Ten Seconds a Day

Oh, hi there

2011-09-24T09:02:00.002+10:00

No more new flash on Fridays will appear here as I concentrate on other projects, so if you're after news on my writing adventures, please head on over to my website.

You can also follow me on Twitter and 'like' my Facebook author page.

2011-02-15T20:17:00.002+11:00

Ooh! Don't miss out! It's not too late to head on over to Literary Mix Tapes for Volume Two - Nothing But Flowers. While there, check out my story, 'Grey, Like Stone'.

If you missed the window to read it for free, don't despair - you'll be able to pick up an eBook or paperback AND support the Queensland flood relief effort in the process.

What are you waiting for? Scat!

Short fiction eBook available

2011-01-05T09:02:00.003+11:00

How remiss of me! I forgot to post a link to the Deck the Halls antho, which was published on Christmas Eve.

In it you can find 20 tales that may or may not be suitable Christmas reading! There are more genres than you could imagine, with each story having been inspired by a line from the carol 'Deck the Halls'. So go on and fa la la la la la la la la your way over to the eBook and read some fab free stories. You can even check out mine, 'Not a Whisper', a tale of fiddles, bushrangers and eggnog.

The Great Chocolate Conspiracy Part 14

2010-12-03T23:33:00.006+11:00

Welcome to The Great Chocolate Conspiracy! Chocolate Digestive biscuits have disappeared from the shelves right across the eastern seaboard of the USA, and now the shortage has spread to London. Detective Chief Inspector Sam Adamson and his international team of investigators from the Metropolitan Police's Confectionery Crimes Unit (CCU) have been tasked to solve the mystery.

This is the penultimate installment of this multi-part flash fiction story that originated during a chat between the authors on Twitter. You can read how it all began here (links to all the installments will be added to the author list as they are posted).

The final installment will appear on Friday, December 10th at Nishi's (@cafe_nirvana) blog, and you can keep up on developments in the meantime by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.

~~~~~

Before Dr Nishidi could close the gap between herself and the CCU’s finest, the thumping ‘wokka wokka’ and sharply thrusting downwinds of a large helicopter blasted the foul smell from the air as the large beast came to a graceful landing on the tarmac.

A dozen agents dressed from head to toe in cocoa brown battlegear swarmed from the sky machine like a swarm of bees. In no time at all they had Dr Nishidi and her henchwomen surrounded.

PCs Fox and Bourneville leapt from the helicopter and hit the ground at a trot, dashing over to Adamson and the team.

“Sir, we are glad to see you’re in once piece!” It was Fox. She looked rather happy to see him.

“And, I, ladies, am more happy to see you than I care to admit. I must say your timing is rather impeccable. I think you saved me from a rather painful end. But, how did you get here?”

Fox and Bourneville were grinning like fools.

“We did what you always told us to do, Gov!” said Fox, who was looking pretty proud of herself.

Adamson was perplexed. He didn’t recall ever having told the youngsters anything much of value.

“We followed where the evidence led us!” Bourneville recited as though she’d heard it a thousand times.

“To Grimsville, Idaho?”

Fox and Bourneville looked at each other and giggled.

Agent Ling, with not a hair out of place on her head, strutted over to the happy trio, reporting with aplomb that FRAPPE had been iced. Adamson raised an eyebrow.

“I do allow myself a quip or two once the case is closed,” she admitted, with what came perilously close to a twinkle in the sparkling green eyes framed beneath perfectly arched brows.

“Agent Ling, allow me to introduce you to two of the Met’s finest up and coming detectives. PCs Fox and Bourneville.”

“It’s always a pleasure to meet new colleagues so far from home.” Agent Ling was all charm, although perhaps a little amused at DCI Adamson’s all-female posse. Agent Bronyaur was still skulking in the background, a little intimidated by his European cousins and their lurid underwear.

“Come on boss, I think we’d best get you all out of here.” said Fox. “Our lovely, warm friends from COCOA will explain everything once we get you lot out of here.”

Adamson shrugged his shoulders as he and his crew climbed aboard the Chinook, which rumbled up into the air and spirited them away. FRAPPE, TEA and now COCOA. The DCI doubted anything else would surprise him today.

***

“This is one briefing I think I want to hear,” said Adamson to La Paglia and Marier as they sat down either side of him.

They were seated around a large conference table in the US Headquarters of the Confederation of Chocolate Organisations and Alliances in Chicago. Several large platters of chocolate biscuits were placed strategically around the table, in easy arm’s reach of the assembled guests. Steaming mugs of coffee sat atop coasters and there was a pleasant aromatic blend of scents filling the air, a combination of sweat, perfume, coffee and chocolate.

Adamson rocked back in his chair, continually impressed by American ergonomics, thinking that right about now might be a good moment to consider retirement. He could go out on a high, having played a major role in foiling an international conspiracy. Hell, he’d probably even get a medal of some description. He could almost picture himself at Windsor Castle, waiting in line to receive a gong from the Queen. DI Hawthorne would be able to watch it on telly. The thought of it made Adamson grin like a madman.

The smile died on his face when the boardroom doors opened and in strode Angelina, she of the olive skin and tight skirts.

“Buongiorno tutti,” purred the Italian.

“What the flock is she doing here?” stammered Adamson. “I demand an explanation!”

“Relax, my little English dumpling. You are among friends, is that not right, Vice Ispettore Mari Juniper?”

“Si, Angelina.” Juniper turned to Adamson. “I’m sorry I could not tell you before, Sam, but Angelina here has been deep undercover as an operative infiltrating FRAPPE. She has been our woman on the inside, as it were. If it were not for her, you may well now be... how do you say? Ah, si, toast.”

Adamson was reeling. He could feel his gong slipping through his fingers.

“Who is we, Juniper?”

“I am sorry I could not tell you that either, Sam. I have been on loan from the Italian State Police to COCOA for three years now. Angelina and I are part of a team that has been tracking a number of hardline underground chocolate groups for the past five years,” explained Juniper.

Angelina took up the narrative. “Some of these organisations have been threatening the world’s supply of flavenols, which, as a connoisseur of chocolate digestives, you will understand keep the world on an even, how you say, kilter. Without cioccolata, nation states around the world would begin to crumble. You saw yourself in Idaho what can happen.”

“You mean,” said Adamson, playing for time while his brain caught up with the implications of what they were saying, “there are more organisations than FRAPPE out there trying to steal all the chocolate and coffee?”

“Sam, what you have seen is the tip only of the iceberg. In fact—“

The boardroom doors were thrown open by a man in a hurry.

“What is it?” asked Angelina.

“We’ve had a coded call from London. A mystery buyer has just purchased Europe’s entire chocolate supply!”

Angelina looked with alarm at Juniper.

“Oh no, Dr Eno!”

~~~~~~~

I hope you enjoyed this episode of The Great Chocolate Conspiracy. Don't forget, the final installment will appear on Friday, December 10th at Nishi's (@cafe_nirvana) blog, and you can keep up on developments in the meantime by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.

#fridayflash: I Have Ten Fingers

2010-11-02T10:29:00.000+11:00

(Image: Christof Berger)

Now for something completely different. A poem for a friend.

I have ten fingers
I have ten toes
My limbs connect to my body

I have two arms
I have two legs
My brain connects to my body

If I have ten fingers
If I have ten toes
Why don’t they feel like my body?

If I have two arms
If I have two legs
Why don’t they move like my body?

I have no pain
The pain is gone
In its place is nothing

If I have no pain
If the pain is gone
Then why can I not feel something?

I have to eat
I have to drink
Neither hungry am I nor thirsty

If I have to eat
If I have to drink
It’s not to slake my desire

I cannot feel
I will not touch
This body that is not mine

If I cannot feel
If I cannot touch
Then why have this body that’s mine?

I have ten fingers
I have ten toes
Growing inside of me

I have two arms
I have two legs
A foetus whose need is me

I will have pain
And when it’s gone
A baby there will be

I will want to eat
I will want to drink
For both my child and me

I will want to feel
I will want to touch
My baby’s pure soft skin

I will count his fingers
I will count her toes
I will caress those arms
I will stroke those legs
I will love the pain
And when it’s gone
He will eat
She will drink
Together we will feel
Together we will touch

Together we will be.

Chinese Whisperings: The Yin and Yang Books

2010-10-10T22:15:00.005+11:00

The Yin and Yang Book eBook(s) have been published. Go and buy them now!

22 fabulous stories from 22 writers from around the world, including yours truly - my story 'Double Talk' appears in The Yin Book, but I would recommend you buy the combined anthology for the full effect.

More details about Chinese Whisperings and the anthologies over at my website.

#fridayflash: Skin Therapy

2010-09-24T07:37:00.000+10:00

Congrats to all the #fridayflash crowd whose stories made the 50 Stories for Pakistan longlist. Mine didn't, so here 'tis - it's been a while!

Skin Therapy
Lily Mulholland

Dr Harold Kinsella, Harry to his friends, was a well respected plastic surgeon transplanted from America to London, where he’d earned a number of gongs in recognition of the pro bono work he did with burns victims. Internationally renowned for his skill with the surgical blade, Dr Kinsella was in hot demand, with a waiting list longer than a conga line in a retirement village.

Dr Kinsella’s dedication to the job earned him plaudits from his peers in the UK and around the world, although it had cost him his marriage and the company of his two lovely daughters. He saw them irregularly, what with his patient load and constant travel on the international lecture circuit.

Which was where he was returning from just now. A member of a high-profile panel at Plastic Surgery 2010, held in Toronto, Canada, he had held the audience in thrall with details of the latest advances in tissue engineering. The panel discussion had run smoothly until Randall Weiss started sticking the knife in. Despite their long-held rivalry that dated back to Stanford, Harry had been thrown when Randy questioned his surgical approach to challenging reconstructive cases.

Harry cringed at the memory of their heated and unprofessional argument, where they had both tarnished their reputations and left the other panel members embarrassed. Two of the world’s top plastic surgeons duelling over technique. Worse, the panel was one of only a handful open to the world’s medical and mainstream media.

He imagined the headlines; they weren’t going to be pretty. Harry knew he would have a ‘please explain’ from the British Association of Plastic Surgeons, which had funded the trip. The stewardess moved past as he groaned.

“Everything all right, sir?”

“Yes, fine, thank you. Actually, I could do with another whisky.”

“Certainly.”

She returned with his drink. Twelve-year, single highland malt whisky on ice. In a real glass. Harry enjoyed his frequent upgrades to First Class.

“Is there anything else, Dr Kinsella?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He watched her sashay across the aisle and stop to attend to a female passenger he hadn’t noticed during the previous three hours of the flight; he had been buried in a medical journal, trying to forget the humiliation. The woman was attractive, although he only looked at women the way a conservator sizes up a damaged canvas.

The angle of his seat afforded a reasonable view of the woman: late forties, sharp hairstyle, and a large diamond earring dangling from her visible earlobe. He noted the developing buccula beneath her chin, the creases that formed at the corners of her eyes as she chatted with the hostess, and the pigmentation spots on the skin beneath her cheekbones. That she had good bone structure was clear even in the artfully dimmed light of the cabin’s interior.

Harry thought about slipping his card into her pocket as they exited the plane. After his Canadian ordeal, he felt the need to cut away some ugliness and make something beautiful again.

(Image: Bestlin Plastics)

Dog Days of Summer competition winners announced

2010-09-02T00:04:00.001+10:00

Flasher extraordinaire Michael J Solender (of Not From Here, Are You? fame) has announced the winner of his Dog Days of Summer 2010 competition. Future Nostalgic‘s Sam Adamson took out the Grand Prize, while yours truly was one of a number of authors who received a Special Jury Prize. Congrats to all the Special Mention recipients and the other nearly 100 writers who participated.

You can read more about it here, including an interview with the winner. The eChapbook, including my story ‘Shimmer Shift’, is available to read below and also as a PDF download.

Open publication - Free publishing - More flash

Best of Friday Flash Vol 1 - out now!

2010-08-18T22:32:00.003+10:00

It's a big day for flash fiction! Today marks the release of volume one of Best of Friday Flash - a collection of the best flash fiction on the internet in the first year of #fridayflash. I am thrilled to have one of my stories, 'Dental Check', included in such fine company.

Do yourself a favour and pick up a copy - the ebook is only $2.99. The paperback will follow soon.

#fridayflash: Just Drive

2010-07-22T22:44:00.007+10:00

Well hello there. After a short break, I have finally written a piece of flash fiction. This one was inspired by this week's [Fiction] Friday prompt over at Write Anything: Pick two established characters, either from your own work or others’. Now write the scene/story of their meeting.

Just drive
Lily Mulholland

Cresting the hill, an ocean of red tail lights confronted Caroline, who brought her car to hard stop. She reached out and tapped the AM radio button and switched over to the local station.

And you’re on Triple Six Drive with Louise Maher. News just in, there’s been a three-car pile-up on Hindmarsh Drive near the hospital. Try and avoid the area if you’re heading through Garran.

Glancing at the clock on the dash, Caroline swore under her breath; she would be late.

‘Fucking wonderful.’ Caroline flicked the radio off and reached over to fish a phone from her handbag, as well as a letter from the hospital.

‘Good afternoon, genetics, may I help you?’

