Fight the Night

Why do women bellow

Why do women fight

Is it men who are our enemy?

Must we battle them with might?

A world at war within itself

Rips itself apart

Are we really enemies?

Or is it something else, quite dark.

The darkness takes us over

Woman caves, Man succumbs

Shadows race to shroud us –

Reach out for the light!

fellow women, be sisters,

fellow men, our brothers.

Let’s Fight against the Night.

WILDERSOUL TINY LOGO gray-white 300dpi

Cold Stone Statue

The door closed. His face, sallow, crumpled, reflected the painful years of resignation shrouding the limp, haphazard room. The large pedestal towered over his dingy, sparse furniture, and his pale eyes were drawn once more to the cold stone figure staring imperiously from its regal position.

“Don’t stare at me,” he whispered vehemently, hissing under his breath, like a disturbed snake.

The perfectly carved eyes of the granite statue continued to stare, vacantly, dispassionately. He imagined a curl of the upper lip into a twist of disdain. He hated her. He wished he had never set eyes on her. The fire of his passion was now white hot, cutting like a gas axe through his former forgotten caresses.

“You sit there and do nothing!” he hissed, and his wasting body deflated further into his chair with the effort of forming intense emotion into words. She gazed over his head by a centimetre. Her rigidly flowing coverlet pulled protectively over the curve… He pulled his eyes away, shutting them tightly as his passion converted suddenly to the day he first caught a glimpse of her, stalwartly facing into a gusty summer breeze, her rough-cut hair tightly braided to keep it from whipping in her face.

“Curse you,” he muttered, his gaze now falling, unfocused, to his own emaciated legs, draped limply with crocheted granny squares of mismatched gay colours. His hands closed and opened, and he felt for a moment, the perfect curve of a carving tool curled into his palm, felt the vibrations of the hefty wooden mallet pounding… His reverie was interrupted as the door banged abruptly open against the wall, shaking the peeling faux-gold ornate picture frames on the opposite side of the room.

“This it?” grunted the heavy-set, bristly bearded man, his piercing eyes bored first into the vacant expression of the wrinkled man huddled in the old-fashioned wheelchair tucked into the far corner of the room, then held the lifeless statue in an acute gaze, measuring her sculpted form precisely, as he pushed the solidly fixed wooden crate toward her on perfectly oiled hydraulic wheels.

I wrote this piece especially for OM, as part of a series prepared for guest blogging at HarsH ReaLiTy in early 2014. Although the guest blogging is not going ahead, at this stage, it provided much needed motivation for me to start writing creatively. This is probably the first serious bit of fiction I have written for over twenty years. It unfolded as I typed, as if it had a mind of its own. I could clearly see the room, the characters, and feel their emotions.

Christmas gifts, who needs ’em?

Free gifts are the best gifts of all. It is not what the media wants you to think. The brightest, biggest, newest, cheapest, or most expensive and trendiest “things” are loudly advertised in a Christmas frenzy to empty pockets.

Meanwhile empty pockets remain empty, stitched on to a shirt which is stripped from a shivering back in a snow-sprinkled park. The frenzy picks up as flashy displays of wealth are well, literally flashing on and off all over town. Pretty lights. Cold.

Free gifts are the ones where someone with more gives to someone who does not have enough. It is not a loan, and no interest is charged. It is a gift given freely. Not an exchange. Christmas is not about free gifts. It is about an exchange of gifts between people who have enough.

Christmas is not about giving to the poor. If it were, then you would see everyone giving to the poor, and there would be no-one exchanging gifts, whether exorbitantly expensive, or cheap plastic rubbish to add to planetary pollution.

Free gifts are the best gifts. Who needs more?

Inspiring Education?

Violence, Sex, Drugs, Obscenities, all those things that fill movie theatres and overflow box office coffers, are they harming our children in real life, in schools?

Strangely, it was not the major consideration when I chose to homeschool my children. I believe children learn best when secure in a loving home environment, with a strong family bond. Schools, in response to much research, try to replicate this bond, calling it a sense of belonging, and include it in their curriculum. The best teachers create this family bond with their students. As a child, did you ever accidentally call your teacher “Mum?” I did once, and blushed.

School teachers like E. R. Braithwaite, Ron Clark and Erin Gruwell inspire me. Anne Sullivan who taught within Helen Keller’s home also inspired me. They didn’t give up on kids who battle daily with circumstances beyond their control. They came up with innovative, creative ways to transcend those circumstances.

Each to their own. I have great respect for the school teacher’s ability to maintain control over a crowd of thirty-odd children. It was hard for me to do that for half an hour with a classroom full of five year olds. I am not a school teacher who sets up a classroom at home. I am a parent, who sets up a home environment to cater for the voracious appetite for learning that children are born with.

What inspires you about your children’s education?

The Cosmic Rolodex

We grow old and die, so slowly, and yet in the blink of an eye. Generations flip past on a cosmic rolodex of family names, blurring into each other, losing meaning, ripping out of the deck or quietly going insane. Now and then the spinning stops and a name stands out in full detail, there is a number to call.

We live like angels, we live like trolls. We spread life or disease, we are crawling on our knees, for prayer or despair, for water or for air. Does it matter, does anyone care?

The rolodex spins faster, it is about to blow apart. Life is birthed, shrivels, greys, passes away, replaced by the next card in the pack. Flipflipflipflip! One pair of eyes watches it, fast. Every name memorized in an instant. Details stored in perfect clarity. These eyes know you. These eyes know me.

