The Illustrated Molly
September 20, 2008 at 0:42 am (Art, Short Stories, Writing) (Art, Molly, portrait, Short Stories, thank you, worth1000)
Molly - if she were sweet and innocent as imagined by the tremendously talented ImagiCreatrix
I got drawn! I’m so excited *blush* Over on Worth1000 they just had a “Draw a Worthian” competition, where any of the illustrators/artists could choose a member of the of the community and, of course, draw them. So when the competition opened I moseyed on over to see who had been chosen and I couldn’t believe it when I saw myself amongst the ranks! Not wearing my ubiquitous daggy old black jumper and leather jacket, but in an adorable period costume but still with one of my trademark pendants. The fantabulously talented Ms. ImagiCreatrix has done a wonderful job and so many thank-yous go out to her for choosing me – I really feel like part of Worth now and not just some kid in the arse-end of the world, writing stories nobody gets.
And speaking of stories nobody gets . . . I mean, things over at Worth, I’ve had two more stories finished for voting this week, both in Head-to-Head competitions. The first featured in a really fun contest where the brief was to write a story revolving around this image by omegamista40bc. I found this a really great exercise and it was such a nice change to write something innocent and child-like for a change even though that’s not my usual schtick.
The second was to centre around a letter or email that was important to the characters. Admittedly mine was a four-am-doozy, written in the only time I had spare so it’s not great, but I don’t think it’s so bad either.
But I should probably think about going to bed . . . I’ve got my end-of-term concert on tomorrow at Underbelly and I really need my sleep. To be honest with you, I’m shitting myself over the Bollywood dance we’re doing as I really don’t feel as confident as I do with belly dancing, but ehn, it’ll be fun. At least that’s what I’m telling myself 
Good Things Happening Today . . .
September 6, 2008 at 17:57 pm (Acting and Theatre, Personal, Plays, Short Stories, Writing) (audition, competition, short and sweet, Short Stories, theatre, worth1000, Writing)
I had two nice surprises today, both of which caused me to do a little hoppy-dance of joy around the small space of carpet in my room.
Firstly, I got an audition for Short and Sweet. Doesn’t mean I’ll get a part, but just getting a foot in the door is exciting for me; besides, I need to go for more auditions just for the practice. I figure I’ll do the same monologue again (one of Jo’s speeches from Low Level Panic by Clare McIntyre), I just hope it’s not one every pudgy girl of my age group chooses. Two minutes just seems so short to show off, doesn’t it?
And then, only about an hour after I got the email about the audition, I won my first Head-to-Head on Worth! These are mini-competitions where 2 to 8 players go against each other in a competition of their choosing. This was a bit of a twist on the “In-a, With-a, While-a” with one person picking the genre, the next person picked the time period, the next the animal protagonist, and the last player chose the hit-list of banned things to write about. So we had a tragedy, set in the Age of Enlightenment, featuring a peacock protagonist, but everything had to be indoors, characters could only shout, and there could be no mention of feathers.
These were tough constraints, and ones that were a stretch for me. For most of the voting period I was coming second – no surprise, I didn’t think this was my finest work especially since I tried to match the writing style with that of the era (and hoped that no one picked I was bullshitting my way into knowing anything authoritative). This morning I woke up and low and behold – I was coming first, and by the time voting finished I had ended up with my first score over 8! Hoppy-dance time!
You can read my story for yourselves here: My Lady’s Peahen
(Also, I’ve finished posting my Thirty Days of Text entries – I failed to make the full thirty days, but I still found it a valuable exercise. There’s a whole range of different genres and styles, so take a look here.)
Thirty Days of Text – Forgo
September 3, 2008 at 23:35 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (body image, brats, forgo, obesity, reality TV, Short Stories, social trends, teenagers, Thirty Days of Text, worth1000, Writing)
Eleven in the morning, Tuesday, suburban mall. Every franchise, every clothing outlet, every brand you could want, all in the one hypercomplex punctuated by posters and electronic billboards featuring flawless models extolling a glamourous, luxurious lifestyle ignorant of the irony. In the food court, at the tables radiating out from the McDonalds counter sat glum-faced elderly couples and harried Mums with young children. In the centre sat three teenagers, lounging on faded and scratched chairs in the shape of Mayor McCheese. Their ear-splitting conversation stopped dead as a fourth girl approached them, still in some semblance of a school uniform.