‘Yeah, hi, this is Caroline Walker. I have an appointment at 3pm but I’m running late – there’s been an accident on Hindmarsh and I’m stuck in bumper-to-bumper hell.’

‘Okay, I’ll let Jennie know you’re running late.’

‘Thanks. Bye.’

Twenty minutes later Caroline turned into the hospital carpark and found a spot. Dashing to the ticket machine, she fumbled around the Tardis-like bottom of her bag for a two-dollar coin, narrowly avoiding turning her ankle on the broken concrete path.

Ticket in hand, she darted back to her car, pulled open the passenger door and tossed the slip of paper onto the dashboard. She slammed the door shut and took off for the main building.

‘Hi Caroline, thanks for coming in again,’ said the counsellor as she bustled into the suite where Caroline sat waiting. ‘I just wanted to run through the results with you.’

Caroline smiled nervously; she had been expecting to receive a letter containing her assessment, not to have to come back to see the counsellor again. It took a huge chunk out of her day travelling across town and back and she had deadlines looming.

‘Well,’ said the counsellor sitting down and opening a file, ‘the good news is you’re not in the extreme category. The bad news is your family history and your history of drinking places you in the high-risk category.’

‘What does that mean, exactly?’

‘Well, the average woman has a one in eight chance of getting breast cancer over her lifetime – your odds are one in four.’

Caroline sat silently, remembering to breathe.

‘Do I qualify for the test?’

‘Well, what we would ideally like to do is run the test on your aunt. Because she has had breast cancer already, and it was pre-menopausal, there is a strong chance she might have the mutation. If she were to have it, then we would be more concerned about you. At this stage you don’t meet our criteria for a test – they’re very expensive and we have strict benchmarks in place. You don’t quite meet them. But if your aunt agreed to be tested, she would qualify. So, it’s really a matter for you to discuss with her.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Don’t be too concerned. You’re young and relatively healthy. At this stage we recommend you start having mammograms when you turn forty. You should also reduce your alcohol intake.’

‘Yeah, I’m trying.’ It’s been a shit of a week lady.

‘Right. Well, you’ll receive a letter in the next few weeks confirming your screening regimen. Also, don’t forget to let us know if your family history changes.’

‘Okay.’

The counsellor stood up, signalling she had no more to say. Caroline lingered, unsure.

‘Was there anything else?’

‘Ah, no. It’s just that I thought I’d just have the test and then I’d, you know, have some kind of certainty.’

The counsellor looked at her with sympathy.

‘I know. I wish I could give you a measure of reassurance. Unfortunately, we just don’t know enough about how genetic mutations interact with the lived environment. You should take heart that you are not in the high-risk category and you have no signs of cancer. You may be one of the lucky ones.’

She held out her hand. Caroline shook it.

‘Thank you for coming.’

Caroline took the stairs down to the foyer, feeling like a fraud as she passed dozens of patients wearing flimsy white gowns, some being pushed in wheelchairs, others pushing IV drip stands along in front of them, an assortment of men hobbling on crutches and pale women sitting dazed in moulded plastic chairs. Guilt tugged at her for feeling so sorry for herself when others were so much worse off. She shuddered at the thought of being sick enough to have to stay in such a depressing place, She hurried out the door into fresh air, hurrying down the path to escape the oppression as soon as she could.

Returning to her car, Caroline pushed the button on her key remote, only to realise she had left the damned thing unlocked.

‘Idiot,’ she chided herself. ‘After all that’s happened this week, that’d be the icing on the fucking cake.’ Teetering on the edge of tears, she forced thoughts of Tom from her head.

She yanked the door open, threw her handbag across into the passenger seat and slid in. Turning the key in the ignition, she froze when in the rear view mirror she spotted a black shape on the seat behind her.

‘Don’t panic,’ said a female voice, as black cloth unfolded to reveal a woman in her late twenties.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I am a federal agent. Keep moving or we’re dead.’

‘Is this your idea of a joke?’

‘Caroline, put your foot on the accelerator and get us the hell out of here. Head for the Yamba Drive exit and turn right – Hindmarsh is jammed.’

Caroline did as she was told; she had seen the woman’s handgun.

‘How the hell do you know my name?’

‘Get moving,’ she said, turning around to check the cars behind them. ‘We’re heading to an apartment in Braddon. We’ll be okay once we get there.’

‘We? Who the fuck are you?’

‘My name’s Jo – Jo Carter. Nice to meet you, Ms Walker. Now just drive.’

***

Caroline Walker is from my three-part flash serial, 'The Taming of the Shrew'; Jo Carter is from my six-part flash serial, 'Betrayal'. You can find both stories over at The Penny Dreadful.

#fridayflash: 'Last Man Standing'

2010-06-11T23:03:00.000+10:00

Head on over to AntipodeanSF for this week's #fridayflash story, 'Last Man Standing'. Cheers!

#fridayflash: Butcher's Apprentice

2010-06-04T07:52:00.002+10:00

I have a little story, 'Butcher's Apprentice', appearing this month at Negative Suck, which is doing double duty as my #fridayflash this week! While you're over at Negative Suck, don't forget to check out the other authors, including fellow #fridayflasher Karen Schindler, who once upon a time kindly edited 'Butcher's Apprentice' for me - so it's nice to see we're in the same edition.

One-year anniversary of #fridayflash

2010-05-28T08:02:00.002+10:00

From little things, big things grow, said Paul Kelly and no, he wasn't actually describing #fridayflash - but he could have been! The Friday flash fiction movement, kicked off by Jon Strother has celebrated its first year and Jon's present back to us all was to list all participating authors' debut story. You can read them all here, including my story 'Snowgate'.

No new flash from me this week, real life keeps getting in the way of writing at the moment...

#fridayflash: Across the Ocean

2010-05-03T10:10:00.001+10:00

For this week's #fridayflash, I most happily direct you to Laurita Miller's blog for my Seaside Flash contest-winning entry, 'Across the Ocean'. She and I are separated by many oceans - actually I think we couldn't live further apart! She lives in Newfoundland and I live in Australia. The water that separates also inspires us.

While you're there, why don't you check out her flash fiction and poetry?

#fridayflash: The Insurance Policy

2010-04-30T07:38:00.001+10:00

I wrote this short for Laurita's Seaside Flash Fiction Contest over at Brain Droppings. It didn't win, so here's a ready-made #fridayflash for this week.

P.S. I loved her competition so much that I entered two stories - my other entry, 'Across the Ocean', won! You can check it out at Brain Droppings on Monday, 3 May.

(Image: William Murphy)

The Insurance Policy
Lily Mulholland

Song as sweet as his mother’s floated around Fletcher’s ears as he placed the tray on the musty passageway floor.

Oh I cannae tell ye of my name
Ya see to you we be all the same
Carried away o’er seven seas
Bringing good fortune to all but me

Half crouched in the dim, cramped space, he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the clear, high notes. Remembering Curly’s warning, he rose abruptly and fumbled for the fob secured to the sash at his waist, iron keys clinking in his hands.

The singing stopped as Fletcher inserted the key into the lock and turned the rest of the bunch over itself. Retrieving the tray, he pushed the door open with his foot and entered the chamber. Seated at the wooden table taking up most of the room was a woman so beautiful she forced the young breath from his body. Taking a brush to her hair, she did not speak to him as he placed her meal on the table, instead fixing his gaze with lapis eyes. He nodded, stepped backward and left the room quickly, locking the door on the way out.

Oh I waste not sweet talk or charming smiles
For I ken my fate for the next t’ousand miles
Ye’ll save me up till the storm sets in
And then over ye’ll toss me for one final swim

He leaned back against the heavy door, closing his eyes and allowing the honey voice to wend its way into the vulnerable, hidden parts of his soul. A male voice jerked him from his daydreams.

‘Tell me ye dinnae look ‘er in the eye, lad.’

‘N-no, Curly. I did exactly as you said.’

The chief cook peered at Fletcher through squinty eyes.

‘Och, good lad. Ye ken there be no place for a bird on this ship. She’ll bring us bad luck. Now git along wit ya. There’s work ta be done.’

Fletcher scooted back to the galley, busying himself with a tub full of dirty plates and pans. The action of scrubbing the dishes was hypnotising and he was soon fantasizing about the woman.

Oh I cannae tell ye of my name
Ya see to you we be all the same
Carried away o’er seven seas
Bringing good fortune to all but me

She was snatched at the last port. Curly would not tell Fletcher where the first woman had gone, but he found out from the messman she cast a spell upon the bosun to aid her escape. Under captain’s orders he had been flogged senseless for it.

Almost as soon as the new girl came aboard to sell her perfumes and handkerchiefs, the order to make sail was piped. She was dragged below by the master-at-arms, her bosom having been judged to be ample pacification for the savage seas they would encounter in rounding the Cape.

Fletcher prayed for a mighty storm.

#fridayflash: Shop of Horrors

2010-04-23T07:18:00.002+10:00

And now for something completely different...or light and easy at any rate!

Image: Jim

Shop of Horrors
By Lily Mulholland

Carly looked down at the shopping list, wondering why John was always so goddamned specific.

RAW SUGAR
FREE RANGE EGGS x 12
SKIM MILK x 2
BIRDS-EYE CHILLI x 1

And on it went. Why couldn’t he just write ‘sugar’? Eggs? Milk? Red chilli? She wasn’t stupid, but he was treating her like a child.

‘I’m pregnant, not broken, you moron!’

‘Beg your pardon?’ asked a man behind her.

Carly wheeled, her cheeks scalding. ‘Oh! Sorry, nothing. I was talking to myself.’

She pushed the trolley viciously, determined to finish the shopping and get home. John was always bugging her to keep exercising. For the sake of the baby. But tonight he could lug in the bags; she was stuffed.

‘And tell me again why I’m the one doing the shopping? Eight and a half months pregnant? Doesn’t he have LEGS?’

Crushing the list, she tossed it behind a row of tinned peas and turned her trolley around. She pushed it toward aisle nine, the one aisle she never ventured down. Lollies were forbidden by John, who had been on a health kick since she told him they were pregnant. Saliva erupted as she tossed packets of chocolate coated raisins, musk sticks and liquorice allsorts into the trolley.

‘Feed me Seymour!’

The mad cackle died in her throat as she felt it – warm fluid dribbling slowly down the insides of her legs. She was leaking. Carly looked around, panicked and froze. Then the trickle became a flood.

#fridayflash: No way out

2010-04-16T08:46:00.002+10:00

(Image: Nevit)

By Lily Mulholland

It winds down upon itself, doubling back, coiling and uncoiling, seeking out an alternative path, all the while descending relentlessly. Probing, searching for light in the oppressive dark like a subterranean engineer, it tests the circuit, ensuring the current holds strong. Turning back is impossible; on it drives unremittingly, its destination preordained. The pressure builds until it becomes unbearable, like molten flow behind a magma plug. Up and up the needle of the gauge rises into the red. The tipping point is reached and the words surge up his throat, perching, pausing momentarily on the precipice of his tongue. He can hold them back no longer; the lie must be lived.

‘I love you too.’

#fridayflash: Fire dance

2010-04-09T07:52:00.002+10:00

(Image: Espencat)

By Lily Mulholland

Please contact me if you would like to read this story. I have pulled it to rework for submission.