Time stops.

Ripped pages steeped in blood are piled up on the floor, where they leaped in evil glee after torturing humanity. One pair of hands sweeps them up and tosses them into the fire. The same hands lovingly straighten the mass of crumpled names that remain on the sullied desktop, smoothing out each crease, tending to each tear.

His desk is wiped clean, his work re-arranged, and quietly does he write each name into brand new card file. Pristine, intact. A thousand years pass. It is a blink of his eye, his pen moves so fast.

You wake up. You and I.


Wild Game: Open Season on Opinions

Duck! Shoot that was close! There was a game I played when I was 19 as part of a TV/Film Acting group. We all wrote our strongest belief or opinion on a piece of paper. A line-up of chairs faced a single chair under the spotlight. I gave my piece of paper to the group and walked to the single chair not knowing what to expect. I felt like a sitting duck! My job was to shoot down my own strongest belief. The rest of the group argued loudly in support of my genuine belief! It was Open Season to shoot down my negative view.

Have a go by writing your strongest opinion into a comment. Then press the Reply button on your own comment, and argue the opposite!

Then go hunting for your fellow bloggers’ comments, click the Reply button on their original belief, and argue in support of it. Your reply will line up with the rest under the original comment.

Everyone can join this wild game – many different views can be fired off on this post.

For those who may not have commented before, this could be a perfect opportunity to have some fun standing your ground on an opinion, or playing devil’s advocate.

The belief on my piece of paper was, “I believe in God.”


Fight to Write: Symbolism (I am having a go)

  • colour symbolism
  • connotative language (especially verbs!)
  • allusions

Hmmm…. subtle hints and beating around the bush; negative or positive colouring of actions; and ideas or qualities summed up in a hue. What theme shall I tie it all to?  I’ll give myself a choice of three…

  1. Death
  2. Love
  3. Pain, of the inescapable kind.

It’s 15:23 and I am cold, and the pot of water is boiling faster on the stove.

Faster than I can run and stop it.

With a blow.

The steam dissipates

and my cup is empty, hollow,

and bone white

I pour the boiling liquid by the brimful

One for you

One for me

Taste of amber, on the tip of my tongue

Burning memories permanently over hazier sun-filled days

You wait for the steam to slow its roiling

and sip when almost cool…

Eyes setting below rim of your cup

beaming directly at me.

Drained, the cup is stained

with a glimmering reflection.

It’s 15:30 and it took a shorter time than I thought.


I reckon I was greedy and swallowed all three for my theme!

Feeling two different ways

…about the same situation.

Using alliteration, assonance, consonance, euphony and cacophony as described at Fight to Write! (Thanks Ace!)

initial ideas…

  • death of an abuser
  • death of an incestuous family member
  • death by suicide

Grief stroked her hair
laid her down and covered her face
with kisses
cold comfort
Cry out and wail
sob and flail
useless hands
sweet breath of relief
fears release
sharp pain, anguish, despair
Crunching up the gravel path
stony stare

Open wound bare
Tended with care
Love lives where fear fled

Dread departed
We gather to forget-
see you again.

Cascade Poem

He melted hearts
He wanted the love
I wanted to give

Wide eyes saddened
Chin wrinkled in earnest
He melted hearts

Tears welled and spilled
tiny hands clenched
He wanted the love

My heart broke in itty-bitty pieces
Each piece fed him the love
I wanted to give


The first stanza holds the last lines for each following stanza… Fight to Write!

I probably took an hour to write this. It took seven attempts to get something that was even vaguely serious. I had to get off the computer and scrawl on a large piece of paper. I drew a picture of the structure to get it into my mind. Then filled the structure with nonsense, to find out what I didn’t know. Then came up with a formula. Filled in the formula with nonsense. Then made a serious attempt and did some editing to paint the picture smoothly.

My daughter looked at Ace Baker’s poem and wrote a four-line set of stanzas, straight off, awesome, in a matter of minutes. (See it on her blog, Radioactive Eyeball) My son grumbled about having to do poetry, carefully looked at and analysed Ace’s poem, and wrote a three-line set, awesome, in a matter of minutes, and posted it at Shaquin’s Blog. Am I feeling less than awesome? YES!

I enjoy figuring out the structure of things, and sorting out a formula.

I enjoy creating pictures – I turn off the rest of my mind, and things flow easily.

Doing this stuff? Is like paddling against the flow of the whitewater. It almost rips my arm off.

Short-term memory is needed in a certain area of the brain where pictures are not made. I have some trouble with mine! I am proud of my effort… and yet somehow wish to spare myself the pain. Long term memory will kick in, and my structures and formulas will stand by me as trusted friends, once they have hung around long enough to be accepted as more than passing acquaintances. That means writing every day.


I commit to the pain.

Inspiration and love of learning

When you look for something, it will eventually turn up. I am learning to write, and find inspiration in other bloggers posts, and comments. OM is my unofficial writing guru which I feel he would probably never acknowledge… and what I learn from him is probably unquantifiable, indescribable and I admit totally addictive.

Today I found my official writing teacher, and I am determined to follow his blog, and try out everything he has to offer. Fight to Write! I like Ace Baker’s passion for writing, which is greater than his desire for money. And I like how he overcame the negative effects of someone who ought not to have been called ‘teacher.’