I said, stifling a sob and feeling dizzy with the admission.

Beside me, Ellen snorted through her shrieks of laughter. “You were such a jerk. HE was such a jerk. Having the excuse to leave him was the best thing that ever happened to me in my life.”

She pummelled hysterically on the wall, and I couldn’t help joining her. Then suddenly we remembered our predicament and grabbed each other instead.


Well, that’s the end of the story of Ellen and me in the lift. You’ll be wondering if the lift got unstuck or not, and if we survived to tell the story. I know you: you’re addicted to adventure-danger and you’ll be half hoping the cable breaks and we’re swinging there helplessly in the lift-well, still in gales of laughter.

But the story really isn’t about stuck lifts so I’m not going to tell you. It’s not about that kind of adventure-danger at all. It’s a story about sister-danger. And how you can truly risk losing everything.

Thursday 11 February 2010

Truffle kills the rat - Sue Moffitt

You enter the lift with another person on the ground floor. Somewhere between the 10th and 11th floors, the lift stops and won’t move further. Tell the story of what happens, using plenty of dialogue. I'm persisting with writing for children. What do you think?

The lift jumps, wobbles a bit, drops a few feet then stops. It goes dark, pitch black like a night with no moon.

Jane screams. No noise comes out of her mouth. It’s quiet except for the man breathing. It feels like he is really close. She whimpers, just like a pussy cat. She buries herself into the corner.

“Oh shit” says the man.

“Mum...my” whispers Jane.

Jane’s tears gallop down her face and she hiccups as she tries to swallow. It’s like her tongue is bigger than her mouth.

“Where’s Mummy?”

“It’s OK honey, Mummy will be here soon, she’ll save us. I’ll light a match so we can see.

“Nooooooooooooooo” she cries.

Suddenly she can hear her mother’s warning. Words muddle up as she struggles to remember.

She had been only little. Now she’s eight years old, her birthday was last week and she had eight friends for tea, she had eight presents and eight candles. She had blown them all out at once. But when she had been little, her brother had taken a lift from a man in a car. Mummy had been very angry and she’d even gone red in the face. Her face looked like it was going to boil like a kettle and steam came out of her ears. Ian had come home safely. The man had given him a lift home from school. But Mummy was still angry,

“Never, never, never ever, take a lift or talk to a stranger” she had yelled. And she had waved her finger directly at Jane.

“They might hurt you or steal you. Take you away from Mummy and Daddy. So don’t ever do it. Do you understand?”

Jane remembers and she crouches further into the corner.

“Noooooooooooooooo” she whispers this time.

“Honey, I won’t hurt you. It’s OK. We’ll be safe. But hey, why don’t you cuddle Truffle, he’ll make you feel better.”

“Oh, Truffle, he looked so cute. That’s right, I followed him. I only wanted to hug him. Let me see him”.

There’s a noise like rats scratching at the floorboards. Jane covers her ears and withdraws deeper into the corner. A little yellow light glows and a puff of smoke heads for the roof. Shadows dance around the lift walls and there’s Truffle, hiding behind the man’s legs.

“Truffle, Truffle, come here. Let me cuddle you”.

Then it’s dark again.

“Damn these stupid matches” says the man. “Sorry, hon, I’ll try another one.

There’s a pause, Jane holds her breath. Then a cold, wet nose rubs itself against her bare knee and soft fluffy hair tickles her arms.

“Oooh. Truffle is that you?”

He snuffles and licks. She squats. A wet tongue kisses her nose. He’s little enough for her to cuddle him right around. He’s as soft as Tiger, her teddy.

Sunday 7 February 2010

Music and cats (by Heather)

Write a story on any subject but don't use any adjectives or adverbs. Focus on using precise verbs or nouns to convey the moods or feelings you are aiming for.

It was Albert Schweitzer who said, "There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats."

