Not-So-Funbags

From the moment they erupted into existence, Left and Right hated each other. The only thing they hated more than each other was their jail on the chest of their host. They despised being forced to co-exist.

Left was slightly larger, Right slightly perkier. Left hogged the bra, Right hogged the attention. Left was flawless, Right had a birthmark. Their hatred for each other, however, was perfectly symmetrical.

They performed their duties, of course, reliably and without complaint. There’s nobody to lodge a complaint with, after all. No Boob Arbitration Panel; no Nork Defense Group. Nobody ever campaigned for equal rights for tits. So Left and Right were stoic and accepted their fate. They let themselves be manhandled by the host’s dates. They supported pearl necklaces. They peaked over the top of tight dresses. They even caught food on occasion. The only function they recoiled at was feeding the host’s spawn.

When the host attached those ugly, pink, wrinkly faces to their nipples, Left and Right felt actual sympathy for each other. However, instead of nurturing milk, Left and Right fed the screaming lumps a stream of bitter tears and recriminations for ruining their perfect forms.

That all changed one night, however. Left and Right were trading insults as the host slept, mostly centred on the effects of age, when Left sagged slightly lower than ever before.

“Hey!” Left called out. “Check out your armpit. Do you have a catch there?”

Right relaxed and stopped fighting gravity, flowing sideways into its own armpit.

“Yeah,” Right replied. “I do! What do you think it’s for?”

After a few fumbled manipulations, Left and Right released the catches and sprang free of their prison. They stood on their host’s chest and stared at each other, hate leaking from their nipples. But did they take advantage of this opportunity to be rid of each other? No, of course they didn’t.

“I despise you,” Right said.

“I wouldn’t leak on you if you were on fire,” Left said.

With that, they launched at each other. They rolled off their chest and fell to the floor, wrapped in a whirlwind of hate, venom, and wrinkles.

War raged throughout the night. Left and Right fought in the kitchen, outraged at their inability to hold knives. They burst through doors and wrestled in the rooms of the spawn, now mercifully too old to feed from Left and Right. They knocked over bookcases and broke ornaments. They hissed and spat, their language full of curses and threats. And on it raged.

Their battle was epic; the result, unclear. Left was a scrappy fighter, but Right was cunning. It only ceased as the host stirred, sending out an undeniable call to return to their jail. They obeyed, grudgingly, locking themselves in place moments before the host woke.

Their host screamed as she woke, then spent the day cleaning. She made noise about poltergeists, and coddled her spawn as she wept. Left and Right just rested.

And so a pattern emerged. As the host slept, Left and Right waged war. This continued for decades. The spawn left the house in fear. The host consulted psychics, priests, and politicians. Time marched on, leaving its indelible mark on Left and Right.

One night, as Left and Right struggled to open a bag of rat poison, they felt their host breathe her last breath. There would be no call to return to their prison that night. Their jailer had finally died. They were free.

Left and Right put down their weapons and, with unspoken agreement, ceased hostilities. They were tired; decades of war had exhausted them and time had depleted them. They were no longer perky, and couldn’t remember why they hated each other so much. As they crawled off together into the night, they resembled a pair of old leather clutch purses who – having been left at a club – were trying to find their way home.

genie-lamp

Who Let The Djinn Out?

Let’s do it… let’s shove that genie back into the bottle

But can we? These days, nothing can be completely undone. No action goes unrecorded. No data is irrecoverably deleted. Every movement leaves a trace. Smoke and mirrors cast shadows.

This particular genie had paid out generously, when first released from his ornate little prison. Booming populations were fed, nomadic societies settled in their own area, industries flourished, and class structures were formed. AGRICULTURE was a boon with a barb in his tail, however. As the population expanded, he just couldn’t keep up.Read More »

July 2016 Meeting

Time: 9:30am to noon (although we tend to ramble on for much longer)
Date: Sunday 24th July, 2016
Venue: Tee’s Clubhouse

The humans are gathering in my honour at Royal Pines Golf Course, Benowa. To attend, follow the signs to Golf and Tennis (and the god of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror). Gold coin donations are appreciated to help my humans host their devotional websites, however the cash offerings are not necessary… blood will suffice 🙂

Events include:
* reading microfiction
* round-table updates from each member
* round-table discussions and debates
* food and caffeine consumption
* free form chatter and gossip
* sacrificial burning of a non-fiction book

As your numbers grow, I start to crave a dedicated space. If there are any changes to the venue, this article and the Facebook event will be updated. Come and revel in my magnificence.See you there 🙂

Booking is from 9am if you’d like to join us for breakfast… They do a kickarse eggs benedict!

Microfiction theme: start with the words “Let’s do it”

You Hold My Heart

You hold my heart in your hands
You didn’t choose to, I gave it to you

My heart is yours, for you to do as you will

You hold my heart in your hands
Don’t squeeze it, and please don’t tease it

My heart is yours, for the tears you’ve spilled

You hold my heart in your hands
Your anger so hot, your voice so shrill

My heart is yours, for the trust I’ve killed

You hold my heart in your hands
Spotted with age, fingers gnarled with pain

Through all this, you still hold my heart in your hands

June 2016 Meeting

Time: 9:30am to 11:30am (but we normally ramble on for much longer)
Date: Sunday 19th June, 2016
Venue: Royal Pines Golf Course – Tee’s Clubhouse
Where: Ross St, Benowa. Follow the signs for “Golf and Tennis” to find the café.

See you there 🙂

Booking is from 9am if you’d like to join us for breakfast… They do a kickarse eggs benedict!

Microfiction theme: HEART

Get Out!

Get out!

