Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts

Aug 12, 2015

Best Twitter Accounts (at the moment)

I know not everyone likes Twitter, and lately I don't much like it either. It's all a bit exhausting. But there is still plenty of gold in Twitter. These are the accounts that are currently making me smile.


We Want Plates (@WeWantPlates)

Showcasing the worst of the restaurant craze for serving food and drink in silly things.
The photos make me LOL.




ManWhoHasItAll (@manwhohasitall)

So, so good. When you've spent a few years wrangling parenting and work AND dealing with the endless scream-worthy, useless, unfair and impossible "advice" in women's lifestyle articles, welcome to your soulmate, ManWhoHasItAll.  Turning all the stupid "work-life balance" advice for women around as if it were written for men:





I could keep going. I have retweeted so many of these I've virtually stolen the account.



Spineless Wonders (@SpinelessWonder)

I love short stories, in particular of the speculative fiction type. And I love flash fiction - when it's good (which it often is not). All last month under the hashtag #MicroLitMonth, this account put up some really great short short fiction.

Like this one



The Conversation (@ConversationEDU)

Source of excellent articles which look at issues and ideas slightly differently, with the benefit of academic insight. The articles are a good length, striking just the right balance between Buzzfeed and Longform, and they publish them all under a Creative Commons license. Nice work, The Conversation.



 God (@TheTweetOfGod)

The God we really need.

Daily Dose of Puppies (@TheDailyPuppy)

Cynical exploitation of internet-cute? Sure. But ADORABLE.




And my favourite tweet today:

Posted by 4 comments:

Jul 4, 2015

When men piss me off with their art

This is a ranty post. It's also not entirely serious, but it is a little bit serious, because the things I mention really did/do annoy me, though probably not all to the degree I'm presenting them here. I'm exaggerating a little to make my point.  It's just for fun :)

When men piss me off with their art


You won't get any argument from me that most great artists are men. You will get an argument from me if you try and say that's because men are better than women at art, but that's another story.

(The pram in the hall - I'm just saying).

Anyway, as there is so much great art, high and low, produced by so many talented men, I have been a big fan of a number of talented men all my life. And when you're a huge fan of someone with huge talent, it is easy to assume that that person is also a wonderful human being who you would personally like and admire in the flesh, and that they generally see the world the same way you do, because after all, don't you both agree on what makes awesome art??

So it is a shock when these artists disappoint you. You might find out they might not be nice people (Terence Howard - you disappointed me greatly, sir). Or, as is equally jarring, an artist you love suddenly produces something that pisses you off!



Gordon Lightfoot


I LOVE Gordon Lightfoot. If there is a better slow sultry country song than Sundown then I haven't heard it. I love Early Morning Rain, If You Could Read My Mind, Carefree Highway....

Carefree Highway. I do love it, but it also never fails to piss me off a little. Take a listen:

Carefree highway, got to see you my old friend
Carefree highway, you've seen better days
Got the morning after blues, from my head down to my shoes
Carefree highway, let me slip away, slip away on you

What's it about? A guy who is down on his luck, lost (possibly because his girlfriend left him, or perhaps that was some time ago), not knowing what to do. And what does he do? Takes off. Hits the highway, as he's done before. Sure, run away from your problems! It's not like anyone else ever has the same impulse, is it? Nice to be able to just throw everything away, pack your bag and take off when things get hard!

In my even less charitable moments, I think, what a GUY thing to do!  A bit like:



Bruce Springsteen


Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never came back...






Paul Theroux


For years, Paul Theroux was my favourite writer. I read most of his books in my teens and early twenties, and I didn't mind that he was arrogant and grumpy. At least not until The Happy Isles of Oceania, when he was finally too grumpy even for me. Plus I was a bit offended when he referred to a bloody sanitary pad on a beach as "that disgusting thing" - I mean sure, it was disgusting that it was there on a beach, I get it - but there was something about the way he phrased it that was a bit... anti-women? It seemed?

It may well be wrong or unfair, but sometimes it feels like you read something that shows a true glimpse of the writer's feelings or character.

Here's the main thing I remember, from all my hours and hours of reading Paul Theroux. Hours and hours, and books and books, and this is what has stuck with me:

This is from My Other Life, which was a weird experiment that annoyed me a bit in itself, even while it was a great read. There is a chapter where Paul Theroux (or possibly a fictional character! He won't say which!) has invited people for dinner and is forced to cook and organise everything himself because his wife, tired from her day at work and under some kind of unnamed stress, is angry with him and refuses to help with any of it, saying repeatedly "It's your dinner."