#fridayflash: Sacrilege

2010-03-31T21:00:00.003+11:00

Warning: this Fridayflash is not for the easily offended.

~~~~~~~~~

By Lily Mulholland

It's kind of ironic that I ended up in the job I'm in. I have a very low pain threshhold. But, someone's got to do the dirty jobs no one else wants to do. For a so-called 'civilisation' we're surprisingly uncivil in some of our collective choices, don't you think? So anyway, my mum hears of this job. Great pay, flexible hours, health plan. Can't ask for more than that, I say. She reckons I might even get a woman out of it. Being employed by the government and all. It's a job that gives me status, although I'm not the kind of person that gets invited to dinner parties. If you ask someone what they think about my job, they kind of shudder. I think I'm up there, or is it down, with politicians and journalists. But, hey, it doesn't bother me. I know that I'm needed and that's enough reward for me these days.

So, anyway, today's a big day. My team and I have been preparing for for weeks now, ever since the courts handed down their verdict. And it's not just any execution we're doing today, it's the harshest form we have available in our inventory, and we have some pretty gruesome ways to kill you. I'm not necessarily a supporter of capital punishment, but it does send a message and keeps the marginally good in our society on the right side of the ledger. The bad guys, well, they keep me employed, so I don't complain.

Like I said, today we're making history. We've planned it down to the last detail and have a great risk management plan (just in case something goes wrong, we're working in pretty unique circumstances here). Everything's ready, so we're just waiting for the prisoner to arrive. I hear Mr Pilate ordered a spot of flogging and and the slow walk, so we're not sure when he'll get here. I hope he's not too shattered. I've got a few questions I'd like to ask him.

In good company

2010-03-26T13:31:00.009+11:00

I'm thrilled to have one of my stories published in a real-live, used-to-be-a-tree, crisp-when-you-turn-em-pages book! Not only is that very exciting (it's my first), but some of my writing friends are also in Miscellaneous Voices: Australian Blog Writing #1, as well as some great Australian writers (fiction and non-fiction), including James Bradley, Alan Baxter, A S Patric and Angela Meyer. My lovely friend Amanda also has a poem in there. It's good to be included in such company, I must say.

Also a big shout-out to writer and publisher Karen Andrews of Miscellaneous Press - she conceived the idea for this project last year, when debate was raging among the intelligentsia over whether anything published on a blog was any good. Karen seemed to think it was and, voila, the idea for a book was born. She put a call out for Australian bloggers to send in their best work and I was fortunate to have 'No Sanctuary' selected for the anthology.

The press launch will be held at Readings in Carlton, Melbourne on 14 April.

You can order the book here. Postage (within Australia) is free on purchases before 1 April. While you're visiting Miscellaneous Press, check out Karen's book for kids - Surprise - my little ones love it.

#fridayflash: The Crystal Set

2010-03-26T07:00:00.002+11:00

Image: Badseed

By Lily Mulholland

Jessie scraped at the verdigris on the bronze art deco sculpture with her thumbnail. Visiting granddad was like going to a museum, only this time she could touch. She traced her fingers along the objets d’art stuffed into every spare space in the large walnut bookcase. Her granddad was a fossicker and collector, born between world wars, when reusing and recycling weren’t the latest fad but a simple matter of survival. She had never respected his need to keep everything, just in case. A kid of the disposable generation, she sneered at his frugality.

Jessie remembered the time she’d been messing with granddad’s prized crystal set. He had picked it up at an estate sale and, when he discovered it wasn’t working, pulled it apart, fixing it with patience and determination. Strictly forbidden to touch it, she had dared one day when he wasn’t looking -- a resin knob came off in her hand. Having never confessed, she still felt the guilt.

Her mum came out of the main bedroom, her face raw with emotion. Jessie was shocked – Sarah had always been stoic, her father’s daughter.

‘You’d better go in,’ said Sarah. ‘There’s not much time.’

Jessie stepped into the room, the bed was as she remembered, but the bedside tables had been replaced by beeping, whirring machines. The nurse sat on a low chair near the wall, not looking up from her knitting.

Settling upon the bed, Jessie took the dying man’s hand, cradling it in hers.

‘I’m sorry granddad,’ she whispered.

‘I broke your radio.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This week's #fridayflash story is a slightly modified version of an entry into Every Day Fiction's String of 10 Two contest. (It didn't win, clearly!)

#fridayflash: Not a single ripple

2010-03-19T07:37:00.006+11:00

(Image: Common-pics)

By Lily Mulholland

The surface tension of the dark pond pulled the small, upturned yellow leaf toward others similarly caught, hostages of Mother Nature. Hunched on a coal-black rock at the water’s edge, Alisha watched the leaf-boat collide with the rest, the cause of its doom a breeze so slight it created not a single ripple.

Worlds away, Alisha did not notice the wispy clouds coalesce into grey cotton balls until they passed between her and the sun and the afternoon grew cool. Before the wind’s breath corrugated the pool, Alisha glanced at her reflection. Not since she admired her youth in the iridescent dew drops decorating the forest on a cool spring morning long ago had she really looked at herself.

Gone were the dazzling coats, the lustrous fibres that adorned her silky limbs. In their place were tattered, dust-encrusted rags. Her face, once smooth and pearly, was dun-coloured and parched; the bloom of youth was short. Alisha was not worried for her children – she had made them a home, they had food to eat. She knew their lives would not be easy, but they would survive without her.

Stretching her wings, her antennae quivered in the strengthening late afternoon breeze and Alisha knew it was time to go, to find a place to rest, a place to die. She lingered a few moments longer, watching an eddy corral the leaves on the pond. They would circle the pool endlessly until, at last, they submerged and drowned. They had served their purpose.

#fridayflash: She might just disappear

2010-03-12T06:50:00.002+11:00

Image by SatuSuro

By Lily Mulholland

She thinks if she stares long enough at the sea she might just disappear. Beautiful once, the tides of loss have hollowed her skin with the painstaking care of a taxidermist. Grief’s handmaiden, she’s been taken apart like an Escher drawing, pieces drifting just beyond reach. Though the tears have run dry, she can taste the salt on her lips; he is gone but love's pain lingers. She stares at the sea, hoping she might just disappear.

~~~~~~

For Kate.

Published: Positive Words

2010-03-07T12:23:00.000+11:00

I'm very happy to report that one of my early pieces of flash fiction, The Waiting Game, has been published in the February 2010 edition of Positive Words (ISSN 1447 3720), a little writing magazine out of regional Victoria. It's nice to see my name in print!

#fridayflash: Nellie's Web

2010-03-05T07:36:00.001+11:00

(Image: Luc Viatour)

by Lily Mulholland

Nellie was becoming a little tired of Wilbur. Take, take, take. He never gave her anything except a growing list of words he wanted her to weave. Well she’d fix him. The country fair was coming up and Wilbur was pegged as the star attraction.

The day of the fair arrived and the Zuckermans transported Wilbur in his five-star trailer. Nellie still had to ride in the truck with the other animals. They were installed in a curtained exhibit and Nellie went to work.

Crowds arrived for the big unveiling.

