The Real News. A short tale.

Here’s a post I did for a recent uni course. The course is over so I can post it now. The idea was to take a news story and extrapolate what it was about.  

 

A man attacked a woman in a Victorian Shopping Centre. Although the news story was light on details, it was inferred in the report that the two may have known each other.

I am not a fan of these types of news stories, especially when there is no further information, meaning any further claims (i.e. via Twitter and Fb feeds, also mentioned in the article) are generally hearsay and conjecture. Having said that, this is a creative writing course, so I am going to make some wild and potentially bizarrely inaccurate conclusions.

I think the man (whom we shall refer to as Escobarn, to protect his identity) was a spurned lover, and he used an axe as he was a firefighter who trained with axes regularly at the axe throwing range. He was a neighbour of the woman (forevermore known as Juliannis), and they had known each other for years, secretly harbouring a passionate desire for one another and a shared love of axe wielding. Juliannis was saved by Escobarn when her backyard BBQ mysteriously caught fire while she was cooking one evening.

Little did Juiliannis know that Escobarn had rigged the BBQ to catch alight, thus setting his torrid plan in motion. After a very brief (3-minute) affair, Escobarn stole the six-foot marijuana plant Juliannis was growing in a patch of her backyard, hidden in a small grove of trees. Despite his short comings (yeah, that’s a pun), or perhaps because of them, Juliannis, suspected her short-term lover of the robbery. She was desperate to recover the tree as she had a huge gambling debt with Father Macc at the local Church Bingo.

Juliannis called on Father Macc for assistance. Father Macc utilised some of his geriatric bingo toughs to beat up Escobarn and return the plant. Unfortunately, the toughs all died of old age before they could complete the job. Escobarn, upset about the dead people on his lawn, took his trusty axe to Juliannis’ place of work. The rest is news history.

There are a number of crimes perpetrated here, some real, some wildly fictitious: Attempted Murder, Cultivating an illegal drug, Illegal BBQ tampering (carries a 20 year sentence in Australia. We’re very attached to our barbies), Illegal Gambling (depends on the type of bingo – this particular one was  body parts trading and money laundering), Geriatric Gang Violence, Public Littering (dead bodies on a lawn are an offence if not cleaned up).

There are many crimes committed in the big city. This is just one of them. Or ten.

Regards

Steve 😉

Sucker Punch. A short tale.

Here is another piece I wrote for a recent course that is now finished, so I’m free to post it.

 

I feel the fist as it hits me hard in the jaw. My head shakes violently; I hear the soft crack at my jawline and a seeping pain overwhelms my thoughts. I stumble sideways, my arms up, guarding my skull. His blows come in a flurry, faster now but imprecise, attempting to break through my defences. At times, he varies his attacks, all of them with self-righteous fury but a lack of finesse and no other purpose than to pummel me into submission.

I feel his knuckles crunch my nose, sharp pain smashing straight through and my skull snapping back and forth like a bobble head on a spring. It gives him an opening and he smacks the side of my head just below my brow, where a ring he is wearing cuts deep. Blood flows freely, down through my eye (sticky, stinging), down my face, along my neck and soaking into my shirt collar. I stumble, my vision blurring, arms still up and aching from bruises that seem to echo through my bones.

Time has slowed, and I sense others pulling him back as I fall to my knees. I’m lucky. At this point he could have taken me out, killed me if he wanted. My mind is adrift in a haze of shapes and motion and as darkness closes in I barely feel the pavement as it greets me with one last sucker punch.

The Spell. A short tale.

I saw you again today.

You hadn’t changed at all, but of course I shouldn’t have expected you too. After all, it had been but a few weeks, and nobody can be expected to change much in that time. Your beauty outshone everyone else in the room, like a lighthouse between hazardous reefs. I could only glance for a short while, lest I be blinded by your light; I was far too unworthy.

You didn’t acknowledge me at all, and although I was saddened by this apparent rebuke, I understood. You were so infinitely far away, and yet only a few steps lay between us. I was distracted by others, by casual, innocuous conversation, and by the time I looked back again, you were gone.

I smiled grimly as I left that place, knowing that you were a pipedream, an illusion beyond the power of choice. As my eyes moistened, I wondered if I would ever be free of the weave of your magic. Perhaps not.

But if never, then what a fine spell to be under.

Drifter. A short tale.

I am shapeless, without form or feature. I float in the ether between worlds, a wisp of aimless consciousness, searching for convention. Twisting, turning, the eddies of astral winds cycling like water down an infinite drain. Drifting in and out of reality, an incorporeal whisper.

I sense a gateway, hovering above me, yet below. I reach with fingers of mist-like curlicues, wondering if there is depth beyond the vision. I look through into a vast horizon of potentiality. But the way is just out of reach, tauntingly distant and seemingly insubstantial.

I drift on, the astral breeze pushing and pulling me away from here and there. Perhaps another day…

The Wet Street Shuffle. A short tale.

The rain was hard that night, like little daggers on the back of my neck. I made it to the overhang, drenched, and shook out my hat like a wet dog. Traffic moved begrudgingly in the street, the occasional horn breaking the murmur of engines struggling against repression. Despite the rain’s ferocity, people rushed this way and that, like insects threatening to be washed away.

There were several strangers with me under the overhang. Pedestrians taking cover from the weather; faces cowed and muted in the damp dimness, almost like they were hiding from the reality of their own existence. I nodded ingenuously, an acknowledgement of our shared, wet fate. 

Within minutes the torrent had ceased, leaving the streets shiny in the moonlight. My short term compatriots went on their way, mysteries and enigmas better left unsolved.

