“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.
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