SOME PRIG

The crowd gasped. Charlotte’s daughter smiled.

~~~~~

Published earlier this year at Flashshot. Also published at Short Humour.

#fridayflash: Act Normal

2010-02-26T08:00:00.000+11:00

(Image: Ayena)

By Lily Mulholland

It was eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning and Andie was lined up at the dispensary counter of a pharmacy at her local shopping centre, waiting to be served. Doing her best to blend in with the other customers, mostly elderly folk who cashed their pension checks each fortnight to do the prescription shuffle, she pretended to examine the merchandise crowding the shelving under a sign that read ‘Foot Solutions’.

Who knew there were so many kinds of dressings available? Or foot problems, for that matter? Bunions, corns, planter’s warts, calluses, in-grown toenails, heel spurs, fungal infections, hammer toe, chilblains – the list was seemingly endless. In her imagination she had a brief but lucrative career as a podiatrist. Gross, but a money-spinner for sure. Maybe she should look into it. She had good scores in Year 12 biology and they had mature age entry schemes these days, especially for battlers. Or something like that. She vaguely remembered hearing it on the radio the other day, the education minister banging on about getting more people into university.

With the old dears jostling for the few available vinyl chairs, Andie maintained a respectful distance, observing queue etiquette with patience and a poker face. It would not do to be drawing attention to herself. Getting ready this morning, she had chosen her clothing with care: neat jeans, not too faded, not too tight, a clean grey t-shirt, and a red wool coat, a hand-me-down from her grandmother. Fortunately it was a timeless cut and Nan had taken good care of it. Andie had even lucked out on a decent pair of shoes from the Salvos Store (although she told her husband she had bought them from a department store and pocketed the difference).

Finally it was her turn. She moved up to the counter and asked for four boxes of Mersyndol caplets. Eyebrow shooting skyward, the sales assistant looked suspisciously at Andie.

‘Are they for yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you taking any other medication?’

‘No,’ replied Andie. It was the truth. Mersyndol was the only drug she needed.

‘Any other paracetamol or codeine?’

‘No, none,’ she lied.

‘Have you discussed taking this medication with your doctor?’

‘Yes.’ Andie’s rising irritation levels were manifested by the prickle of sweat on the skin above her top lip.

‘I’ll have to talk to the pharmacist.’ The woman disappeared up behind the three-quarter wall separating the chemist from the massing hordes. A full-blown hot flush was sweeping through Andie’s body; she could feel her face burning as the heat ascended and tried to escape out through her hair. The sweat was making her wish she had chosen a lighter jacket, but at least Nan’s coat would hide the dark patches infiltrating her t-shirt. Gripping the edge of the counter helped still the tremors in her hands.

The disapproving saleswoman returned with the blue and gold boxes. Andie’s heart leapt while her head pounded. A headache was crashing down on her and fast.

‘You are not to take more than two at a time. No more than eight capsules in a twenty-four hour period. Do not consume alcohol while taking this medication. Stop taking them as soon as they start working then switch to paracetamol. Do not drive after taking this medicine...’

Andie zoned out as the woman sounded like a robot, reciting by rote the instructions she knew so well. She could have listed the side effects, in order too, but that would have been a dead giveaway.

‘I understand.’ Andie’s hand stretched out to take the boxes, but the woman with her cat’s bum mouth and bad highlights had not quite finished.

‘You must advise your doctor you have taken this medication.’ She glared at Andie through slotted eyes.

‘Okay,’ nodded Andie. Anything to get the woman to release nirvana from her garishly painted claws.

‘Pay at the front.’ With that, the magic boxes were placed on the counter and Andie was dismissed. Scooping them up, she threaded her way to the front of the shop. A long queue of pensioners was waiting at the checkout; no doubt their fumbling for small change in the bottom of bags was causing the hold-up.

Hit by a wave of nausea, Andie closed her eyes and leaned against a crown end display at the end of the ‘Sensational Skin’ aisle. The tabs ran out the day before and the withdrawal was already hitting her hard.

‘Next please!’ Andie’s eyes snapped open. Lurching forward like a learner driver missing first gear, she fumbled the box onto the counter and handed a twenty-dollar note to the cashier. Andie took the proffered change and receipt and stuffed everything into her bag.

Escaping into the chill air was like diving into a deep, cold pool, invigorating and cleansing. Almost as good as the dreamy post-pill slide. But that would have to wait. She had her rounds to complete: the other three pharmacies and their scrutineers to withstand before she could abscond with her bounty.

If she timed it right, the first tabs would kick in before the children arrived home from school.

#fridayflash: Ravine

2010-02-19T07:56:00.007+11:00

This is the sixth and final instalment in the Jo Carter series, Betrayal, which I've really enjoyed writing and I hope you enjoyed too! Click here for previous instalments.

(Image: Kate Webb)

Ravine
By Lily Mulholland

Taking a deep breath, Jo pressed the intercom buzzer and waited, eyes centred on the one-way camera. A beeping noise signalled the frosted glass door had been unlocked, so she pushed it open and entered the safe house.

Waiting for her was the caretaker who kept the place humming and looking normal from the outside. Jo smiled at the plump, middle aged woman she had never met before.

‘You look just like your file photo, my dear,’ said Marjorie, giving Jo a hug. ‘You must be starving. You’ve been off the grid for four days. I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to eat?’

‘Not for a while, no. But what I really need is a shower and possibly a change of clothes,’ said Jo, looking down at the crushed white doctor’s coat and red flip flops. ‘How long have I got?’

‘Spartan will be here in twenty minutes. Why don’t you go and freshen up? I’ve laid out some clothes upstairs. Just head up there,’ she said pointing at a staircase leading up to the next floor, ‘and aim for the first room on the right. I’ll let you know when he arrives.’

The shower was heaven. Jo placed her palms against the tiled wall and let the hot jet cascade over her face and rain down her back. She closed her eyes and breathed.

***

Dressed in black pants and a black top, Jo was pulling on socks and a stylish yet sensible pair of boots when there was a gentle knock on the door.

‘Jo, he’s here. Please come down into the conference room when you’re ready,’

‘Be right there.’

Jo tossed her borrowed clothes in a laundry basket and checked her reflection in the dresser mirror before opening the door and heading downstairs. It felt like weeks since she’d last seen her handler, yet, according to Marjorie, it had only been four days.

With an encouraging nod, the older woman directed Jo to a large room down the end of a passageway that ran alongside the stairs. Knowing the clacking of her heels on the tiled floor would announce her arrival, Jo adjusted her posture, swung open the doors and entered the room.

Seated on the opposite side of a large wooden boardroom table was Spartan.

Jo smiled. He didn’t.

‘Jo, it’s good to see you back.’

Jo stood there, not knowing what to say. Suddenly feeling very young and inexperienced, she wondered what she had done wrong – his demeanour was anything but reassuring.

Spartan indicated the swivel chair in front of her and, as she sat down, he picked up the handset of a telephone on the table and spoke quietly into it.

Hearing the door open behind her Jo turned around.

Jeremy entered the room, followed by the man she had last seen sprawled unconscious on a concrete floor.

‘Hello Josephine.’

Fighting the urge to vomit, she slowly spun her chair back around as the two men took up positions at either end of the table. Betrayal, shrieked her brain as it tried to assimilate too much new information. She thought about the scalpel and syringe she had left upstairs. Too hard, too far. She was checkmated. Face set with stone, Jo locked eyes with the man she knew only by his code name.

‘You must be feeling a little bewildered, Jo.’ He was Spartan to her Athena. Someone at the agency had a sense of history, if not humour.

‘Not really, but you could say I’m feeling a little PISSED right now.’

‘What do you think is happening?’

‘Honestly? I have no fucking idea.’

At this unexpected answer Spartan’s face exploded. It was the first time she had ever seen him laugh.

‘Good girl. That’s why we selected you.’

‘Selected?’

‘Jeremy, why don’t you explain?’

Jeremy rocked his chair back and rested his left ankle on his right knee as he locked both hands behind his head, bent arms framing his well coiffed head. The prick looked very relaxed.

‘Josephine, George here recommended you for my unit. I wasn’t sure you had it in you so he suggested a little challenge.’

‘Unit?’

George?

‘Yes, Stephen and I are recruiting for a special activities branch.’ Stephen, so that was the good doctor’s real name, after all.

‘You mean this whole thing was a set-up?’

‘We prefer to think of it as a recruitment test,’ said Jeremy, sarcasm curling his lips.

‘You bastard.’ She was trying to calculate possibilities and permutations in her mind, but the conversation was moving too fast for her to cross-check the facts as she understood them ... if she understood them at all.

She looked at George, wondering if she had been wrong to trust her mentor unquestioningly. ‘And you were in on this for how long?’

‘We’ve been planning it for a couple of months. Relax, Jo,’ he said, seeing the livid look on her face, ‘we’re the good guys. We planted that ID card in Stephen’s wallet deliberately. Think about it.’

While still not convinced, Jo was beginning to get a handle on the situation.

‘Gentlemen, we need to wrap this up. I have to be somewhere.’

Jo shot the third man a fierce look. He wasn’t smiling either.

‘How’s your arm, Stephen?’

‘Careful now, Josephine,’ warned Jeremy, ‘he’s your new boss.’

‘Boss?’

‘Yes. Congratulations, based on your test results, you’re our number one pick for the position. You're moving up in the world, my girl.’ He was still a smug bastard, good guy or not.

The three men stood and began making their way to the door. Jo remained seated, head reeling from information overload.

Stephen stopped next to her and flipped his Attorney-General’s Department business card onto the table, his sleeve riding up slightly, revealing a bandage.

‘See you in my office, 9am Monday. Don’t be late. We’ve got work to do.’

FLASHSHOT story up: 'Nellie's Web'

2010-02-16T07:56:00.001+11:00

I have a nanofiction up at FLASHSHOT today. Called Nellie's Web, it's my sequel to a well known children's favourite!

#fridayflash: Reprieve

2010-02-12T08:02:00.005+11:00

(Image: Antonov14)

This week's #fridayflash is part five of the Jo Carter series. For previous instalments, click here.

By Lily Mulholland

Hunkered down in a booth, Jo scoped out the room from beneath her cap and sunglasses. She was ravenous and inhaled the carbohydrates and sugar without tasting them. It was the first food she had eaten in she didn’t know how long. She had been on the road for a couple of hours, taking the back roads to Canberra, staying away from the highway monitoring cameras that would be sure to pick up the purple van she’d escaped in.

With the fuel gauge nearly on empty, Jo had taken a risk and pulled into the roadside services just outside Yass. The hundred or so vehicles parked outside gave her pretty decent cover. She had found a pair of thongs and an obviously pre-worn pair of lacy ladies underpants in the back. Flipping them inside out, she had pulled the knickers on, conscious that the doctor’s coat only just reached the top of her thighs. Jumping out of the van, she had shut the door behind her, not sorry to leave behind its fluffy dice dangling from the rear view mirror.

Wolfing down a second burger and fries, Jo dismissed the family seated at the table nearest her. She didn’t want to leave them stranded. A trio of insouciant young guys slouched in the next booth along. Jo could hear them bragging about sex, quietly confident that at least two of them were probably still virgins. The third, a quiet one, she wasn’t so sure about. It’s always the quiet ones. They looked like P-platers and young blokes tended to drive shit boxes, so she wasn’t game to lift their keys. Then she spotted a couple canoodling in a booth along the opposite wall. They looked like they were eating each other instead of their decidedly unhappy meals. The guy’s keys were on the table next to his wallet and phone. Perfect.

Licking the salt off her fingers, Jo stood up, adjusted her makeshift dress and belt and headed toward the ladies toilets – a quick pitstop before she grabbed the keys and located her new car. Checking herself out in a speckled mirror, she understood why the girl behind the counter had given her an odd look. Jo looked like a homeless person who’d ransacked a charity bin for clothes. She went into one of the cubicles, put the cracked lid down and sat on the toilet.

Opening Dr Engadeen’s wallet, she pulled out the remaining bills and put them in her coat pocket. The credit cards went into her pocket too, as did his Medicare card. It was the identity card that made her stop cold.

Stephen Mackenzie
Attorney General’s Department

With his photo on it. Yet the credit cards had Engadeen on them. Were they a plant? Or was the ID card a fake? A sudden headache descended upon Jo like an avalanche. A metallic taste roared into her mouth and she felt faint. Was he a double agent? Who was he working for? Who was Jeremy working for? Jo’s train of thought was interrupted as a pair of girls giggled into the toilets. She waited for them to bang their doors shut before she tossed the doctor’s wallet and the van keys into the sanitary bin and hustled out of her cubicle and back out into the restaurant.

The canoodling couple was gone. Shit. Plan B.

Jo took a side exit, crossed the car park and headed into the service station. She grabbed a magazine from the rack and started flicking through it, surreptitiously watching the customers in the inside reflection of the window. She spotted a guy in a nice suit wandering through the toy section, talking animatedly on his mobile phone. His keyring was swinging from the little finger on his left hand, punctuating his sentences, with the BMW badge making an occasional exclamation.

As the man wandered toward a row of refrigerated drinks, Jo ditched the magazine and made her move, deliberately bumping him hard as she opened one of the doors. He dropped his phone, the newspaper that had been tucked up under his arm and, most important, his keys. Making a pretence of being shocked and sorry, she helped him pick up his paper and phone, pocketed the keys and walked out the door.

Aiming the remote at the nearest Beamer she pressed the switch. The black sports coupe rewarded her with a flash of orange; she opened the door, jumped in and started the engine. From behind her sunglasses, Jo could see the man run out of the shop just as she whipped out of the bay and hightailed it down the service road and onto the highway.

***

Jo had plenty of time to think in the forty minutes it took her to reach Canberra’s outskirts. She thought through every possible explanation for the doctor’s double identity – if he really was a doctor. Was he was an agent, like her, with Jeremy his target? Maybe he had been sent to free her and she had attacked him? Or, was he working with Jeremy and had infiltrated AG’s? It all came back to Jeremy. She needed to access more information before she could work it out and that meant getting back on the grid. Priority number one was to set up a contact with Spartan. Cursing herself for not grabbing the car donor’s phone too, Jo trawled the northern suburbs for a pay phone. She finally found one that was working and still accepted coins. She dialled the number for Control.

‘Control this is 3-2-1-5-niner. Patch me through to Spartan.’

‘Wait one...connecting you now.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Athena.’

‘Jolimont safe house. One hour.’ The line clicked dead.

Jo placed the handset back in the cradle and climbed into the car. It felt like a cocoon. With her forearms draped across the top of the steering wheel, she rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes for a few seconds. The tears came faster than she expected. She was almost home.

#fridayflash: Adrenalin

2010-02-05T09:00:00.010+11:00

This week's #fridayflash is part four of the Jo Carter series. For previous instalments, click here.

Adrenalin
by Lily Mulholland

Jo inhaled deeply as the doctor prepared to inject the barbiturate into her neck. She felt the sharp point of the needle prick at her skin and breathed out. Relax, don’t panic. Wait.

As the needle started its slide into her vein Jo took another deep breath, flicked her head to the right, at the same time lurching violently toward the doctor. Before he could react, she opened her jaw and clamped her teeth down on his wrist with the force of a bear trap.

The doctor screamed and tried to shake her off. Like a dog with a bone she held on tight and bit down harder. Dr Engadeen backpedalled, dragging Jo and her gurney with him. He crashed into the trolley holding his instruments and they showered around him down onto the concrete floor as he careened backwards, pulling Jo down with him.

Landing with a thud that knocked the wind out of her, Jo lay on the floor panting, still strapped to the sideways gurney. Dr Engadeen, she was pleased to see, was out cold.

‘Right, let’s get this show on the road people.’ Jo was talking to herself but she didn’t have the time to care. Jeremy would have seen everything on the camera feed and Jo knew she had only a couple of minutes before the cavalry arrived.

Jo kicked her legs as hard as she could. Nothing. She tried her hands and felt the bindings give a little. She heaved. A little more give. This is it Josephine. You either break it or Jeremy’s going to break you.

Drawing on her inner strength, Jo gave one more heave. She was rewarded with a great rending of metal as the buckled legs of the gurney broke. Jo unfastened the straps and released her wrists, chafed and bruised. She could taste salt on her tongue and knew the blood wasn’t hers. She looked down with distaste at the sprawled body of Dr Engadeen.

‘Mate, you’d better not have bloody Hep A.’

Jo looked around for something to cut the straps still holding her legs. One of the doctor’s scalpels glinted under the industrial lights. She grabbed it and sawed through the leather. Freed at last, she was able to sit up and take stock of the situation.

‘Well I need some clothes as a starting point. And a weapon. But first I’d better do something about that door or I’m toast.’

Jo pushed the trolley over to the door and flipped it on its side. She jammed it up underneath the handle and hoped to god it would make opening the door from the far side a tricky enough proposition that it would give her a few extra precious minutes to escape.

Jo moved as quickly as she could, stripping the coat off the body. She was shivering now – the adrenalin was dissipating. Next she whipped off the doctor’s tie and retrieved his wallet. Thrusting her arms through the lab coat sleeves, Jo looked around. She spotted a door in the far wall she hadn’t been able to see when she was horizontal. Please don’t be locked.

She wrapped the tie around her waist and cinched it tight. She popped the doctor’s wallet into the coat pocket and snatched up the scalpel and the loaded syringe. Heading towards the door Jo took one look back at the carnage and noticed the gurney legs lying on the floor. As she moved back to grab them she heard running footsteps coming. She could hear Jeremy’s voice, strident and authoritative.

‘Open the door and get the fucking bitch. NOW!’

Jo bolted for the second door and tried the handle. It popped open and she slipped through, closing the door behind her and thumbing the latch.

Groping around the doorframe she found the light switch. Christ! A fucking janitor’s closet. No wonder it wasn’t locked. Tears threatened to overwhelm her. Not yet! Hold it together for fuck’s sake. Cry when you get out of here. Now think!

Jo looked around. Chemicals in plastic containers filled the shelves that lined the walls. Mops, buckets, cleaning cloths and a bunch of other crap took up most of the floor space. The ‘Hazard 2’ placards on the boxes on the bottom shelf caught her attention. As did the bleach on the next shelf up.

Working quickly, Jo heaped a bunch of cleaning cloths on the floor and doused them with the bleach. She ripped open one of the boxes and pulled out a couple of bottles of ammonia. Removing the tops as carefully as she could, she placed the bottles against the door.

The commotion on the other side of the door was getting louder. They’d be on her in seconds. Jo clambered up the shelving and popped the air vent in the ceiling. She climbed in and began leopard crawling as quickly and silently as she could, with the scalpel and syringe clenched between her teeth. She came to a T junction and turned left. It was dark, but Jo could see a feeble light up ahead. Behind her she could hear the sound of wood shattering. The closet door.

Jo moved as fast as she could – she knew her gas bomb wouldn’t hold them for long. Finally she reached another intersection in the ducting where there was a large intake vent. With great difficulty she squeezed her body around in the small space so she could kick out the vent. She dropped down and was relieved to find herself in a vacant room.

She opened the door; no one was visible in the corridor and she could see a set of glass doors leading outside. She was about to dart towards the doors when she spotted a guard’s room – empty. She stuck her head through the door and spotted a set of car keys, a cap and a pair of sunnies on the table. Grabbing all three, she raced outside, pressing the button on the keychain remote. A purple van bleeped at her. Jo wrenched open the door, started up the engine, threw the gear shift into drive and gunned it.

Poem: Symphonic Symbiosis

2010-01-31T15:47:00.001+11:00

This poem wrote itself though I cannot tell you how
It spurted, sprouted forth and planted roots in my ground
Fertile, luscious soil fertilised by my brain
Subconscious bubbled forth, blood and bone doused with rain

This poem wrote itself though I do not recall when
It drove shoots from my fingers and drew leaves with my pen
Symbiotic pulse realised through my hands
Delicious symphony that only we understand

Ka-POW! The Prisoner is up at Pow

2010-01-30T12:43:00.004+11:00

There's a fab new flash fiction zine called Pow! Fast Flash Fiction and I'm honoured that they've accepted a slightly reworked (and better) version of 'The Prisoner'. Go and check it out and make sure you read the other fab flash while you're there, including from fellow #fridayflashers!

#fridayflash: Dickless

2010-01-29T09:15:00.011+11:00

VictorG

This week's #fridayflash is part three of the Jo Carter series. For previous instalments, click here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dickless
by Lily Mulholland

Jeremy rose smoothly to his feet, face set with a stiletto smile.

‘Dickless bastard? Josephine, we both know better than that now, don’t we?’

He approached the gurney upon which Jo was shackled and ran his index finger up the inside of her naked thigh, pausing in the dark patch of hair that was the only privacy she had.

Jo realised she was supposed to be scared, scared of being raped, abused, tortured. But she wasn’t; she felt empowered, strong, angry. She stoked the fires of rage with memories of their time together. How he'd strung her along, taking her out to the coolest places in town and showing her off like a pet peacock. By now she’d figured he’d targeted her at university, no doubt to get to her father. Jeremy had been a guest lecturer in one of her international relations classes and had invited the whole class out for drinks that night. She’d gone along with a dozen or so of her classmates and had felt so mature and intelligent when he’d singled her out for attention. She’d been drunk on ego and felt the shame of it still.

Her cheeks must have coloured; she felt Jeremy’s fingers thrust forcefully between her legs, threatening the soft skin lying bare beneath the fuzz.

‘Just like old times, my dear,’ he said with a leering note, 'except I see you've had a haircut.'

Jo met his look with one of sheer hatred; recoiling, Jeremy pulled his hand away. He regained his composure almost immediately, but not before Jo notched up a win to herself. She had him. He still wanted her. He was a dickless bastard and now she knew it.

‘So. It’s time to do business. Tell me who your handler is.’

‘Or what?’ Jo was feeling feisty.

‘Or I’ll kill you. But you must appreciate that Josephine. You’re not as stupid as you look.’

Was he playing that old game? He must think she was still that silly young girl, easily impressed by an older man in a flashy car. He’d done the training; he must know that she’d be impervious to these basic tactics. But, there it was again. He wasn’t thinking straight – he wanted to fuck her. God, men can be so stupid sometimes!

‘Well you’d better get it over and done with, Dickless, ‘cause I’m not telling you anything.’

‘Fine. In that case, I have someone I want you to meet.’

The door opened and in walked a man in a white coat. A white coat? You’ve got to be shitting me. So fucking stereotypical.

‘Josephine, I’d like you to meet Dr Engadeen. Dr Engadeen, this is Josephine.’

Dr Engadeen didn’t bother to look at her. He merely laid his case on a steel table adjacent to the gurney, opened it and began removing a number of small items with the care of a surgeon.

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up, doc.’ Jo couldn’t help herself. The sarcasm hung in the air.

‘I’ll leave you to it, doctor. I’ll come back in ten minutes – I trust that Josephine will be more cooperative by then.’

An affirmative nod passed between the two men. Not a talker then. And I’m being watched. There must be a camera in here somewhere. Jo made a quick scan of the room. She couldn’t find the camera – it had to be hidden in the ceiling or wall somewhere. There was nothing for it. She was going to have to fight her way out.

Dr Engadeen, or whatever his real name was, approached Jo with a large syringe filled with what she could only guess was sodium pentothal. Aim for the neck you bastard.

Microfiction up at FLASHSHOT

2010-01-29T08:06:00.002+11:00

I'm thrilled that my little piece 'The Curse of the Common Name' is up as today's FLASHSHOT. If you miss it, it'll be up for ten days, after which I'll post it on this blog.

Poem: Shouting to be heard

2010-01-26T15:10:00.003+11:00

Marcello Casal Jr./Abr

On a box
Stands a boy
Who’s not a boy
But a man

On a box
Stands a man
Who’s not a man
But a people

On a box
Stands a people
Whose time to
Cry has come

On a box
Stands Haiti
Shouting out
To the world

On a box
Stands everyman
Will we let
Him be heard?