If he’d been watching me on my fifth birthday, he would have wondered if he had it backwards. I huddled at the bottom of our stairs, tears dripping off my chin onto the kitten clutched in my hand. The kitten sprawled on my palm, unable to draw its legs under itself. It was dying of distemper – just as its brothers and sisters had the day before, just as heaps of kittens had on our farm. I knew that distemper was about bugs you couldn’t see, bugs stuck into the soil that found the kittens and got into them, no matter what you tried.

The mother scrambled out from her place under the house, rubbing against my ankles and nudging my hand. I patted her, to reassure her and to get comfort from her.

I thought about when SHE was a kitten herself. We discovered her when we were visiting a neighbour, and loved her straight away. We had her immunised against distemper before we brought her home. She took my breath away! She made me laugh. I thought about how she had wobbled off the edge of this sidewalk when she was busy swatting at a fly, how she played with dandelions, rode in my doll carriage, wore the hat I put on her. I still loved her, though she wasn’t quite so cute, and didn’t like to play those games anymore.

But THIS kitten in my hand – all that fun was supposed to happen with this kitten as well. My mum and dad and I had all hoped that the immunisation would pass from the mother to the kittens, but that didn’t happen. The kittens had made it for a week, then begun to die.

I gazed at the legs, the head, the tail, willing them to stir. There was warmth, but nothing moved. Grief washed over me and the tears continued to flow. The unfairness, the horror, the sadness of it!

I became aware of my mother, standing behind me watching through the screen door. “Come,” she said. “Put the kitten back with its mother. When it dies, we’ll bury it, and we’ll play a song for it on the piano.”

An hour or two later, that’s what happened.


Over the years, more kittens were born, and more died. As I got older, I would play a dirge myself for them on the piano – Brahms’ lullaby was a favourite. In my case, the cats caused the misery and the music helped to sharpen it. But eventually the distemper packed up and left the farm, ending the tragedy.

So what came from all this heartbreak? Was there a phoenix that arose from these ashes?

I’m sure a psychologist could have a field day. Perhaps my acceptance of people’s death began in these incidents. Perhaps a certain attachment to drama and tragedy took root here. It could be why I cry at the drop of a hat. Maybe my love of music fired up on that sidewalk.

Or maybe it’s just a passion for a lifetime of cats that found its beginning here. At this moment, my cat (who has managed the journey to age 14) lounges on my desktop, regarding me. She has wrapped my heart around her paw just as those kittens did many years ago. Albert Schweitzer had it right.

The anguish of rain (Kerry)

Write a story on any subject but don't use any adjectives or adverbs. Focus on using precise verbs or nouns to convey the moods or feelings you are aiming for.

“We won’t…make it…What’ll we do?…Go back!” Cathy groaned.

She arched her back, spread her legs across the seat and began panting as she had been taught. The contractions were gripping her belly. She exhaled from the bottom of her lungs as she felt the power of the vice begin to fade.

And she relaxed. She fell back against the car window. The baby wasn’t going to wait. The contractions were relentless. She should be in the hospital by now.

Cathy looked out at the morass of mud across the road.

“Steve, what will we do?” she echoed. “The road is closed. It’s no use. The rain isn’t going to stop. It’s been going on like this for hours.”

She wiped her forehead with the towel she’d brought with her.

Steve glared at the rain pouring down the windscreen in front of him. This was not the way he had pictured the birth of their baby. He tramped his foot on the accelerator and reversed into the driveway behind the car. He sped back up the road the way they had come leaving a splash of mud on the mailbox.

“Steve, relax. Take it easy. We can do it,” Cathy screamed in his ear. “Stop. We can phone the doctor, get some advice.”

Steve wasn’t listening. He careered on up the road.

He didn’t see the tree that had fallen across his path, its roots loosened by the downpour. Metal crumpled. Bodies were flung onto the road. The rain was merciless.