“Oh my God, Shanay! I got your text this morning, what’s wrong?” squealed one of the girls, a blonde with heavy eye-make up and baby pink lipgloss.
“You are not going to believe this,” Shanay cried as she slumped herself down on a hamburger-shaped stool, her ample frame spilling over the sides. “My Mum is sending me to fuckin’ Fat Camp!”
“No way! You are fully hot, you don’t need to go Fat Camp. Your mum’s a total Nazi!” said another one of her friends as they all cooed and consoled her at a volume above OH&S standards.
“I’m so pissed off. Like, who does she think she is? And, like, I have no choice, I have to go. It’s like fully legal and everything.”
“But, like, how can she do that? Is it like boot camp or something? ’cause I hear Cameron Diaz does that and look how hot she is . . .”
“Nah, Cameron Diaz is like old!” retorted the blonde. “She’s like a fuckin’ has-been now. So, yeah, don’t do boot camp. It sucks.”
“Yeah, nah, it’s not like boot camp. It’s fuckin’ worse. It’s like, I’ve got to go away for weeks and they have all this fuckin’ dietary stuff and trainers and they weigh you and all this stuff. And I’m like, fuck that, can’t I just get liposuction or something if you want me thin? but Mum’s already signed me up. She’s a fuckin’ bitch. Hate her.”
“But you’re not, you know, that fat . . .” cooed a brunette, her hair meticulously piled into a haphazard, teased ponytail.
“Fuckin’ thanks, Beck!” spat Shanay.
“Yeah, but you know what I mean. You’re not, like, obese.”
“Mum says I am. Like, she even weighed me and everything and I’m like 108kgs. And Mum’s like freaking out saying I’m gunna die young and get diabetes and childhood obesity and stuff and I’m like, fuckin’ thanks Mum . . .”
“Your Mum’s a bitch,” said the blonde, “and you’re, like, heaps tall so it’s not that bad. You, like, even out. In proportion.”
“But that’s not the point, Mum thinks I’m fat so she signed me up. They start filming in two weeks time . . .”
The word “filming” brought the rest of the group into a paroxysms of excitement. “Oh my fuckin’ god, you’re going to be on TV! You’re gunna be, like, fully famous!”
“Um, hello . . . I’m gunna be on TV as the fat kid, you know, on Fat Camp. That’s like, you know, totally embarrassing!”
“Yeah, but by the end they’ll make you fully hot and give you like a make-over and stuff and they always have, like, you know, really hot fitness trainers and stuff . . .”
“But that’s not the point! Like, for weeks, I have to give up pizza and chocolate and pies and Maccas and coffee and stuff. It’s gunna be hell and so embarrassing. Like, I fully don’t want to do it . . .”
“You should, like, sneak lollies and stuff in, so when everyone’s losing weight you gain weight, just to stick it up ‘em,” stated the blonde, but Shanay shot her a “not amused” stare in response. “C’mon, I’m just saying, you know, beat ‘em at their own game!”
“Or, like, have liposuction and a face-lift and stuff before then so when they start filming you’ll be totally hot and way skinnier than all the others and they’ll have to send you away,” suggested the brunette, Beck.
“Nah, like anyone’s going to give a thirteen year old lipo! But, yeah, I gotta do it. Like, Mum gets a stack of money for making me go and we, like, need it. But, you know, she says that’s not why she’s making me do this, she’s like, “oh, it’s going to add years to your life, and you’ll be so much happier and healthier and blah blah blah” but, you know, I reckon she just wants the money and get her own face on TV ’cause she lost so much weight going to the gym and stuff she just wants to show off. She says she cares but, you know, I just don’t believe her . . . God, do you guys have any smokes? I’m dying for a ciggie right now . . .” The girls got up on cue, grabbing their bags and fixing their hair, make up and clothing. “Lemme just get a smoothie first . . .”