The thing is, even young as I was when I read this, and even being a massive Paul Theroux fan, I totally got his wife's point of view in this, without any more context from Paul Theroux. In this one incident, in which he imagines he portrays himself as the injured party, he instead unwittingly outs himself as a probable bastard who routinely expected a lot from his wife with little reciprocation or notice. She was busy from work, tired and stressed out, and was angry at him for a lifetime of precisely this kind of shit. A lifetime of watching him swan off to travel and write memoirs which included boastful hints of affairs or at least flirtations, and her at home to raise the kids plus keep her own career going, and then also have to entertain his last-minute mid-week dinner guests when he was back home?

Fuck off Paul, it's your dinner!

AND WHAT'S MORE: After enduring the unreasonable and unfathomable reaction from his wife, Paul Theroux (or, okay, the fictional character), happily and competently makes the dinner. He prepares a pot of curry on the stove - taking care to describe the deft and relaxed way in which he prepares it, as counterpoint to his wife's unreasonable stress - then ducks out to the shops to buy whiskey for his guests while it cooks, because his wife wouldn't go and get it.  As he walks, he passes the local pub and "wished that I could be sitting there irresponsibly reading the evening paper over a pint of draft Guinness."

Oh. My. God. I do believe this is the part that actually irritated me the most. This whole section is meant to convey how relaxed and competent he is in the kitchen and at life, but in that one sentence he conveys his sudden pique at having to do all this himself when he really, obviously, didn't think he should have to.  What an asshole.


Cat Stevens


As a teenager I discovered my parents' Cat Stevens albums, and fell for them hard. I LOVED Cat Stevens. I taped Teaser and the Firecat and Tea for the Tillerman and listened to them for years. I loved the beautiful melody in the song Wild World but it also has always pissed me off.  As a kid I had been confused by the way men seemed to sing romantic songs to girl-children ("little girl"). It took me ages to understand that the "little girls" in songs were actually grown-up girlfriends. As I got older it just started to really annoy me. I didn't know the word "infantilising" but I knew that's what it was. It was always either really patronising or really creepy and sometimes, as in Wild World, it managed to be both.

In Wild World, the singer's character is upset that his girlfriend is leaving him, and he is begging her to reconsider. We all have contradictory feelings in anger and the song is well written: the character veers between grief, despair, concern for his girlfriend and flashes of anger ("I hope you have a lot of nice things to wear"). But it is super patronising, and gives the girlfriend no credit for having any intelligence at all. It refuses to believe she has any good reason for leaving him. I mean I know it's just a "story", in character, and it's about feelings, but it just always really irked me. It is absolute proof that the girlfriend was making the right decision. You run far, girl, and don't look back!


You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do
And it's breakin' my heart in two
Because I never wanna see you sad, girl
Don't be a bad girl
But if you wanna leave, take good care
I hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware

 Yeah.... see ya!



And finally...


Jim Carrey


While I was looking for an image I could use for this post using search terms "angry woman" I came across this Jim Carrey quote/meme, and it pissed me off!


StatusMind












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Aug 2, 2014

Words for Wednesday: The Good Shot

'Words for Wednesday' is a writing prompt held by Delores at Under the Porch Light.
Use some or all of the week's words, write a poem or a story or part of a story, and visit Delores' current week's prompt to let her know you've joined in.

This week the prompt words were:
marksman

stellar

blindsided

indelible

crazed

imbecile

 Here is my story:
The Good Shot

 Austin was new to shooting, but his marksmanship was improving by the day. Yesterday his performance was stellar; he had stunned his team mates with his accuracy and ruthless cunning. Approaching stealthily, he had blindsided local legend Danny Frank with a shot to the heart that felled him, wide-eyed and silent, in front of shocked on-lookers.

 The impression Austin left was indelible. He went home exhausted and triumphant, the power of the weapon and his unexpected skill making him feel slightly crazed, almost dizzy.  But there was still plenty of work to be done. Only an imbecile would relax now, when there was so little time to practice and improve. The Grand National Paint-Ball Championship was less than a week away.

* * * 

 So silly - but this was fun anyway.  Thanks for the words, Delores!
Posted by 5 comments:

May 6, 2014

Words for Wednesday: Memories of the Sea

'Words for Wednesday' is a writing prompt held by Delores at Under the Porch Light.
Use some or all of the week's words, write a poem or a story or part of a story, and visit Delores' current week's prompt to let her know you've joined in.