~~~~~~

Inspired by a contest prompt at AllPoetry.

Infamous at Short Humour

2010-01-23T20:08:00.004+11:00

The funny folk at Short Humour accepted one of my flash pieces, 'Infamous', for their zine. They obviously have an excellent sense of taste as well as humour :)

('Infamous' is a slightly reworked version of my #fridayflash piece 'Infamy', which I posted on 8 January)

#fridayflash: Combustion

2010-01-22T20:57:00.011+11:00

(Image: Góra Zoltán)

This week's Fridayflash is a continuation of the Jo Carter series. Well, it's number two, so I'm not sure if that qualifies as a serial, but it's planned to be an ongoing thing, therefore it probably does! If you missed the first instalment, you can read back (go on, it's less than 300w, you can do it).

Combustion

By Lily Mulholland

Jo was awake before her eyes opened. She could hear a low hum but couldn’t identify its source. The dandelion hairs on her tummy were dancing to a gentle breeze; she was stark naked. Without moving, Jo understood she was strapped down to some kind of bench. Metal, she thought, judging from the way it cradled her body; cold, like a mortician’s slab.

Breathing evenly, Jo concentrated on her surrounds. She wasn’t ready to let her captor know she was conscious, so she let her hearing and sense of smell do the work. The hum might be some kind of refrigerator or heater; that meant the room had power. Her nostrils picked up faint traces of chemicals: ether, chloroform, ammonia. She was probably in some kind of industrial building. That meant she was probably still in the city limits. Escape was a possibility, if she could break her bonds and get out of the room without being seen. That was a big double ‘if’.

After five minutes of silent observation, Jo relaxed a little; she couldn’t feel anyone else in the room. If there was someone with her, he or she had probably figured she was coming around – they’d been very quiet. Jo opened her eyes. Above her were metal racks, with meat hooks spaced evenly down their neat rows. Large industrial lights flooded the room, which looked as though it was made from whitewashed concrete. Jo turned her head to the right to get a feel for the size and layout of the room. She gasped. Meeting her eyes with an impassive face was her target. And her target was Jeremy.

‘Josephine. How nice to see you again.’

Not willing to let him gain the upper hand for a second time that day – was it still Monday? She couldn’t tell how long she’d been out for but she wasn’t going to let him know that. Jo turned her line of sight back to the meat hooks. Time to toughen up girlie. Feeling her training take over, she was able to still the slight chill that had threatened to invade her body. Jo willed concrete into her veins, steel into her bones, fire into her belly. She was not going to let him win.

‘I’m going to break you.’

He’d broken her once before and he knew it. But that was back then, back when she’d been green as a nursery sapling. Back when she’d misjudged sex for love. Back when she was ripe to be plucked by an assassin. And that’s what he was. She hadn’t known until today who Jeremy really was: an enemy of the state, her target. She suppressed a small laugh; control obviously hadn’t done their homework. And all this time she thought they knew everything about her, right down to her brand of nail clippers.

She turned back to Jeremy and shot him a look of insubordinate contempt.

‘Not if I break you first, you dickless bastard.’

#fridayflash: Willpower

2010-01-15T07:46:00.004+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

Sarah had saved the new skin for a special occasion, growing it with the obsessive care of an orchidist. Determined to keep it blemish free, she had kept her left arm encased in cotton for the past two weeks. She wanted nothing to spoil its pearlescent purity.

But today had arrived and after school Sarah locked her bedroom door. She prised up a loose floorboard, revealing a cavity housing a small black tin, from which extruded two long tails of scarlet ribbon. She grasped a tail in each hand and gently pulled up the tin from its repository. Sitting on her bed, Sarah placed a black towel across her lap and opened the tin, selecting the new scalpel she’d stolen last week from art class.

Today was the day she’d been dreading for weeks and she’d used up all her willpower just making it through the day. She’d been holding on tight, knowing release would come as soon as she could escape home. Laying her left arm upon her lap, Sarah drew the surgical steel across the milky white skin of her inner forearm, pinking pearls of blood in its wake. As the red lines began their scarlet dance, she breathed out the tension that had been consuming her for weeks.