Thirty Days of Text – Mayday
September 3, 2008 at 23:32 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (accident, emergency, four-wheel driving, mayday, outback, Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, worth1000, Writing)
“Mayday! Mayday! For the love of God, somebody, please!” Wayne screamed into the receiver but all he got in response was a crackle and a spluttering of static. Tears and sweat trickled down his face, making streams through the creases on his face, marking paths through the dirt and the dried blood. Slumping down in the hot, red dust, he looked over at his wife. Her breathing was shallow now, almost little gasps and she fluttered dangerously across the border of consciousness. Still crying, Wayne flicked to the next channel on the CB radio and tried calling for help again . . .
Two hours ago, they were driving across the rocky hills on their way home, following bush tracks they knew well over their thirty years of fossicking in the area. This trip they hadn’t found so much as a gypsum rose, but being together in the heat and the dirt and the scrub, sharing each other’s company, a bottle of wine and a sleeping bag in the evening always brought them closer. They’d been almost desperate to get away this week: they had planned to go last month but heavy storms and flooding in the region trapped them in the suburbs.
Driving home, they decided to take some tracks they hadn’t been down for a while. Their trusty old Landcruiser took the steep inclines and the jutting rocks well as Helen drove and Wayne read the maps. As they drove over the crest of a steep ridge, Helen eased the vehicle over the edge but neither of them could have predicted the loose rock just over the ridge. Helen tried to keep in control but the Landcruiser slipped and lunged abruptly to the right, tipping and rolling down the sharp incline. Helen and Wayne held tightly to the hand grips, their shoulders around their ears trying to protect their heads from the equipment flying through the car as they tumbled violently down the hillside. Wayne closed his eyes, hoping the old four-wheel drive was strong enough to protect them but as they came to a thumping halt sideways, Helen’s screams had turned from fright to agony. If it wasn’t for his seatbelt, he would have fallen on top of her: pausing in shock for a second that felt like an hour, Wayne pushed his door upwards and ignoring the pain in his chest and his knees, he clambered up out of the vehicle. Helen was trapped, and blood was pooling around her right ear from where her window had smashed and her head hit the rocks below.
Getting her out wasn’t easy. Carefully he smashed the windscreen, brushing the glass away and lying their sleeping bag over the edge to protect them from the shards; inside he cut her seatbelt away, and he managed to manoeuvre her out while she still had strength left. Propping her against the sideways bonnet of the Landcruiser, Wayne went back inside for the first aide kit and the mobile phone.
The kit was direly neglected, and the best he could do was bandage her head where the gash seeped deep red under her greying hair. The mobile was dented but working, although with no signal and only one bar left of battery life. Dialling 112, the phone rang once before bleeping in his ear and dying. Taking a deep breath in and reassuring Helen despite his fears, he climbed back in.
The UHF was dead, but he knew he had a little handheld CB somewhere. Rummaging around the driver’s seat, little shards of windscreen glass and Helen’s blood embedding themselves in his t-shirt, he came across the chunky little radio. Switching it on, it crackled to life.
“It’s going to be ok, love,” he called as Helen sat whimpering against the bonnet, “help’s coming soon, I promise . . .”
Thirty Days of Text – Vacuity
September 3, 2008 at 23:31 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (astronauts, creepy, sci-fi, Short Stories, space station, Thirty Days of Text, vacuity, worth1000, Writing)
From the moment he woke up, Maj. Hassan-Smith knew something was wrong. His oxygen levels seemed normal and he hadn’t heard any alarms throughout his sleep, but there was a disturbing sense of absence that chewed on his nerves. Releasing himself from his sleeping harness and floating to the ceiling of the sleeping chamber, he bounced himself lightly with the fingers of his left hand, trying to work out what was bothering him. Col. Davinson’s sleeping harness was empty, but that wasn’t unusual: by this time in their schedule, he would be checking the instruments and recording the latest string of data in their now-defunct 24-hour cycle.
Swimming through the air, Hassan-Smith made his way to the intercom on the sleeping chamber wall. If something was wrong, Davinson would know about it. Hassan-Smith paged once, waited, paged twice, but there was no response. Something was wrong. Pushing his way through the chambers of the craft, he made his way through to the equipment room; the view through the porthole showing the black vastness of space, lit with the crystal glistening of stars and the red orb of Mars.