 Last week's words were:
crunch

foam

blister

riptide

fencing

blast

Memories of the Sea

In the lounge room above the wide couch was Holly's favourite painting, a beach scene. It was a wild beach, obviously windy, with pampas grass bending over on the dunes and gulls wheeling in the sky. A rolling wave crashed on some unseen rock, sending spray high into the air. Swirling foam lapped the sand.

Holly could imagine standing on that beach - the blast of salt air on cheeks, the crunch of broken shells in sand underfoot.  She imagined it so much, she had real memories of being there. Sometimes she walked with a dog, who barked at the spray and the gulls and ran in and out of the water. Sometimes she carried a stick for him. She called him back when he went in to swim, as the riptide was dangerous. Usually though, she was alone. She wore rolled up jeans and an old jumper, and her hair was long and untied. She passed through the crooked, broken palings of long-rotted fencing that marked the start of the public beach, down the small dunes past the grass and onto the rough sand. She walked, or she stood watching the sea and the gulls, arms wrapped around herself tightly. 

It was always late afternoon on that beach. It was always cool, and the sky clouded pink with the beginnings of a beautiful sunset. But Holly never saw the sunset. There was nowhere to go if it got dark while she was there, after all; that part didn't really exist. She didn't know if she was visiting (and if so, did she have a car?) or if she lived nearby and had walked. If she had walked, she had to get back home before evening. (Why?) Occasionally, she gave herself physical memories too: the itch of the pampas grass on her ankles, the sting of hair whipping her face, the beginnings of a blister in a sneakered foot.

Back in the lounge room the cries of the gulls began to fade and Holly pulled her hair into a pony tail. Her ankle was itchy and she scratched it with the toenail of her other foot. 






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Feb 2, 2014

Why do we need stories that ask why do we need scary stories?

The feature article in the 'Life and Style' section of the paper today was this:

Be afraid.... The enduring power of ghost stories.
THE HAUNTING From ancient tales of mythical creatures to the unspeakable crimes of modern cinema, the ghost story holds us in thrall.In this spectral world where sorrow dwells, why are we unable to look away?


I love scary stories and I love anthropology, cultural history and mythology, so hooray, even though I think this topic has been well and truly covered. It's actually a promotion for new Australian film The Darkside, but still, I feel like this is the fifth article I have read in the last couple of years asking "why do people like scary stories?"

Do a Google search for "why do people like scary stories" and most of these articles will come up, along with a good bunch of blogs and forums answering the same question.

I don't actually think it's that mysterious, is it?  Stephen King answered the question in On Writing, and all these articles, blogs and forum posts answer it too.

People like (or are drawn to) scary stories because:

  • they are cathartic, allowing us to feel and release pent-up tension and fear
  • they help us manage our fears of the unknown and death
  • they allow us to rehearse scary situations
  • they provide the adrenaline rush of the 'fight or flight' response which we need to keep us safe
  • this adrenaline rush, as a by-product, provides a thrill which is (kind of) pleasurable
  • or, encapsulating all of these: as Older Single Mum commenting on this post of mine so succinctly said, they "still the mind".


New Scientist, in its recent Night issue, had a great article called The night: Things that go bump... which says the paralysing terror we feel at noises in the night (and during horror stories) is our animalistic fear of predation, of being hunted and eaten.  That gives me a shiver just re-reading it (and reminds me how horribly stressful the life of many animals must be).

So that's pretty well explained, from my point of view.
Posted by 6 comments:

Dec 8, 2013

Words for Wednesday: a Christmas story

'Words for Wednesday' is a writing prompt held by Delores at Under the Porch Light.
Use some or all of the week's words, write a poem or a story or a fragment, and visit Delores' current week's prompt to let her know you've joined in.

This week's words are:
surprise
aromatic
elfin
toboggan
steep
dashing


It appears that the festive season is upon us.  So, let's begin.
* * *

Marcie opened her eyes to the distant, pleasant sounds of her parents getting breakfast in the kitchen and the aromatic scent of fruit toast.  She remembered it was only two days till Christmas and smiled to herself.  Christmas Eve Eve, she thought, the family phrase immediately bringing back memories of other Christmas Eve Eves where she had thought the same words.

Marcie padded down the steep wooden stairs to the loungeroom. She glanced only a minute at the little Elf on the Shelf her dad had set up on the mantlepiece, just long enough to confirm he hadn't moved during the night. He sat motionless against the wall, his creepy smile and unnaturally rosy cheeks bright in the morning sun. Marcie shivered and hurried round the corner to the kitchen. 

"Dad," she said. Her parents were buttering toast, clearing the dishwasher and chatting. They turned when she came in. 