Sarah had performed at the school concert, been showered with praise and told what a clever girl she was. ‘Such a beautiful, confident girl’, she’d heard the teachers say to her parents. ‘Oh yes, that’s our girl.’ She laughed bitterly. They knew nothing about her. And she liked it that way.

~~~~~

(Photo: Peg Essert)

Dejected

2010-01-12T22:03:00.002+11:00

Not really, but I am rejected. Well, three stories have been, at any rate. By Every Day Fiction. I had high hopes for one of them in particular, but none of the three passed muster.

On the positive side, the editors at EDF give great comments and feedback as to why the story/ies was/were rejected. And I am consoling myself with the fact that they can only accept 365 stories a year from the thousands they are offered. I suppose I am in good company.

Another positive is that I now have three stories in the can for #fridayflash!

Forthcoming in FLASHSHOT

2010-01-10T17:18:00.002+11:00

I'm totally stoked with the news that one of my micro-fiction pieces will be published by FLASHSHOT on 28 Jan. If you don't already subscribe, you can do so for free via this website.

#fridayflash: Infamy

2010-01-08T21:10:00.003+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

You had always wanted to be famous. At thirty-seven, with two kids and stretch marks, you thought you’d missed your chance. That was until a chance incident made you the most famous woman in the world in the short space of forty-eight hours.

What had started as a headline beloved by sub-editors of newspapers quickly became the story of the year, with interview requests rolling in from around the country. As exponents of new media awoke to their multiple news feeds, you started receiving calls from all over Europe, and, several hours later, the United States, Canada, and a ragtag bunch of South American countries. You even took a call from a news outlet in Karachi. You were big news on the sub-continent! Fortunately your melting mobile phone was saved by a call from Max Wiltshire, mega-PR to the stars. He offered to take you on for the special cut-rate fee of twenty per cent of your earnings. You were clearly out of your depth and Max offered to handle everything on your behalf. Although you later discovered his fee structure was reprehensible, you were nonetheless pleased to hand over your media responsibilities to someone of his vast experience, and girth.

You shudder at the mention of body shape. That’s what started this media hurricane. You were walking along the street on one of your rare days away from the kids, swinging your shopping bags containing loot from an even rarer retail therapy session when bammo! Looming before you was a man wider than he was tall, his belly bulging against the yellow cotton of his polo shirt, attempting a daring escape. This was a belly that moved to its own rhythm; a tummy that could influence tides. As he lumbered closer, you saw it. He had an outtie. You were swept away with the moment and before you could stop yourself your free hand reached out, forefinger extended and you poked that protruding belly button.

The man’s face registered shock and surprise for the nanosecond of time that hung suspended between you both before he exploded. Fleshy shrapnel coated you, your shopping bags, the pavement and buildings to the left of you. The duco of cars parked against the curb would never be the same again. And neither would you, forever more known as the Belly Button Bomber. You always wanted to be famous.

#fridayflash: The Kiss

2009-12-31T18:18:00.002+11:00

Looking around the room, Sandra tried not to let her face betray the despair gripping her heart. The party wasn't exactly kicking, neither were the fellas Jacinta had said would be there. There were guys there, sure, but the kind who wore jumpers knitted by their mums. As she sank another champagne, Sandra resigned herself to another New Year's Eve without a kiss.

She knew she shouldn't have built this night up; New Year's Eve parties often ended up far less exciting than anticipated. She could count on one hand the good times she'd had on the last night of the year, despite what all those Hollywood movies promised.

Grazing the buffet, Sandra's head was turned by a late arrival. The tall blonde man locked eyes with her as Jacinta greeted him at the door. Sandra sucked in her tummy and pulled her shoulders back as Jacinta guided the man over to where she stood.

'Sandie, I'd like you to meet Sven. He's the visiting researcher at work I told you about.'

Sandra blushed as Sven took her hand and kissed it.

'Hi,' she said shyly.

'Hello,' he said with a suitably Swedish accent.

'I'll leave you two to it,' said Jacinta with a knowing smile as she headed to the kitchen.

Sandra and Sven managed to find quite a lot to talk about. Both were research scientists, although in different fields, both held university grants and had worked overseas, and both were single on New Year's Eve.

Burning with the suffused glow of alcohol and welcome male attention, Sandra allowed Sven to walk her out onto the balcony as the minutes marched towards midnight. As the other partygoers counted down seconds to go, Sven pulled Sandra in close, wrapped his arms around her waist and shoulders and planted on her lips a long, slow kiss that stayed with Sandra well into the new year.

#fridayflash: Salivation

2009-12-25T11:04:00.000+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

Ramondo sure liked Christmas. Stuffed turkey, lamb, chicken, all cooked to perfection. Slugs of ham with maraschino cherries cresting diamonds carved into fatty hide. Roast potatoes with homemade gravy. His mouth watered just thinking about it. Tummy rumbling, Ramondo began on the dessert menu. He adored his grandmother’s fruit mince pies, although he’d made himself sick eating them more than once. He loved plum pudding, especially the homemade ones containing pennies saved from his youth. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. It wouldn’t do to actually drool on his shirt. Ramondo sighed. His virtual Christmas feast had tired him out. Deciding a little lie down was in order, he swung his feet up onto the cot. He lay back and ignored the bars on his cell; he didn’t need reminding that it would be another twelve years until his next Christmas feast.

An Elementary Christmas

2009-12-23T13:21:00.002+11:00

Merry Christmas to my lovely readers. Here's a Christmas tale for you. Enjoy! Happy New Year and I'll 'see you' in 2010.

------------------------

An Elementary Christmas

By Lily Mulholland

Feeling every one of his seventy-six years, Ellery Scott was at war with the world. Not the entire world exactly, just his sphere of influence. Well, not even that. He didn’t hold much sway these days. He’d never been a happy man. He’d had his successes, sure, but life had been one long series of failures and disappointments. The final and he thought most fitting was being placed in ‘care’ by his family. What there was left of them. That had been two years ago and none of them had paid a visit since. Ellery spent his days in a wheelchair looking out the picture windows at a garden that looked like it had been manicured by his sadist podiatrist. Everything had been Gillette-trimmed with a triple blade – he doubted the garden could survive much more shaving.

Ellery still shaved. Every day. He’d never admit it to himself, but he wanted to keep up appearances on the outside, no matter how far the inside had decayed. Ellery knew he didn’t have too many years left, and he didn’t give a dang about death. But somewhere, locked deep inside, was a flicker of hope someone from his family would come and visit him. He wanted to know someone, anyone really, remembered him and cared just enough to get in the car and make the trip out to Pleasant Gardens.

Some of this subconscious monologue was beginning to surface, like a submarine – slowly, stealthily and surely. Ellery didn’t want to have this conversation and was battling his inner demons, all the while maintaining his customary severe look. He didn’t want any of the inmates or staff to notice he was going a bit cuckoo again. Staring fiercely at the garden without seeing, Ellery got himself back under control. He reminded himself he didn’t care anymore and was simply waiting for death to seek out his company.

Catching movement in the inside reflection of the glass, Ellery’s eyes slowly refocused on the mirror image of the man coming towards him. Damn, it’s that goddamn annoying orderly again.

‘Mr Scott? It’s time for your appointment with Dr Skrynka.’

Ellery didn’t respond in any way that would let the man know he’d heard him. Perhaps he’d go away.

‘Come on Mr Scott. I know you saw me. Ignoring me won’t make me go away. And, since you’re in a wheelchair and can’t get away from me, I’m just going to take you to see the doc.’

Ellery swore quietly. He knew there was no point in resisting. He also knew the young upstart was much physically stronger and had orders to take him forcibly if he refused to go. One of the endless joys of being interned in this place.

The young man wheeled Ellery down the length of the gallery, a large sitting room filled with chesterfield lounges, ornate side tables topped with large floral arrangements in glass vases. It was a nicely fitted out place if you went in for that kind of thing and Ellery was almost grateful his family had not chosen one of the budget nursing homes. The thought made his skin crawl and he shuddered.

‘Are you all right, Mr Scott?’

‘Fine.’

‘You can call me Jake.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Well I do see you every week. It would be polite.’

‘You want polite? Make an appointment. I charge by the hour.’ Ellery knew he was coming across as particularly thorny today, but he didn’t care.

Jacob Marley laughed. He’d seen it all before. He’d been working here for four years while he pursued his medical degree. This was his last year and he looked forward to getting out and practising what he’d been learning. He wasn’t going into geriatrics – four years of looking after incapacitated seniors had taught him that wasn’t a good idea.

‘That an accounting joke?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you used to be an accountant.’

‘How the hell did you know that?’

‘I’ve read your file Mr Scott.’

‘But you’re a goddamn orderly!’ Ellery could feel the apoplexy rising. He knew he shouldn’t get openly angry, especially before an appointment with the psychiatrist, but he was pissed at the insubordinate attitude. He was a man used to respect. Not that he’d had much in a long time, but he never let go of his superior attitude. He was a professional. Not some schmuck wheeling oldies around a loony bin.

‘Actually I’m not. I’m a fourth-year medical student and I’m here working as an assistant to Dr Skrynka.’

‘Oh.’

‘Apology accepted,’ said Jake, not missing a beat as he wheeled Ellery through a labyrinth of corridors and meeting rooms.

Ellery was disgusted to see Christmas decorations taped to every wall and ceiling. He noted several Christmas trees, all with gold and silver baubles. Some even had those ridiculous optical fibre lights in their so-called leaves. Up on each pinboard, in addition to the mandatory emergency drills and safety notices was a number of small posters advertising all number of events. There was a full social calendar at Pleasant Gardens, designed to keep the patients occupied and distract them from their troubles and pain.

Jacob asked Ellery if he was in the choir this year, at which Ellery nearly choked on his saliva. He managed to splutter, ‘Over my dead body!’ before being overcome with a coughing fit.

‘Why not?’ asked Jake, ignoring the outburst.

‘To sing a bunch of Christmas carols with the nearly dead? Somebody kill me now.’

‘Now, now, Mr Scott, you know suicidal talk is reportable.’ Ellery couldn’t tell if Jacob was joking or not. He didn’t respond, choosing instead to glower at the floor as his chair was pushed interminably along the route to the professional suites on the other side of the building.

‘I can’t stand Christmas,’ he said finally.

‘Why not?’

‘Too many bad associations. And it’s just a commercial free for all. There’s no soul to it anymore. It’s all what can I get? with young kids these days. Parents spending too much money on crap their kids don’t need. I tell you, in my day we were happy with a stick and a jam tin.’

‘Well, Mr Scott, I don’t agree with you. Christmas should be a time to reflect on what you’ve been given and to celebrate with your family. Have you been in touch with your family lately?’

‘They’re dead to me,’ Ellery said, with a trace of venom entering his voice.

‘I’m truly sorry to hear it,’ said Jacob, as he wheeled Ellery in through Dr Skrynka’s door. ‘Perhaps you should reach out to them. You might be surprised what good could come of it.’

Ellery sat quietly while he waited for the doctor to arrive. He shook his head at the suggestion of talking to his son or daughter. They’d made the arrangements to put him here in the first place, without consulting with him. He’d had a fall at home not long after Margaret had died and had to have a hip replacement; the operation did not go well. When he did not recover full mobility the decision to move him into care had been made without him. He could never forgive them for that.

Dr Skrynka entered the room from an adjoining suite and sat down on a sofa opposite Ellery. He took up an electronic tablet Ellery supposed had replaced the old clipboard and paper sheets, with which he was very familiar.

‘A new toy?’ ventured Ellery.

‘Indeed.’ Dr Skrynka was a man without much humour. That suited Ellery fine most weeks, but this week, for some reason, he felt the need to needle the man.

‘Make sure you’ve got the right file there. I don’t want you to confuse me with someone who gives a damn.’

‘Indeed,’ repeated Dr Skrynka, effectively silencing Ellery. ‘Have you thought about what I suggested last week?’

Ellery played dumb. He didn’t want to talk about his past anymore. What had happened had happened and he didn’t see what relevance it had to the present.

‘I can see that you have not,’ said Dr Skrynka. ‘I am also informed that you have been moodier than normal since we last met.’

Ellery squirmed. Jacob. He must be Dr Skrynka’s spy. Damn him.

‘Well, Ellery, I cannot help you. You must help yourself. Write a letter to your son-in-law, I urge you. Do not go to your grave with unfinished business. You might not care, but he is the one who will be left wondering. What will he tell your granddaughter?’

Ellery’s head shot up at the mention of Maggie. Although he had not seen her since she was a babe in arms, the young girl held the only soft place left in Ellery’s heart.

‘Why don’t you invite them to come and see you? It is Christmas after all.’

‘I told you. I never want to see that bastard again.’

‘I remember. You hold him responsible for your daughter’s death. Ellery, you must find a way to forgive him. He has surely suffered enough.’

‘He could never suffer enough. He killed Ellen. On Christmas Eve.’

‘It was a car accident. An accident, Ellery. You know that.’

‘He killed my Ellen. She meant everything to me. She was the only one of my children who understood me.’ Ellery stopped speaking. From somewhere unbidden, emotion arrived in a rush, strangling his throat and making his eyes water.

Dr Skrynka played his final card.

‘Do you want to see the child before you die?’

Ellery did not respond. He bowed his head and withdrew his mind from the conversation.

‘And so.’ Dr Skrynka got up and went to his desk, where he picked up the phone and spoke into it, requesting an orderly to take Ellery to his room.

‘I cannot help you any further Ellery. I don’t want to see you again until you call Peter. You know what you need to do.’

A young woman in jeans and a sparkly top came into the room and reversed Ellery’s chair around the furniture and out the door. Her Christmas earrings chimed as she walked. The sound was like a knife stabbing deep into Ellery’s brain. His knuckles whitened as his grip on the chair’s armrests tightened. Mercifully the trip to his room wasn’t far and he only had to put up with the torture for five minutes.

‘There ya go love,’ said the woman. ‘You want me to help you up onto the bed?

She was chewing gum, a habit Ellery found most distasteful.

‘No. I can do it myself, if you position the bar over my chair.’

‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘Did you see a letter came for you?’

Ellery’s head whipped around. The woman was holding a white envelope in her hand.

‘Just put it on the bedside please.’

‘Okay love. Enjoy your dinner. Plum pudding tonight!’ she said as she sailed out the door, taking her jingling ears with her.

Ellery heaved himself up onto the bed. It took most of his strength, so he had to rest against the pillows for a minute before reaching for the letter. He knew he should let the staff help him, but he was a pig-headed man and couldn’t bring himself to ask. The envelope had no return address. He wondered who it was from and slid his gnarled thumbnail under the flap to lift enough paper to be able to grasp it with two fingers and rip the envelope open. Inside was a single folded sheet of writing paper. He opened it and saw with surprise it was from his son-in-law. Ellery throbbed with instant rage. He screwed up the unread paper and threw it as far from him as he could.

‘Damn him, damn him, damn him!’

‘And damn that cursed interfering fool of a psychologist. I’ll have him for this!’

The other patients and staff heard his outburst the length of the corridor. Hurried footsteps echoed as one of the staff rushed in to his room.

‘Mr Scott! Are you okay?’

‘NO I AM NOT ALL RIGHT!’

‘Please calm down Mr Scott. You’re scaring the other patients and we’ll have to sedate you unless you can control yourself.’

The nurse patted her pocket and Ellery knew that was where she kept the tranquiliser. He’d seen the staff jab patients before and he’d seen the instant slump that followed. He had no intention of being similarly dosed and strapped to his bed. It was undignified and he was determined to die a dignified death, if nothing else.