The equipment room showed nothing wrong: atmospheric levels, cabin pressure, food and water levels, waste disposal, everything was in order. From what he could see on the displays in front of him, there had been no breech to the hull and no opening of any of the hatches – wherever Davinson was, he had to be within the ship.
Hassan-Smith searched every chamber and corridor of the spacecraft; in his rational mind he believed it logical that Davinson had perhaps collapsed somewhere, victim to a previously unforeseen medical condition. But a greater sense of unease occupied him, and the longer he looked without finding Davinson, the more unsettled he became and the more convinced he was that he was entirely alone.
Making his way back to the equipment room, Hassan-Smith loaded the monitor screen for Davinson. Lines snaked across the screen, showing his heart beat, blood pressure and analysis, respiratory rate, level of brain activity. Wherever Davinson was, he was still alive and conscious. Swimming over to the communications centre, Hassan-Smith grabbed the microphone:
“Control, can you read me? Over.”
Static filled the line as he waited with a racing pulse for the response; his heart sinking, he counted off the seconds before relief finally came: “This is Control, go ahead Hassan-Smith. Over.”
“Control, I’ve got a problem. Col. Davinson is missing. Did anything happen in the past seven hours while I was asleep? Over.”
“Nothing unusual to report.” There was another pause before the static broke again. “What do you mean Davinson’s missing? Over.”
“He’s not here. I’ve searched the craft but I cannot find him. How are his readouts? Over.”
“All normal at this end. He can’t be missing, there’s no anomaly in our data and everything is fine. He’s got to be there. Over”
“What location do you currently have him in? Over.”
“He’s in the equipment room with you. Over.” Despite the white-sterile coldness in the craft, Hassan-Smith could feel the sweat dripping within his suit.
“Copy that. Can you see him on the cameras? Over.” A high pitched whine pierced through the static as the cameras mounted in the room swivelled to catch every aspect, giving the Control Room back on Earth a full view.
Hassan-Smith could barely breathe as he waited for the voice to reply through the white noise on the speakers; he knew there could be only two answers to his question, and he dreaded the implication hidden in both.
Thirty Days of Text – Section
September 3, 2008 at 23:16 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (disease, loss, pandemic, parasite, section, Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, worth1000, Writing)
“And if you look at this section here, we can see further evidence of the as yet unnamed parasite. These deep channels through the left atrium appear to be where it entered the heart . . .”
It’s three in the afternoon. In the conference room a PowerPoint slide shows detailed histology results, CT scans and photographs as various specialists ponder, heavy-browed, on the implications of what they have just been told . . .
Rewind three hours . . . the pathologist steps out of the infections room of the city morgue as the body of a twenty-three year old woman is wheeled back to the freezer, completely sealed two body bags and a contamination container. Ashen-faced, he steps out of his biohazard suit and turns to the decontamination centre set up in the homicide room . . .
Rewind four hours . . . a family waits, bleary-eyed and sleep deprived, behind the glass wall as their daughter, their granddaughter, their sister and their niece, dies quietly alone, quarantined in the contagious diseases ward. Unable to hold her hand as she passes, they hold each other as her vital signs fail and she slips away . . .
Rewind five hours . . . a girl knocks on her flatmate’s bedroom door, her arms clinging tightly around body as she struggles to remain conscious. The pain is so bad she has already vomited on the carpet and despite feeling cold she is sweating all over. She knocks again ad her flatmate comes to the door, half-awake, wanting to know what’s wrong. “Take me to the hospital, please . . .”
Rewind six hours . . . a girl arrives home from a Saturday spent at the beach. With her boyfriend she went swimming and paddled in the rock pools; they snoozed and snuggled on beach towels in the hot sun; they ate ice cream and went home where they made love before walking down the street to get fish and chips. She arrived home and greeted her flatmate, watched television with her for half an hour before going to bed, uncharacteristically exhausted . . .