"Hey! Good morning." Her dad handed her some toast. Her mum smiled over her coffee.

"Dad, the elf didn't move last night."

"Well," said Dad, "I guess he had a rest last night." His face was a little tired-looking. Marcie knew he and Mum had stayed up quite late last night, as their neighbors had visited for drinks. "But I'm sure he'll get up to some tricks again tonight!" 

"I don't want him to," said Marcie. She sat and started on some toast.  "Can you actually put him away, Dad?"

Her father raised his eyebrows. "What? But he's part of the family now! And he only gets to come out at Christmas!"

"I don't really like him," said Marcie. She'd lowered her voice a little to say this, as if to make sure no one else could hear.

Her mum smiled. "I'm not crazy about him either," she said. "Gordon, let's call it a day on the elf. Maybe he can come out again next year."

Dad shrugged. "Okay," he said. " I'll pack him away today."

That day was fun. Mum took Marcie out for some last-minute shopping, and the shops were all beautiful and sparkly with Christmas. People were rushed but seemed happy and there was festivity and goodwill in the air. Marcie and her mum stopped at a cafe and had hot chocolate. The cafe looked out on a park with grassy slopes at one end. Some kids had made a toboggan out of a big piece of cardboard and were sliding down the slopes squealing and yelling with glee.

When Marcie and Mum got home, the elf was gone. Mum checked the hall cupboard, opened a red box, and said "Yep, there he is." She put the box back on the top shelf, closed the door and smiled at Marcie. "All gone!" she said. 

Marcie felt immediate relief.

That night she helped Mum wrap the last presents they'd bought and put them under the tree. Dad made her laugh by pretending to jump up on the mantelpiece to take the place of the elf. She was allowed to stay up a bit late, and they all watched The Polar Express on TV. 

When Marcie went to bed she felt warm and relaxed, and it wasn't long before she was asleep.

She heard the sounds sometime late in the night. 

At first she didn't know what had woken her, and then she heard it. It was a slow tapping sound, like something on wood. Tap...tap...tap. Marcie lay very still and told herself she was dreaming, or that she had imagined it. Tap...tap...tap.  Her heart thumping, Marcie listened again. It was a branch outside, she thought, or ...what did Mum say about strange noises? It was the house settling.   

Tap...tap...tap.  Like something on wood. Something.... on the wooden stairs.  Tap...tap...tap.  It was louder, she was sure it was. It was closer.  Marcie drew the blankets up to her chin and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Go away, she thought, go away, go away, go away....

After awhile she opened her eyes. The sound had stopped. She waited. There was nothing.  Still scared but exhausted from her fear, Marcie at last fell back asleep.


In the morning Marcie's room was golden with sunshine. Marcie woke up and for a moment she had no memory of the sounds during the night. She opened her eyes and looked out the window. The garden was bright and cheery, with birds tweeting and the sun shining on everything. She could hear a lawn mower next door and her parents moving around downstairs in the kitchen.

 She remembered the sounds from the middle of the night. The fear seeped back into her; the sunny morning did not dispel it.  Marcie sat up slowly. Her bed faced the bedroom door. Outside was the landing that gave onto the wooden staircase that led down to the loungeroom.

 Marcie got a horrible shock but it was not really a surprise. Sitting on the floor just inside her doorway was the elf. Its head with the cherry-red cheeks and knowing smile was turned slightly to face her, and its bright blue eyes were staring straight at her.


* * *

Merry Christmas!
Photo: InspiredinDesMoines/Flickr



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Nov 11, 2013

Invisible Kids

My current favourite reading genre is young adult supernatural or suspense (no, not the kind involving romance with vampires).

I just finished a lovely book called 'How to be Invisible' by Tim Lott.  (The Guardian has a charming review written by a young reader here).

The protagonist is an intellectually gifted loner whose parents have recently uprooted him from his home and friends to a village and school he doesn't like, where he has no friends. Within the first chapter the author deftly sets the scene with the boy Strato, his bully tormentor at school, his fighting parents and the strangeness of his new environment. Then it goes straight into the story, which is a good one.



Via a mysterious book from a mysterious bookshop presided over by a mysterious bird which may or may not be able to talk, Strato becomes the owner of a book that enables him to become invisible. He uses this (temporary) power to learn the truth about his bully, his parents and life as a grown-up, and he becomes stronger and makes some friends along the way.

