Category Archives: Short Stories

Zentangle #20 Patched Together Plasticine

image

Patched Together Plasticine
maybe
the difference between us, 
this 
patched together earth and water, 
living plasticine
is
we can see each other’s
dreams

This piece is for sale $15AUS (inc postage to anywhere in the world). For an extra $2AUS you can get a set of zentangle postcards. It is signed and dated, and the text handwritten on the reverse side.

zentangle-postcards

If you wish to purchase this piece, leave a message in the comments and I will get in touch with you via the email address you use when posting a comment.

You can also buy calico tote bags featuring Coloured Pencils (zentangle) or Stupid Question (blackout poem) or other sets of postcards HERE.

Zentangle #16 Prefer

img_20161127_130310

Prefer

you prefer
a human life
a choice
to look
one single time
to experience
what it may be
to be created

Handwritten Pages #15

image

     She ties the dressing gown around her waist. Lines up her toes where the metal coping separates the hallway carpet from the bathroom tiles. A diver’s stance. Anticipation of the tiles’ coldness.
     She steps. Plummets. Side steps the bath mat. Plants her feet squarely. Small ripples quickly subside. The cold tiles prickle the soles of her feet until it stings. Tapers off to an equilibrium.
     Repeatedly she will lie on her back on the bathroom floor undressed. Lets the cold of the tiles fight with the heat of her body. She relents. Acquiesces. Adds a layer of permafrost to her heart against the fire of her mother’s tongue.

Handwritten Pages #14

image

     It is the rhythmic rasp of the sandpaper she likes best. A counterpoint, and companion, voice to her grandfather’s asthmatic wheeze as he makes furniture and occasionally toys. Punctuated by the cough of the match head on the striking paper to light his hand rolled cigarettes.
     She can discern by ear the coarseness of the grit against the grain. Jarrah, pine, mahogany. He gives her the cork block and a sheet of sandpaper. Converses with her through each stroke.
     She knows, one day, this conversation will cease.

Words Are Really Bloody Hard Sometimes

screen-shot-2016-09-22-at-2-07-46-pm

Another of my random twitter thoughts (shown above) sparked another line of thinking. 

As a writer, words are the inadequate representation of our experiences, our emotions, our memories. Yet they are what we have to suffice our mental connection with another person. 

Whether it is the spoken word or the written word, finding the words, or sentences, or paragraphs, or chapters, or epic tomes to convey the depth of what it is we are feeling, is the greatest of challenges. 

We put names to our emotions, the feelings that stir in our stomachs, our hearts, our minds, because to name it is to find a location, a home, an understanding. 

How it is expressed is another challenge. A single line, an epithet or couplet can capture the essence of our emotional complexity. Conversely, it may take an entire novel to plumb the depths and we still feel we haven’t explored the parameters.

We piece together our understanding of our emotions through poetry, novels, anecdotes, newspaper articles, plays through the actions, thoughts and decisions of the characters in the hope we will gain greater tolerance, insight, perspective and sense of self.

We share a common language and vocabulary to share our common humanity yet, sometimes, words are really bloody hard to find.

Handwritten Pages #13

image

Sonia waited on the platform, trailed by her shadow, for the last possible moment to board the train. She wanted to time her entrance into the carriage with the closing of the doors to separate her physical body from her shadow. So far, she had not succeeded.

Today’s Handwritten Page was inspired by this image. It was a  random prompt given to me by a friend. 

train-station

Handwritten Pages #12

image

The boy said, “Daddy, you’re crying. Are you hurt?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Where? I can’t see it.”
“In my heart and in my head.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandpa, my father, died and I miss him.”
For the first time the boy knew a pain beyond the physical scrape of a grazed knee, the sting of Dettol and the salve of attention.
In the awkwardness of facing human pain he saw the wounded soul seeping out from behind an imaginary Band-Aid; a too small covering for a gaping wound.
He leaned forward and kissed his father’s forehead.