Thirty Days of Text – Flasks
September 3, 2008 at 22:57 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (flasks, Short Stories, strange, Thirty Days of Text, twisted, worth1000, Writing)
The first time old Mary knew she had a problem was when she noticed the squelching in her slippers. Every time she put her foot down the warm, woolly insides became damper and damper until the liquid started to show at the seams. Then the fabric around her bra straps and the elastic of her underwear bled wet patches over her fleshy frame. Every time she handled an object her hands became damp and she would leave dewy marks where her fingers had just been.
She knew something was very wrong.
Soon, her body was leaking at every pressure point, a thin, watery red stream of blood and bodily fluids seeping from her as if her essence was draining away. Mary removed her dripping slippers and her undergarments, but her light summer dress was causing her to leak where it rested on her shoulder. She removed that too.
Mary didn’t want to call her son: she already suspected he thought she was going senile and didn’t trust him to take her seriously. But then, she didn’t feel like she could call for an ambulance either – who would believe that her life was dripping away through her skin? Besides, she had lived eighty-two years through good times and bad – very bad – and she was not going to let life seep away from her now without a fight. At least, not like this. Her body was against her, but she still had her wits and her will. Naked and defiant, her blue veins showing through her translucent-white skin that hung in folds around her once-lean body, she came up with a plan and went to the kitchen for the necessary supplies . . .
************
When the police found her, Mary’s body lay desiccated and naked on the bathroom floor. All around her stood flasks, ice cream containers and buckets filled with red-tinged, now rancid, watery fluid: Mary had tried to collect her leaking self, desperately trying collect every drop as her essence started to pour away. If she was going to die, Mary thought to herself as she stood in the buckets and pressed the mouth of a thermos to her palm, she was not going to let any part of her get away.
Thirty Days of Text – Sparking
September 3, 2008 at 22:52 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (amateur scientist, humour, husband and wife, Short Stories, sparking, Thirty Days of Text, worth1000, Writing)
Jacob’s ladders zapped and giant bulbs flickered light throughout the basement. Dr. Gianni giggled in glee as the threw down the switch: on the work table in the centre of the room, a bipedal figure jolted and slowly started to move . . .
“Yes! Yes! My creation – it lives!” shouted Dr. Gianni before his cackles turned to cries of frustration as the creature on the table started to spit and spark, a small tongue of flame inching its way down the electrical cord before fizzing at the socket. The power cut out and he was plunged into darkness. “Igor! IGOR!! Come here this instance!”
“Lance! I’ve told you, never call me Igor again!” snapped a woman’s voice in the darkness as footsteps descended the stairs.
“Sorry, Wendy,” muttered Dr. Gianni. “The power’s gone out again.”
“I can see that, dear,” Wendy retorted, lighting a candle on her way down. “So what did you do this time, you old fool?”
“I was in the process of reanimating the flesh of reptilian beasts long since past, and my creation shuddered to life! It shuddered and for the briefest second it lived, Igor! It lived! But alas, tonight it was not meant to be . . .”
“Cut the dramatics, Lance, and don’t call me Igor!” Wendy waved the candle around the basement until she came across a box. “‘Introduction to Animatronics: DIY Tyrannosaurus kit’. Lance! Where did you get this? Oh God, don’t tell me eBay. You better not tell me you got it from eBay . . . “
“eBay,” Dr. Gianni confirmed, before expertly ducking his wife’s backhand while the candle hissed and rocked in her other hand.
“You idiot!” she read the side of the box. “‘Product of Bhutan’? What the hell . . . ? Do they even have electricity in Bhutan? Or factories? Someone’s ripped you off right-royally! Did you even check the specs on this thing? No wonder you’ve shorted the power again!”
“But I bought the adapter they recommended!”
“And fat lot of good it did you! You’re just lining some con-artist’s pockets, you great dolt! Get upstairs this instance and change that fuse or we’ll have to go without supper. I’ll be damned if I’m cooking in the dark!”
“Yes, Igor,” muttered Dr. Gianni as he stomped up the stairs.
“LANCE!”