Sue strolls down the laneway (Sue)

Sue strolls down the laneway. Clouds vibrate with thunder, trees dance and the wind howls. It isn’t raining but Sue quickens her pace.
A roof peeps over the fence. Then the farmyard appears. Cows stand at ease, their udders agitating. Now rain falls in sheets. The view dwindles and Sue runs to the milking shed. The cows haven’t moved.
Sue pulls on her apron, pushes up her sleeves and grabs the stool. The pail bangs on the floor and echoes through the rafters. The noise echoes the thunder. She pushes and pulls and milk oozes out and splashes into the pail. Steam rises and each cow shuffles a hoof and sighs.
An hour passes and Sue has milked most of the cows. Her back hurts. She stands, stretches and touches her toes. Still the rain continues but the thunder creeps away, the cows doze.
Reinvigorated, Sue finishes her chores and changes back into her wet weather gear. She heads back up the laneway. Rain drips down her back as it bounces off the avenue of trees and the leaves along the grass verge glisten like polish. Rivers of water follow her footsteps.
So where is Sue? She could be in England in springtime or Australia in the wet. Or America in autumn but the leaves are still green. France is like England, so who knows. She could be anywhere. Ambling along an English lane or strolling an Australian Outback track. Wherever or whichever, the cows always all face the same way in the rain.

A Phone Rings

You're standing outside a restaurant next to a phone booth when, suddenly, it rings. Your gut tells you not to answer it, but with each ring you can't resist. Finally you pick up the phone-and end up having the most amazing night of your life.

Write a story on any subject but don't use any adjectives or adverbs. Focus on using precise verbs or nouns to convey the moods or feelings you are aiming for



Ring………
Ring………
Ring………
Ring………

(Is that phone going to ring all night?) Mike asked himself.

Ring………
Ring………
Ring………

(I can’t answer it. Mary might come along. She’s late as it is and I don’t want to lose the reservation.)

Ring………
Ring………
Ring………

(It could be an emergency. Oh hell)

“Hello?” Mike answered.

“Hello yourself. This is Fred Farker from QQQ. How would you like to be a Millionaire?”

“Huh?” Mike gulped at the receiver. “Is this a joke?”

“I can tell you never listen to radio mister. Name the 3 songs and win a million bucks. That sir is not a joke. Do you want to play or not?”

“Ok, sure,” Mike replied. “What do I do?”
“I’ll play a song and you have 20 seconds to name it. Name all 3 and the million is yours. Shall we start.”

“Nothing to lose for me. Play on Fred”, Mike rejoined.

♫♪♪♫♫♫ twittered the telephone.

“Easy” rejoiced Mike. “Words, by the Bee Gees”

“Correct”, retorted Fred, “although the name is enough. Ready for two?”

“Ready Freddy”, Mike chuckled.

♫♪♪♫♫♫ was thrown out the speaker. This time a classic, by chance a song that his mother played over and over and over and over when Mike was a boy. “Not one person in a hundred would know this one”, he thought to himself.

"My Ladye Nevells Booke” by William Byrd.”

After eternity passes…. “Correct again.” squeaks Fred.

“Song three. Get this one correct and the million is yours.”

Another bit of ♫♪♪♫♫♫ from the phone.

(Oh God. That’s the song Mary always hums.) Mike thinks. And as he thinks, along comes Mary.

“Oh Mike I’m so sorry I’m late. Let’s go in. Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s ok honey. Listen to this song. What is it?”

Mary puts her ear to the phone and her face lights up. “Oooooooo”, she squeals. “Where did you get that? Nobody ever plays it.”

“Later. What’s it called?”

“Why it’s Meet me at the Market by the Tadpoles”

“Fred is it ‘Meet me at the Market’ by the Tadpoles?”

There is a silence on the phone, seconds of silence, before Fred croaks “We have a millionaire. That is correct.”

Later after Fred and Mike have set up a time for Mike to visit QQQ for pictures and the presentation of the money, Mike explains it all to Mary.

“Wow” gasps Mary. “And to think that if I had been on time, you wouldn’t have heard the phone and none of this would have happened. What must you be thinking now?”

“I was thinking that now I’ll never know whether you married me for myself or my money.”

“Why Mister Jones, did I just hear a proposal?”

“Miss Smith, I believe you did.”