Greetings, dear readers,
I’ve recently stumbled upon a new site called Storylane that I’d like to share with the aspiring authors in the audience. Much like a blogging platform, Storylane encourages you to write pieces based on your personal experiences, with a number of preset questions and topics on offer (I believe these can be customised and expanded, as you so desire). I’m finding it… fun. I feel like it encourages me to write on a regular basis, as others can request stories and topics from my own ‘storylane’, and that validates my sense of self-worth. Hoo-hum, a little too much of Sparky’s inner psychology for you there.
Anyway, enjoy the site, and my two latest bits of personalised narrative:
Magic Folder of Memories
From my quill to your screen,
‘I found you lying by the side of road. From the moment I saw you, I was in love.’
I looked down at the huddled form. Held her there with my eyes.
Please, she seemed to say, I’m so hungry.
She could not speak. Circumstances dictated she would not.
‘I brought you home. Kept you warm. Made this your home.’
I gestured at the dank crawlspace.
You’re cruel. So cruel. Someone will find me.
No one would find us here.
She shivered, slowly crawling back against the stone wall.
A dripping of water.
My voice changed:
‘You had an … accident. I got you fixed. You ran away.’
In my hands, the length of chain tightened. Continue reading
My beautiful Holden Vectra had committed suicide, taken a dive, lost the will to survive. Within a minute, my mobile—a Sony Ericsson k750i ex-showroom model that I’d bought for $350 (rrp) three long years ago—had also given up the ghost.
I had to grit my teeth and think, It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?
* * *
My day had started out relatively benign, similar to most: big breakfast (eggs, sunny-side up, and bacon), big shower (an environmentally-hurtful fifteen minutes), and big argument with my housemate, Sam.
Once again, Sam had left the washing up soaking in the sink overnight. I’d woken up, come stumbling out to the kitchen for my late afternoon pick-me-up of fresh OJ, and found last night’s strained peas floating in a morass of sludge water in the sink, with nary a clean cup in sight. Continue reading