Thirty Days of Text – Retire
September 3, 2008 at 22:40 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (country town, disability, footballer, retire, romance, Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, worth1000, Writing)
Matt didn’t want to retire, but he had no choice. The car accident saw to that. Then the police investigation . . . it wasn’t like he was over the legal limit, but the club didn’t care about that. The papers had a field day: Rising Football Star Paralysed in Drunk-Driving Accident. That wasn’t fair. They took it all out of context. He wasn’t drunk at all, just a bit tired ’cause he hadn’t slept for days and the speed was starting to wear off . . .
But now, Matt’s life was over, as far as he was concerned. He’d gone from a teenage hero to disgraced-ex-footballer cripple in one career-killing flash; but it hadn’t been about the football for some time. He was enjoying the perks way too much when he hit that tree. And he’d only just turned 20 that week. But the worst part? He couldn’t look his Mum in the eye anymore. The woman who raised him, washed his socks and jocks after training in on the school’s dry, dusty oval, who took time off from work to drive him over to Mildura or Horsham or Adelaide or Melbourne for workshops and football camps . . . he was meant to make her so proud and now she was back to washing him and dressing him like a baby again.
Matt wheeled himself down the newly-built ramp at his Mum’s house and down to the park by the creek; he couldn’t stand the atmosphere in the house anymore. It was still early, and the air was slightly moist with the dawn’s dew but with the veiled threat of more heat in the afternoon. But it was spring and there were still patches of green around. Matt wished he could take his shoes off and feel the wet grass around his toes once more but he wheeled on, ignoring the stares and comments as the town’s discredited golden boy passed through the main street.
Wheeling down to the artificial lake, Matt stopped and let his mind go blank, trying not to think of anything but failing. If only he could get a run up down that little incline and let himself run straight into the lake . . . it was deep enough . . . Looking over his shoulder to find a good spot to start his fatal last run, he spotted a girl, about his own age, sitting atop the picnic tables, reading a book. He didn’t recognise her, but he noticed she didn’t recognise him either. As he maneuvered himself around to her, she looked up and he noticed she really didn’t know him at all.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Matt asked, and the girl put her book down. She was short but slender, sort of plain and daggy, but in a sort of elegant city-daggy way, like what he imagined a librarian to look like. But to her, he was a nobody and she was just what he needed right then.
“Yeah, alright,” she put her book down and swivelled to face him.
“You’re not from ’round here, right? Like, I don’t recognise you,” he said, wondering why all of a sudden he felt so embarrassed.
But instead of being offended she laughed, “why, is that a problem?”
“Hell no! Just don’t see new faces ’round, you know.”
“I’m just visiting with my family. My uncle lives here and he hasn’t been so well so we came up to see him. We leave on Sunday.”
“Oh, is that Gerry? Your uncle? Yeah, he’s been bad a while,” Matt suddenly realised what he was saying. “Oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t mean it that way . . .”
She laughed again. “No, it’s ok. Like, Uncle Gerry’s my Dad’s step-brother and they barely sort of know each other but you know how it is with family things.”
“Yeah, know what ya mean . . . So, what’chya reading?”
“Just an art book for uni,” she turned the cover to show him but it all meant nothing. “Got to write an essay for when I get back.” She rolled her eyes like essay writing was a chore.
“Cool, is it hard work?” he asked, but she only giggled again.
“Sometimes, but I’m only second year!”
“Oh. Right. Sorry, I just dunno ’cause I never had to write an essay or whatever ’cause I never finished school . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, her face falling quickly. “Was that ’cause of your . . . “
“My accident?” He shook his head. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Should I?”
“You never heard of Matt Gerning?”
“Um, no? Sorry . . .”
“Where are you from?”
“Melbourne.”
“Melbourne?! And you never watch the news or read the papers or go to the footy or anything?”
“Sorry, it’s not really my thing!” she spluttered, and Matt realised he was probably being a bit aggressive.
He laughed to try to calm her down, “Nah, it’s cool, it’s cool . . . I’m kinda glad, really.”
They both fell into an awkward silence, neither knowing what to say next. Matt wheeled himself back and forth in a tiny swaying motion. “So . . . are you an artist, then?”
“Me? No, I just study it. I’m doing a double major in history and art history.”
“So, like, where does that lead you?”