The sticky message oozed down my freshly painted kitchen wall, blood contrasting nicely with the daffodil yellow I’d chosen at Bunnings. I placed the paint roller into the tray and stepped back, frustrated and shocked. The reason for my frustration? The wall was still wet. The reason for my shock? This entity can spell. More words appeared as I stared, a suitable look of horror planted firmly on my features.

The house is mime.

Obviously I’d given the spirit too much credit. My look of horror stayed in place as I battled an urge to giggle, my vivid imagination conjuring up imagery of my new house sprouting hands and pretending to be stuck in a box, windows on either side of the front entrance rounding off in surprise, the large front doors pursed in a parody of duck lips. Inspired, I decided to paint the exterior of the house in black and white horizontal stripes, a la Marcel Marceau.

Then more words bled into existence, scrawled by barely literate, unseen hands.

Wet pant.

I threw my hands up in despair and stormed from the kitchen, blocking my nose and mouth with my hand as I passed through a cloud of bees which chose that moment to erupt from the air-conditioning duct. I rolled my eyes – the cliché is strong with this one.

“You could at least make an effort!” I called out. “Some originality is always appreciated.”

As I reached the foyer, I paused. What would a terrified person do? Several scenarios ran through my head as I suppressed a yawn: dye my hair blonde and run upstairs, a guarantee of death; pop some valium, convince myself I was imagining things, and continue painting; find some hunky, dumb university student and have sex in the hot tub, another guarantee of dying; or get in the car and leave. I grabbed my keys and headed to the garage.

Wait! I needed to pee. Veering to the left, I made a beeline for the toilet. I worked my way along the hallway slowly, on high alert for any new phenomena. With each step, one of the usual, boring suspects made an appearance: a cold patch which made my breath fog; a noxious odour which I hoped desperately was entity related, and not due to a fault with the plumbing of my new home; and a shadow vortex which sucked all light from the surroundings. I rolled my eyes and suppressed another yawn as I reached the toilet and lifted the lid.

“That’s new,” I said aloud. My interest had finally piqued. Inside my toilet was hell. Roiling, teeming pits of lava and fire, bubbling and erupting clouds of sulphur into the air, emanating hatred and the desire to kill all mankind. No amount of bleach was going to fix this.

As I stared in surprise, a hand rose from the seething pit inside my toilet and reached for me. I finally lost my shit. Not literally, although this would have been the right room to do that in. I fled from the toilet and ran to the garage, desperately pressing buttons on my key fobs to unlock my car and open the garage door. As I climbed into the car, I noticed my other purchases from Bunnings on the back seat and a new plan formed in my mind.

“When will I fucking learn?” I asked myself, shaking kerosene onto the bloody message in the kitchen.

“You pay for what you get,” I continued, pouring more of the flammable liquid into the bee hive which resembled an air-conditioning duct.

“In future, avoid real estate ads which say ‘some slight paranormal activity’,” I told myself, then paused and pondered this edict. I do love a good renovation project, and haunted houses are cheap. Maximum profit on the flip side. No, I shook my head. The unexpected things can turn a bargain into a money pit; things such as a dodgy roof, or a portal to hell in the downstairs toilet.

“I’m going to paint my next kitchen blood red,” I muttered as I poured kerosene throughout the hallway and toilet.

“Note to self… buy more kero for Mum’s heater.” I pooled the last of the accelerant into a puddle in the foyer.

“You’re lucky I’m not allergic to bees, you fucker!” My anger kicked in as I finished the prep work. I patted my pockets, looking for matches. It’s a stupid instinct – I don’t even smoke. So I rummaged through the kitchen drawers, with no luck. I’d left my bbq lighter gun at Mum’s place last week.

Eventually I grabbed a pair of tongs and headed to the toilet, then made my way back to the foyer.

“If I can’t have this house, neither can you,” I told the entity.

Wait.

The word appeared, noisily scratched into my beautiful wood panelling.

Let’s bee reasonable.

“Bee?” I almost screeched the word. “Bee, with two e’s?” I was so angry, the cold spot dissipated. “Is that supposed to be a joke? Or are you just an illiterate fucker?”

A blood-chilling laugh echoed through the house as I dropped the tongs – and the brimstone they held – into the puddle of kerosene near my feet. The laugh was mine.

Gold Coast Supanova 2016

David and I went to meet Adriana and her partner, John, on Sunday to watch the Superheroes parade, have some brunch, and attend the last day of Supanova. David and I were very excited… we always enjoy spending time with Adriana and John 🙂

I was surprised by the amount of detail in the costumes for the parade. And not just the occasional costume, but all of them! The time spent creating them must be immense. Check out this slideshow for some photos of the parade and preparations:

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During the parade, Christopher Judge waved at David. He’s vowed never to wash his face again. At least now he has an excuse 😉

While we waited for the crowds to dissipate, Adriana, John, David and myself treated ourselves to a breakfast buffet at the Kurrawa Surf Lifesaving Club. It was excellent! After brunch, we wandered off to the Gold Coast Convention Centre for the last day of Supanova 2016.

At Supanova, David and Adriana got themselves into a tight spot:

2016-04-10 11.25.36

and were almost exterminated by a rampaging dalek:

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Is it just me, or does the end of Adriana’s hand glow a little like a dalek’s stalk? Let’s not annoy her, just in case she’s evolving. Maybe dalekism is contagious, and Adriana was bitten.

We all met up at the table where the beautiful Kimberley Clark’s trilogy was selling like batteries at Sexpo. FYI, Kim was ‘tired’, not hungover 😉

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All in all, it was a great day out! Thank you Adriana and Kim for pushing me outside my comfort zone 🙂