The Diff. A short tale.

Here’s another short piece I recently wrote for uni. The exercise was to create some realistic dialogue. Hope you like it.

“So, you’ve finally met a girl?” Josh grinned.
Matt lowered his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“About time. I thought after your divorce you’d never get out there again. Tell me all about her. Is she a good sort?”
Matt smiled. “Yeah, she’s very attractive. She likes all the things I like. We can talk for hours about books, movies, art, comics, you name it. It’s like she was made for me.”
Josh rolled his eyes. “Nerds. So, what’s wrong?”
“There’s a bit of an age difference.”
“How much?”
“About fifteen years.”
“You old cradle snatcher, you. How old is she, eighteen or something?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five? How old are you, anyway?” Josh did a quick calculation on his fingers. “Like, forty or something? You don’t look that old.”
“I’m scared to ask her out,” said Matt.
“You’re scared of rejection? Geez, mate, get over it and ask her. Then you won’t have to do the old ‘unrequited love depression session’ every time we chat. You can just be regular depressed like the rest of us.”

Session. A short tale.

“Back again,” says Ms Therapy, reclining in her chair.

“Yes,” I reply, eyeing her curiously. “Every month, as you know.”

Ms Therapy sighs, grabs a pen and notepad from the desk behind her. “Yes, I know.” She sighs again and my anxiety level rises.

“So, what would you like to talk about this time?” Ms Therapy taps the pen impatiently on the pad. She glances at the wall clock. By this point I’m feeling a little put out.

“Do you have something you’d rather be doing?” I say. “I can always come back later.” The last words via a thin smile.

Ms Therapy grins; it’s a little forced. “No, no, you know that I’m here to listen, help you with your problems…” She trails off. Her eyes are distant, and I could swear she’s starting to tear up a little.

“Are you alright?” I say, leaning forward in concern.

“Yes,” Ms Therapy says, putting a hand to her trembling mouth. “No. I’m sorry,” she says. She starts to cry, suppresses it, fanning her face rapidly with one hand, like she’s swatting away imaginary butterflies. Or maybe killer bees.

“How about I come back another time, maybe when you’ve had time to…adjust.” I start to rise, she holds up her palms signalling stay. I glance at the door – if I’m going to get out of here this is my last chance.

“I’ve broken up with my girlfriend,” Ms Therapy says. This is a surprise, as I wasn’t aware she was gay. Not that I know much about her, but I guess my gaydar is as non-existent as the rest of my people-reading skills. Before I can respond, she continues in a torrent of tears and sputtering speech.

“We’ve been together five years. She’s my everything. We are so good together. And last night, all of a sudden, she says ‘it’s not working’ and that she needs to find herself. I mean, what’s not working? She’s never indicated anything was wrong before. Then she leaves and she hasn’t come back and I’ve been worried sick and she’s such a bitch but I love her…”

I’m glad she doesn’t notice how uncomfortable I’ve become; the occasional squirm and nervous tic. “Umm…do you need a hug?” is all I can think to say. Ms Therapy graciously accepts, and for the next half hour I listen to her travails and placate her with “it’ll be alright” and “she’s a stupid woman, she’ll be back when she realises what she’s lost”.

Eventually, the tears subside and Ms Therapy composes herself. “Thank you,” she says. “I just needed to talk to someone about it. I feel so much better now.” It’s a shame I don’t, but I guess I didn’t really need a session, anyway.

“Glad I could help,” I say. My halo glows with new found, smug self-confidence.

“This one’s on the house,” she says, shrugging. “Least I can do.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say as I exit.

I can hear Alpha Girl now: “Hah! You can’t even get a therapy session right!”

Doh.

Missing. A short tale.

Something was missing. Every time I looked, I thought I saw it, but like some mote in the corner of one’s eye, when I looked again it was gone. I was starting to doubt my own senses.

I clambered around the room, searching up and down, turning things over and tossing them about, trying to find the missing thing. I wasn’t sure what it was, just that I needed it. Right now. I felt like a junkie itching for a fix, but not knowing exactly what hit he needed.

If it wasn’t in my room, maybe it was online. I flicked on the laptop, checked a few regular pages, a few irregular ones, and eventually gave up, my chin resting on my open palm as I scratched my head. It had to be around here somewhere. But what was it that was missing? What was it that proved so elusive and mysterious?

And then it came to me, like a lightbulb flickering on in pitch black.  I was missing a life.

I guess I needed to get up off my arse, get out of my room and find it.

 

Cat and Mouse. A short tale.

This story is the prequel to a poem I wrote on my blog a while back. You can find it here.

I wrote this brief story for Uni. Now that the course is over I can post it.

 

The cat sat on the mat. She preened and purred, purred and preened. She watched the mouse. The mouse sat across the room, just outside his hole-in-the-wall. He did not preen, or purr. He watched the cat.

The cat had never eaten a mouse before and wondered if he tasted good. If you’re not sure of these things, it’s always polite to ask.

“Are you tasty?” she said.

The mouse seemed confused. “Tasty?” he replied. “As in, ‘my, you are one hip, cool and funky mouse’?”

She smiled. “No. As in, are you good to eat?”

“I guess that depends on your perspective,” said the mouse. “I would say definitely not.”

The cat yawned, rolled on her side and pawed the carpet aimlessly. “Are you fast?”

The mouse’s eyes narrowed and he rubbed his tiny paws together. “Do you want to chase me and find out?”

“Not really,” said the cat, drifting off to sleep.

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