There's an interesting scene in the book where Strato's teacher Dr Obejande tells him:

"Some people are natural victims because they indulge in self-pity, and compensate for their lack of popularity by imagining that they are superior to others. You are not superior to others and you are not inferior. You are just a boy, like any other. Behave like one, and you will find that you will be respected, and, in the long run, liked - or if not liked, then at least accepted by your peers."

I'm not sure that's correct advice for every loner kid out there, but it was right for Strato in this book.

This book got me thinking about "the invisible kids" at school. When I was a kid I wasn't invisible, but I was a nerd and I was shy. I always had friends and I told by a couple of teachers I was "respected by my peers", which always surprised me because I never saw any evidence of it. I was bullied to the "usual" degree, which is to say a couple of kids made me miserable for awhile, but it wasn't on a big scale and didn't last long.

As a bit of an outsider myself, I always empathized with the "invisible" kids. At primary school I befriended a girl who was reviled and bullied by everyone, and she was grateful for awhile and then turned on me spectacularly for reasons I didn't fully understand, but I know I wasn't the best of friends to her really. In high school I remember hanging out in the library with friends one lunchtime and a girl who sat and read in there alone every day listened to us and smiled at our jokes. I turned and smiled to her often as I felt sorry for her and I wanted to be kind, but - to my shame - I didn't invite her to join us. I remember wanting to, but not being sure how to do it (I was shy myself - and worried I would seem very uncool if I said "do you want to join us?").

School always had at least one loner kid who seemed pretty miserable. Some loner kids were probably not miserable, but even loners need friends.

Childhood, or specifically school, is so hard. We tend to forget how hard and awful it can be.


Did you know any invisible kids at school? Were you one of them?

Posted by 7 comments:

Nov 2, 2013

I've been published by someone other than me

I've got a micro-story in Literary Juice magazine.
It's called 'Playhouse', and you can read it here

I'm a little bit excited about it!
Posted by 9 comments:

Oct 20, 2013

Words for Wednesday: A Halloween Poem

'Words for Wednesday' is a writing prompt held by Delores at Under the Porch Light.
Use some or all of the week's words, write a poem or a story or a fragment, and visit Delores' current week's prompt to let her know you've joined in.

This week I used Delores' second prompt:

She couldn't think.  Her mind was full of pumpkin mush.

Here is my story:
Halloween came darkly, and the moon was very big 
Anna donned her costume, and tucked her hair into her wig.

 The cries of children - 'Trick or Treat!' - floated through the night
Excited voices, running steps, squeals of sweet delight.

 Anna stood inside her door, wishing she was there
But Anna had no little friends; those children didn't care.

 Her mother let her dress up, and stand beside the door
To hand out treats to other kids, while wanting so much more.

 To walk the streets with just one friend - that's all she wanted: one!
To share some secrets, laugh at jokes, and have some childhood fun.

 The kids at school were not her friends; they barely spoke her name
And when they did they frowned or laughed - and Anna burned with shame.

 They all thought she was quiet and odd, and so she was, she guessed
She spent most of her time alone, apart from all the rest.

 Anna peeped outside the window set beside the door
The moon gleamed large and silvery... then seemed to glow some more.

 Anna frowned and closed her eyes, then opened them again
The moon was even brighter, and it pulsed a little then.

 There came a whoosh, like a sigh, that rippled on the breeze - 
'A wishhh' it whispered gently, as it rustled through the trees.

 Anna squeezed her eyes shut tight; a tear fell down her cheek
'A friend,' she whispered softly, her wish fervent, her voice meek.

 The moon glowed even brighter. Then it shrank to normal size
Anna blinked away her tears, and slowly wiped her eyes.

 The doorbell rang. 

 She opened up; it was some kids from school.
'Trick or treat!' they yelled with glee, and took candy from her bowl.

 She closed the door. But when she did, the doorbell rang again
And this time when she opened up, there was just one child there.

 The boy seemed roughly Anna's age, but they had never met
He smiled and held out his hand. He hadn't spoken yet.

 He seemed a different kind of boy; he had a solemn gaze
And somehow he was bathed all in a gentle, milky haze.

 'You need a friend,' he said to her. 'And these days, I do too.
I'm far from my old home and friends. They can't see me like you do.'

 He took her hand and squeezed it. 'You are kind,' he said
'I think that that is all I need, to call you my good friend.'

 Although it should have made her blush, she found she couldn't think
Her mind was full of pumpkin mush; all she could do was blink.

 Anna's mother called to her. 'Close the door!' she barked
'What are you doing standing there, staring at the dark!'

 Anna didn't feel afraid. The boy was by her side.
She closed the door and smiled, as she led him safe inside.




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