‘Now what has happened?’

‘Nothing.’

She wasn’t convinced. Ellery gave in.

‘I received a letter from someone I wish to never see or hear from again. He ruined my life and I refuse to let him be a part of mine.’

‘I can see why that would upset you Mr Scott, but you need to calm down. Now, I am going to give you something to help you settle down. Don’t look so worried, it’s a mild relaxant. It will help you sleep.’

Ellery submitted and swallowed the two round pearly white pills.

‘The drowsiness should kick in not long after dinner. Enjoy your Christmas turkey and try not to think about the letter too much. I’ll be back later to check on you. You had better be asleep, Mr Scott.’

Ellery watched her leave the room and leant his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Immediately images of Ellen danced before him and, as always, he welcomed the memories and the feeling of peace they bestowed. Ellen on her sixth birthday, missing a front tooth, gazing at him over the birthday cake, the candles reflected in her eyes. Ellen at her confirmation, in her little bride’s dress and veil, suddenly looking all serious and grown up. Ellen graduating from university, her graduand’s robes swamping her tiny frame, but the same high-wattage smile and shimmering eyes peering out from under her mortar board. Ellen on her wedding day. Ellen with her new baby. Ellen, his Ellen, his special Ellen.

Tears rolled down Ellery’s cheeks as the memories ran out and the one he was left with was Ellen lying on a trolley at the morgue. He’d had to identify her. Peter and Maggie were in hospital and Margaret was in no shape to view the body. He knew Ellen was dead; what he wasn’t prepared for were the injuries, the bruising. The image of Ellen covered in welts, her skin a livid purple, had haunted him every day since. He could not get it out of his head.

The squeaking wheel of the dinner trolley shook him from his reverie. The Filipina lady who brought in his dinner tray never spoke to him, nor he to her. But tonight, he said thank you. She didn’t look at him, but simply placed his dinner on the table, wheeled it over to his bed and left the room. Ellery looked at his plate with its lonely piece of cheap tinsel and felt something snap deep inside his body. He pushed his dinner away uneaten and succumbed to the sleep that tugged at his eyes.

Despite the tablets, Ellery did not sleep well. He dreamt vividly of Margaret and Ellen, and of Michelle and David, his older children. He finally fell into a deep sleep around dawn and did not stir until breakfast arrived. Waiting for the plates to be cleared, Ellery was fighting a very personal battle. He longed to see his granddaughter. Maggie, named for her grandmother, would be six now. He wondered whether she had lost her first tooth yet. He had missed so much. All because of his stubbornness and belligerence. He felt an unease settle upon him; he did not want to die without seeing her, but that would mean talking to Peter. He hadn’t seen him since Ellen’s funeral five years earlier.

With the effects of the sleeping pills sitting upon him heavily, Ellery allowed himself to doze for another hour. He fell again into a dream-filled sleep. This time he was in his bed at the nursing home, his head turned toward the door, which was backlit by the streaming morning sunlight. Suddenly the aged-six Ellen materialised in the doorway, smiling that unforgettable grin. Ellery held out his hand to her and the little girl came forward. Ellery returned her smile. When he awoke, Ellery felt a strange sense of peace deep in his bones. He rang for the nurse to assist him with his toilette and made a decision. He would write to Peter asking to see Maggie. It was time.

The nurse arrived and helped him walk slowly into his bathroom. She expertly removed yesterday’s clothes and helped Ellery shower and dress. She laid out his shaving gear and leant on the metal railing that ran around the room while Ellery shaved. His hand was still steady enough to scrape away the white hairs that insisted growing on the lower part of his face, despite having refused to grow on his pate for the past forty years. As he shaved the nurse spoke to him.

‘You had a visitor this morning. Two actually.’

In his surprise Ellery nicked his neck. He ignored the pain and the small trickle of blood to look up at the nurse.

‘Visitors?’

‘Yes, a man and a little girl. They came while you were asleep after breakfast.’

Ellery stared at her in amazement. He tried to stand up.

‘Where have they gone? I have to go after them!’ The panic was rising and propelled him into action despite his body’s protest.

‘Please! Sit down Mr Scott. It’s okay. They’ve gone for a drive and they said they’ll come back this afternoon after lunch.’

Ellery sat down. He took in what the nurse had said and realised he was holding his breath. He released the tension and took a great shuddering breath. It was then that he asked the nurse to help him finish his shave; his hand had started shaking.

‘Make sure you do a good job of it please nurse. I have some very important guests arriving and I want to look my best. It’s, it’s my granddaughter. My Maggie.’

The nurse smiled at Ellery. She thought he looked different. Younger. Happier.

‘Merry Christmas, Mr Scott.’

‘Merry Christmas, my dear.’

___________________

This story was first published in the Soft Whispers Magazine 2009 Christmas Special.

#fridayflash: Frozen

2009-12-18T10:02:00.006+11:00

This is a reworked version of the first piece of fiction I wrote this year.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frozen
By Lily Mulholland

Jo froze on the inside as the target emerged from the train and walked past the newsstand where she was waiting. She sucked in her breath and regained her composure. Sliding her hand inside her coat pocket, she found the paper-wrapped gum she kept for moments like these. She unwrapped it with one hand and slowly moved the stick up into her mouth. It used to be cigarettes she used to give her a reason to loiter, but since the cancer scare she'd given them up. Jo started chewing and made her move.

The target was walking quickly. If he was checking for a tail, Jo couldn't spot it. That meant one of two things: either he was unaware of her presence, or he was on the grid. A fellow spook. Shit. That would make this morning's work all the more difficult. She knew there couldn't be any cock-ups today. Spartan was counting on her.

Jo was maintaining a good distance from the black-coated man, while at the same time making it look like she wasn't in a hurry. A tricky balancing act, but one she was confident she'd mastered over the past five years. She was just about to contact Control when her target stopped dead and spun around. He peeled off his glasses and his eyes threw down a challenge as she faltered.

'Hello Josephine.'

#fridayflash: up at New Flesh Magazine

2009-12-11T20:27:00.003+11:00

And now for something completely different. A fantastical tale of skulduggery and treachery. 'The Blue Pearl' is up at New Flesh Magazine.

#fridayflash: Release

2009-12-04T08:46:00.002+11:00

Olivia let the warmth of the sand envelop her and tried to ignore the ticklish sensation as droplets of sweat rolled slowly over the contours of her body. It was hot and she liked it. A long way from home, where the weather forecast had been for ‘cold and dark’. The massage lady approached. Olivia squinted through pretend sleeping eyes. She didn’t want to give her interest away until she’d had a chance to check out her would-be torturer. Having heard stories about permanent neck damage, overly amorous masseurs and being generally unused to having strangers’ hands on her body, Olivia was understandably nervous about undergoing this Thai holiday ritual. But, she was here. She’d finally mustered up the courage to come alone. That took some doing. She hadn’t had much self-confidence since her marriage fell over so spectacularly. The massage lady had somehow sensed Olivia was watching her.

‘Massage?’

‘ Yes please,’ said Olivia in a forced, over-cheery voice.

And, she realised, too late, that she’d come up into Cobra, exposing her bare breasts to the rest of the tourists lazing on the beach. While her cheeks coloured a little, she remembered that she was far from home and knew no one on this beach – she’d patrolled it twice before dumping her stuff on her little patch of sand, just to be sure. The woman dropped her cushion at Olivia’s head and sat down.

‘300 Baht okay?’

Olivia quickly worked out the exchange rage and figured this equated to about ten Aussie dollars.

‘Okay’, she said, managing to hand over some well worn notes to the lady without further exposing herself.

How old was she? She looked ancient. Olivia didn’t get another look at the woman, as her face was pushed gently down into her towel. Olivia heard the flick of an opening bottle. Warm sticky oil pooled in the small of her back. The smell of coconut reached Olivia’s nose, reminding her of her teenage years back in Melbourne. She and her friends had slathered themselves in oil at the Ashburton Pool, trying to outdo each other in resembling a hazelnut by the end of summer. Reminiscences were cut short as surprisingly smooth hands started working the oil up and down the length of her torso. Olivia remembered to breathe. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her bare skin and she tried to suppress a shiver.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes,’ mumbled Olivia into the sand.

The smooth stroking turned into firm and then hard pressure along her back. The lady found the knots in Olivia’s shoulders and neck. She didn’t hold back, using thumbs, knuckles and even her elbows to knead and pummel Olivia’s muscles and fibres. The pain levels were increasing but Olivia resisted the urge to shout stop.

Stop it did, but then the woman rearranged herself and her hands, either side of Olivia’s head.

‘Roll over.’

Olivia did as she was commanded with as much grace as she could muster, which wasn’t much, considering she held the untied strings of her bikini top in her right hand and was using her left elbow to try to gain some kind of traction in the subsiding sand. Finally she made it onto her back and straightened up the triangles affording a small degree of modesty to her boobs.

‘Okay?’

‘Okay,’ echoed Olivia, wondering what was coming next. The woman cradled Olivia’s head in her hands. She rocked it slowly side to side, like a baby. Olivia was lulled by the sensation and thought it reminded her of warm summer days sleeping in a hammock. Crack! Olivia’s neck popped audibly as the woman wrenched it first to the left and then to the right. Two more gentle movements and Olivia’s head was once again on the towel.

‘Okay?’

‘Fuck yes! GREAT, THANK YOU!’

Olivia was finding it hard to control her voice, which had gone all loud and squeaky. The lady beamed a smile around her broken teeth, nodded and stood up. She placed her hands together, bowed slightly and farewelled Olivia with a gentle khob-kun-Ka. As Olivia watched her disappear down the beach she realised she felt fantastic. Her body was loose, relaxed and calm. All those years of therapy hadn’t done a damned thing. Ten minutes in the hands of a stranger and she felt like a new woman. She felt released.

Flashing at Bewildering Stories

2009-11-30T21:07:00.002+11:00

One of my flash fiction pieces, 'Dental Check', is now up at Bewildering Stories. Head on over for a chuckle if you haven't seen it before or if you'd like to read it again.

#fridayflash: The touchstone

2009-11-27T08:37:00.002+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

The doorbell rang, startling Eleonor, who was asleep on the couch, feet tucked under her bottom, magazine across her chest. The magazine slid to the floor as Eleonor swung her feet down to the Persian rug. She anchored herself before standing up; she’d been having dizzy spells again and wondered whether her blood pressure was dipping. Not having had time to get to the doctor recently, Eleonor was self-diagnosing – something she was becoming quite good at these past few years.

Peering through the peephole, Eleonor recognised Jules, her neighbour. Eleonor was relieved; she hadn’t been expecting visitors and knew her hair looked dreadful, not to mention she was still in her pyjamas and it was well past lunchtime. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, remembering to focus on Jules’ face and give her a smile of welcome. Eleonor didn’t like having visitors, even if it was Jules, who, in addition to living next door, was her best friend. Actually her only real friend; the others, from before the change, had faded away, becoming more acquaintance than bosom buddy.

‘Hey Eleonor! How’re you going?’

‘Oh, pretty good thanks Jules. Um, do you want to come in?’ Eleonor was focused on the doorstep by now.

‘Well, I think we’ll both be more comfortable inside,’ Jules said.

Eleonor ushered Jules into the front room and bade her sit on one of two highbacked sofas she had in there. The light inside the room was dim, although it was a bright sunny day outside, but that was the way Eleonor liked it. She knew Jules was becoming used to her foibles, so didn’t force herself to open the blinds the smidgin she conceded to on rare occasions when she had other guests.

‘Can I get you a cuppa?’

‘No thanks Ellie, I can’t stay long.’ Jules was the only one who had a pet name for her. Not even her parents had called her by any name other than Eleonor.

‘I’ve got some news. Fred and I are going to Japan!’

Eleonor’s face told the story. She looked devastated. Jules, knowing each one of Eleonor’s looks, picked her up on it immediately.

‘On a holiday, you silly! Fred’s work is sending him over to attend a conference and partners have been invited. We’re staying on an extra week to see Tokyo and Kyoto and a few other places we’ve wanted to see for ages.’

‘Oh...that’s great,’ Eleonor managed.

‘I’ve come to ask if you’ll be right to get the mail while I’m away.’

Eleonor looked at her friend to see if this was some kind of prank; Jules’s sense of humour was pretty well developed. She was looking pretty serious though and her body language wasn’t giving anything away. Jules jiggled a little when she was up to something.

‘I’m not sure Jules. Can’t you ask someone else?’

Looking at her friend, the blonde girl tried very hard not to show her frustration.

‘Eleonor, it’s your mail. I’m not asking you to collect mine – Ethel from across the road will do it. But I can’t ask her to get yours too. Come on, you’ve made a lot of progress over the past three months. You only have to take a few more steps down the path to the letterbox. I have confidence in you Ellie. You can do it.’

Looking doubtful, Eleonor acceded. Jules had been so supportive after Max had died. She’d visited Eleonor in hospital every couple of days, looked after her house during the coroner’s investigation and taken charge of repainting and recarpeting the room where Max died. None of Eleonor’s family had come until Max’s funeral and they refused to stay with Eleonor, not wanting to ‘intrude’. Eleonor retreated mentally and physically from her old life and refused to leave the house; she was connected to Max and couldn’t bear to leave the last place she had seen him. The months ticked by. She had her groceries home delivered and paid her bills online. In the Internet age she had no need to leave the house. Work had given her indefinite leave and Max’s life insurance payout was keeping the roof over her head.

‘Listen, I’ve got to go. We haven’t packed yet and the cab is booked for five tomorrow morning – we’ve got an early flight.’

Jules stood up and gave her friend a kiss on the cheek.

‘We’ll be back in ten days. I’ll look in on you as soon as we get back. Your letterbox had better be empty!’ Jules’s admonishment was half in jest, but Eleonor didn’t want to let her down. She owed a great debt to Jules.

* * *

Eleonor stood on her doorstep, meditating on the tilework that led to her front door. She did her breathing exercises and, on the fifth breath out, lifted and fixed her eyes on the edge of the veranda. She took the four steps she knew would take her to the top step leading down to the concrete path. She paused and breathed. So far, so good. She had made it to the bottom step the day before Jules had visited and she was confident she could make it as far again. She took them one at a time, trying to keep her eyes focused on each new step, not daring to look further in front of her. The shimmering haze that threatened to overwhelm her was building in her peripheral vision. Eleonor took a deep breath and looked for her next milestone. The letterbox. She remembered the counsellor’s advice. Channel your energy into a touchstone. Set your inner mind on reaching that touchstone. Focus and move. Don’t think about anything else till you reach it. Then, when you’re there, breathe, take stock and find your next touchstone. It’ll be slow going, but you will succeed if you persist.

Eleonor looked to where she knew the letterbox to be. Touchstone.

Short story published!

2009-11-23T14:59:00.005+11:00

If you fancy some Christmas-themed reading, why not grab yourself a copy of Soft Whispers Mag's Christmas special? At USD$6.25 for a print edition, it's the perfect stocking filler. Or you can grab a PDF for only $2.25. In it you'll find my short story, 'An Elementary Christmas'.

#fridayflash: The prisoner

2009-11-20T08:18:00.001+11:00

Some readers will recognise this piece as my entry in the 2009 MicroHorror Halloween contest. It didn't win, but I like it enough to want to post it here for my #fridayflash friends.

* * *

The Prisoner

By Lily Mulholland