“I’m hoping to get into a gallery, become a curator or something. It’s a bit of a pipe dream but what else can you do but try, really?”
“Nah, I reckon you should fully go for it. Like, I don’t know nothing ’bout art but if that’s what you want to do then you should fully do it. I’ve never been to a gallery or nothin’ but you’ve never been to the footy so it doesn’t matter. You just gotta be true to your path, know what I’m sayin’?”
She cocked her head, and he could feel her eyes examining him, every inch of him. “You know, you don’t have to know anything about art to like art. You get wankers who try to tell you something is great, but if you look at a picture, or a painting, or a photo or street art or whatever, and something inside you just goes ‘click!’, then that’s what art’s all about. You could have the intelligence of a peanut or be the smartest guy in the world, but unless you feel that click then it’s not really worth it no matter what people say. You could look at the Mona Lisa or whatever and feel nothing or you could look at some really twisted portrait some 16 year old’s sprayed onto the side of a factory and be totally moved.” She sighed and paused. “Sorry, I’m just crapping on about art here, boring you to death. I get like that . . .”
“Nah, it’s cool. I get what you mean, though. It’s like sometimes everything that’s going on kinda . . . I dunno . . . comes together and you feel it. Like everything in your life is going right and you feel like you’re doing the right thing. But then you lose that feeling and everything turns to shit . . . It’s like what you were saying with art – if you don’t feel that but you pretend you do, then you’re damaging yourself and others, if that makes sense.”
She smiled, and Matt felt his chest tighten a little. “Yeah, that’s totally it!” she said, before being cut off by the tinny, techno bleating of Matt’s moble.
“Yeah, hi Mum. Nah, I’m in the park. Oh, alright. Nah, it’s cool, I can get back on my own. Yeah, no worries, see ya Mum,” he flipped the phone closed and sighed. “Hey, look, I really liked talkin’ to ya, sounds funny but you’ve really cheered me up ’cause I was feelin’ pretty shitty before. Wanna catch up before you head back to Melbourne?” To his surprise, she blushed but agreed. He flipped his phone open again, “Hey, what’s your number and I’ll give you a call . . .”
Thirty Days of Text – Economists
September 3, 2008 at 22:30 pm (Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, Writing) (actors, economists, housemates, laundromat, Short Stories, Thirty Days of Text, worth1000, Writing)
““The pressure will be on the downside” for the Australian and New Zealand dollars, said Brian Redican, senior market economist at Macquarie Group in Sydney. “Commodity prices have pulled down from their peaks and also their central banks are now cutting interest rates.”” I read, my Irish accent slipping into something more South African for some reason towards the end. Lou giggled, but a soldiered on through the rest of the article, doing my best to sound like a true Belfast native despite my occasional detours through Capetown.
This was a ritual of ours: washing day, laundromat late night Tuesdays with the papers and magazines spread on the old green laminate tables. We pile our washing up in the machines, turn all the lights off and pull the chairs towards the windows, catching the street lights and the citrus shades of the traffic lights and read the papers in as many different accents, styles and emotions we could muster over the rhythmic chugging of the outdated washers and temperamental dryers.
I can’t remember why we turn the lights off, but it never works when they’re on. For some reason neither of us can get in the mood and our accents and feelings sound dull and forced. So the lights stay off and we stay in character. And the papers are always the best – the more dry the article, the better we read. We never bring our lines to the laundromat. If either of us are working on a script, it stays at home. Laundromat time is fun time (a slogan that now adorns the banner above the bathroom door).
And it works. Last week I got my first voice-over gig since I graduated. It’s just for a radio ad but I’m so excited. And Lou, my housemate, he’s had a call-back for a rather prestigious theatre company, which is huge news for him as he’s been trying to get his foot in the door for so long. That’s why tonight, we cracked into the cheap champaign rather than the beer, and we let our hair down by reading the business section like it was 1999 while our socks and knickers tumbled round and round behind us in the dark.
———————————
* Initial quote taken from The Age website, article “Aussie dollar falls on rae cut expectations” (’cause it was the first one I found with the word Economist in it – do you know how many finance articles don’t feature that word?!)