I am awoken by a noise I do not understand. I am wet and cold, mortally so. Enough light trickles in through cracks around the door for me to see that the floor is made of stone. Hand-hewn rock with deep channels between has been my bed for hours unknown. I do not know how it happened that I am here. I draw myself up from my erstwhile mattress and every fiber of my body screams its protest. I have been transported, although I do not recall from where or by whom. What I know now is that I am prisoner in this frigid cell. I lift my hand and the sound of chains accompanies the resistant pressure on my wrist. I am shackled. The distant rumbling that woke me sounds again. This time I feel it in my bones. What is that noise? So loud, so inhuman?

I hear footsteps. They echo within my rocky room and I cannot discern whether they approach or recede. I tuck myself as far back toward the wall as I can and draw my knees up under my chin. I am freezing. The footsteps grow louder and a key is inserted in a lock. Twice it turns before I understand that it is my door that is about to open. The light that floods my cell is blinding. I try to shield my eyes with my hands, but the restraints pull them tight. I bow my aching head and offer up a prayer to the gods to spare me from torture.

The guard does not speak as he comes toward me. I shrink back into myself and will my heart to stop beating so fast. A surprise. A tray with food and drink is placed in front of me. The guard leaves and locks the door without a word. I am ravenous. I feed like a dog, on my hands and knees, my head low to the floor. I tear strips of meat with my teeth and swallow them without tasting. I wash the food down my throat with what I discover to be beer. Sated, I push the tray away and rest against the wall.

Although still wet and cold, the beer has warmed me and the food has quenched my hunger. For the first time since I awoke I wonder to the future. Where am I? Why am I here? Although the light is still dim, I can see bruises on my arms and legs. I must have been tied up. And then I remember; I was sold.

A new noise startles me. A terrible howling reverberates through my cell. The sound is animal and unmistakable: mastiffs. Fighting dogs. I shudder.

I hear the sound of footsteps again. This time there is more than one person coming. The door opens with a clang and a guard kneels before me and unfastens my manacles. The two men lift me to my feet and march me out into the passageway. I ask them where they are taking me but they do not answer from under their headgear.

I am tossed into a new room with the door locked behind me. This room couldn’t be more different. It’s full of people. Full of men; naked, semi-dressed and robed. I am escorted to a table, my stinking clothes cut from my body. Oiled from head to toe, my skin is sloughed clean. My hair is washed. I am dressed in clean white robes. I ask the slave why such care is being lavished upon me. He will not meet my eyes. I am shown into the next room. A deafening roar fills my ears and I see the other men in the room shudder with fear. Before I can ask any questions, the roar is answered by tormented howling.

My knuckles grow white gripping the seat. I know where I am. Roma. Il Colosseo. I am to fight to the death with starving dogs for the entertainment of the people.

#fridayflash: Special delivery

2009-11-13T08:46:00.003+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

I screw the lid on the flask, being careful not to spill the contents. It took a lot of effort to fill it and I didn’t want to waste a drop. Wrapping the flask in foil to keep it warm, I place it securely in my messenger bag.

Skipping down the stairs, two at a time, two at a time, two at a time, I descend to the basement where I store my bike. The apartment is too small to hang even a hook on the wall. Fortunately no one else in the block seems to ride. They all take a bus or walk. A lucky few have a car. Well, I sometimes think they’re lucky, but they pay for the privilege, that’s for sure.

I carry my bike up the stairs to the foyer and wheel it out the door. Making sure my messenger bag is sitting in the middle of my back, so it won’t swing around when I mount my bike, I push off and dive out into traffic. As I dart between cars and zip around buses, I can’t keep the stupid smile off my face. I’m wondering if anyone else threading their way through the city is carrying millions of sperm on their back. Then I think of possums – the way they carry their young, clinging tight with a concrete hold to the folds of their mothers’ skin. Then I feel silly. I’m not a possum. I’m a guy hoping to make a buck from tossing off.

I pedal faster, knowing I only have fifteen minutes to get the little fellas in the door and processed. I make it to the clinic with a couple of minutes to spare, park and lock my bike outside and head in to the collection counter.

Damn. There’s a hot chick behind the counter and I feel my cheeks start to ping. That’s not all that’s pinging either and I’m wearing cycling pants. I slide my messenger bag around in front of my crotch, like a shield.

Making eye contact with the clerk, I retrieve the flask and place it up on the counter.

‘Been here before?’ she asks.

‘No. I registered online and this is my first time.’ I feel like an idiot when I realise our conversation sounds exactly like an RSVP first date.

I give her my details and she looks me up on the database.

‘Fine. Your blood test and initial sample results are here. So you received your donation kit?

I nod.

‘Did you fill the flask up to the line as specified?’ she asks me.

‘Line?’ I ask.

One plucked eyebrow ascends and she looks at me the same way Mrs McGurk looked at me in Grade Three.

‘We can’t take your sample if it’s not up to the line.’

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I didn’t notice a line. I filled it.’

She stares at me.

‘To the top?’

I look at her, unsure what to say. The moment is rather awkward, as we continue to stare at each other. I look at my watch. She fixes me with one last look, trying to work out whether I’m pulling her leg or in earnest.

‘Yes, and I worked really hard to get it here within the fifteen minutes,’ I say, trying not to let my embarrassment strangle my epiglottis. It wouldn’t do to be talking like an eight-year-old, as well as feeling like one.

Her eyebrow descends; she’s made up her mind.

‘Okay Mr Scott, thank you for coming in today. If your specimen meets our criteria, you’ll receive your cheque in the mail,’ she says in a bored tone. She places my carefully wrapped package on a turntable and spins it round so it disappears behind the partition. My little fellas have begun their journey.

Understanding I’ve been dismissed, I head back out to my bike. A little tear forms in the corner of my eye; I feel like I’ve just waved off a child on his first day at school.

#fridayflash: Dog's best friend

2009-11-06T08:17:00.002+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

Max headed into the bar. Rocky was already there, three sheets to the wind. Max nodded to the bartender, who knew to send down two of the finest. He poured the shots and whizzed the glasses down the well polished bar. It was a neat trick. One glass stopped in front of Max, the other in front of Rocky.

‘Max,’ grunted Rocky in greeting.

Max saluted his friend with the glass before downing its contents and signalling for another.

‘Wassup?’ asked Rocky.

‘Lemme just get this into me. I need it after the day I’ve had.’ Max slugged the second shot and slumped down on the barstool next to Rocky.

Rocky raised an expectant eyebrow.

‘Got the vet’s bill today.’

‘And?’

‘Five hundred. For a freaking teeth clean.’

‘Jaysus. That’s more than my kid’s orthodontist’s bill.’

‘Aint that the truth.’

Max signalled for another round.

‘Yeah, and that isn't the worst of it. Vet tells me that I’ll have to bring him in twice a year for a teeth clean – that’s ten thousand over ten years! I should’ve got me some of that pet insurance.’

‘Jaysus.’

Max and Rocky stared at the TV above the bar.

‘Who’s winning?’ asked Max.

‘Dunno.’

‘And,’ continued Max, ‘the vet tells me that I’m likely to have to fork out for a full tooth extraction after about ten years. That’s another three freakin’ thousand.’

‘Jaysus mate. Is that normal?’ asked Rocky, dragging his attention from the game.

‘Yeah, the vet says it’s normal with this breed.’

‘Shoulda got yerself a smaller pet. Like a goldfish. They don’t have nearly as many problems,’ said Rocky, with just a dash of irony.

‘Yeah, I reckon I was sold a pup.’

‘You gonna get it put down?’

‘What’ll I tell the kids?’

‘That it’s gawn to live on a farm?’

‘That oldie. Don’t know if they’d go for it. They know humans were kicked off their farms after the Overthrow.’

‘Damn. They teach kids too much at puppy school these days,’ said Rocky.

‘Yeah, not like the good old days where all we had to worry about was chasing balls and catching frisbees.’

‘Ah well, dogs rule the world now. We’d better get used to the responsibility, I spose.’

Rocky checked his watch.

‘Well the missus will be wondering where I am. Best head off. It’s bath night. My job to make sure the kids haven’t picked up any fleas at school this week. There’s been an outbreak apparently.’

‘Righto mate. Give the missus a sniff for me. Tell her Princess says hi and we’ll see you on the weekend.’

‘Save a snag for me,’ said Rocky as he shrugged on his leather coat and padded out the door.

Poem: Herbaceous Heart

2009-10-31T22:42:00.002+11:00

A little poem I wrote for a competition at Positive Words was short-listed! I took a few risks with this poem, as you will see. The challenge was to write a poem of ten lines or less and it had to contain the word "vegetable". I give you "Herbaceous Heart".

Herbaceous heart

Peel me like a vegetable, pare back my dirty skin
Reveal the juicy flesh that is hiding deep within.

Strip away my outer leaves, slough off the grains of dirt
Grasp me with your farmer’s hands, but not so tight it hurts.

Sink your teeth into my pulp, caress my pithy core
Taste my juices sweet and sour, always wanting more.

Put me down then pick me up, it’s me you know you’ll choose
Handle me with care my love, you know I always bruise.

#fridayflash: Compulsion

2009-10-30T07:32:00.002+11:00

This week's #fridayflash is the final installment of a three-part story. While each has been written so it can be read as a stand-alone piece, you might want to read Immersion and Emergence before you read Compulsion. On the other hand, you might just like to dive straight in!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By Lily Mulholland

Tom stretched like a cat and thought he might start to purr any minute. A pleasurable shudder hummed through his body as he remembered last night. He rolled onto his side and brushed Caroline’s cheek with his lips. She’d called him five minutes after he’d walked her home from the restaurant and asked to see him again the next day. He cleared his afternoon meetings and they’d spent the afternoon and evening feasting upon each other and rediscovering the unbridled bliss that awaits two perfectly compatible lovers.

He had wanted to dive deep inside Caroline as soon as he’d spotted her drinking champagne in the theatre foyer. He had noticed the empty seats around her and took his chances that no one else would arrive to claim their seat just before the play started. She’d disarmed him with her smile and he wanted to know everything about her. And after she had wept in his arms yesterday afternoon he wanted no other man to have her. She’d started sobbing, her face contorted and turned in on itself, as they fucked for the first time. He stopped, thinking he was hurting her somehow, but she’d managed to convince him, despite her distress, that she was fine and he kept going long enough to bring them both to a frenzied climax. When she’d composed herself, she told him that it had been two years since she’d made love and the built-up stress had opened like a floodgate as she’d started to orgasm. He was amazed he could have such an effect on her and that she was so open to him. He felt so protective. He wanted to hold her in his arms and never let her go. He did let her go, but only so that they could get inside each other again. And again. He was exhausted, but in the nicest possible way.

‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I have an early meeting today and I can’t put it off, as much as I’d like to. That, and I think I need the rest,’ he said, smiling at Caroline.

‘When can I see you again?’

‘Well, I’m back next Tuesday. Shall we have dinner?’

‘I’ll cook for you. I want you here,’ she said.

He kissed her deeply, his dick betraying him and rising again to the occasion. He tore himself from Caroline’s lips and made a dash for the shower before he changed his mind.

Caroline stood on her tiptoes to kiss Tom’s cheek as he left. He bent down and buried his head in her neck and her hair. He took a deep breath and inhaled her scent. It drove him crazy.

‘I’ve got to go. See you Tuesday night.’

She watched him walk to the lift and closed the door gently.

***********

It was a beautiful day. The sun was lighting up the new leaves on the oak trees that were the knockout feature of the park. The red tiled roof on the rotunda took on a new lustre and the pathways cut through the verdant grass like shiny white snakes. Children were playing, couples were strolling and all Tom could think of was Caroline.

She was extraordinary. He’d never met anyone like her and could feel himself falling for her in a way he’d never thought possible. He longed to feel her smooth legs wrapped around his back again as he pushed deeper inside her tight, warm flesh.

‘Tom!’

He was jolted out of his reverie by the sharp tone. He looked up and Clare was standing in front of him, hands on hips, blocking out the sun.

‘Sorry. What is it?’

‘In case you haven’t noticed, it’s going to rain. We have to get the kids into the car before they get soaked.’

He looked up at the sky. She was right. She was always right. The gorgeous day was being swallowed by a dangerous sky and they were about to be chased out of the park by a sudden spring deluge. He jumped up and started tossing the picnic things into the basket and shaking out the blanket.

Clare and the kids were already at the car when Tom saw Caroline. She was in running gear but was standing as still as a statue on the grass near the rotunda, shoulders slumped, looking toward him. He was paralysed.

‘Tom! C’mon!’

It was Clare calling for him to hurry. As he gathered up the basket and blanket the skies opened and heavy rain pummelled the skin on his head and arms. He looked over to the rotunda. Caroline was gone.

He turned and headed for the car. The drenching rain washed the tears from his cheeks but not the sudden grief that tore at his heart.

Submission accepted!

2009-10-28T20:47:00.004+11:00

I'm so excited that one of my flash fiction pieces, 'Book Club', is going to be published in the S oft Whispers Magazine Halloween special. The magazine is a free PDF-only edition that will be released at 12:00am on 31 October. Don't forget to grab a copy for some spoooooooooky reading!

Reading: Runaway

2009-10-24T21:18:00.007+11:00

I read/heard somewhere someone raving on about Alice Munro's short stories and recommending her 2004 collection, 'Runaway'. I ordered it from the Book Depository and it arrived a month or two back. I read the first story, also called 'Runaway', and wasn't exactly blown away. I put the book down for a couple of weeks, but then the 'New York Times Book Review Best Book of the Year' gold sticker on the front kept calling my name. I figured if they thought it was THAT good then, perhaps, I should give it another go, so I did. The next three stories are fantastic. They're all linked through the central character and present different slices of her life. I am starting to see why Ms Munro is so highly esteemed. The world she has created in three 'chapters' is deep, layered and totally believable. I do, however, find the writing style to be a little disconcerting. The narrator seems to know too much, and sometimes I hear the author's voice coming through, which bumps me right out of the story. That being said though, the characters pull you back in. You want to know more. There are four more stories, not linked, from what I can tell, to those I've just read. If they're as good, I'll be very happy indeed.

#fridayflash: Emergence

2009-10-23T10:06:00.000+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

Checking her teeth in the mirror, Caroline saw that, once again, her slightly protruding front right tooth had caught the lipstick. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, there was always an echo of colour where there should only be white. She carefully wiped it off with her finger and cleaned it on a towel. She ran her hands over her hair to tame the flyaways.

‘Not too bad’, she thought, ‘for someone who’s had three glasses of bubbly. No, make that four! I forgot the one I had before the play.’ She giggled nervously to herself and stopped. This was no time to be silly. Tom was waiting for her at their booth and she had been in here ten minutes already trying to calm herself down. The night was going well. Too well. Then the bombshell.

‘So, which part of Canberra do you live in?’ he’d asked her.

‘Actually I live just a couple of blocks down.’

‘Oh really? Do you work in town too?’

‘Well, sort of. I’m a freelance writer so I work from my apartment. I have lots of government clients who keep me busy, but my passion is fiction.’

‘Had anything published?’

‘Only a couple of short stories. I’m actually writing the first draft of a novel right now.’

‘Right now?’ he’d asked with a smile. ‘Does that mean I’m going to be in it?’

She laughed. A funny guy. That made her relax a bit. She’d been sitting bolt upright for the past two hours, trying not to speak too quickly as she felt the seductive tentacles of the champagne stealthily travel through her body. They’d been discussing the play and she’d tried not to be too obviously female in her criticism of The Taming of the Shrew’s storyline. Fortunately he’d said it for her and had agreed that the cast had done a great job of keeping contemporary such an anachronistic storyline.

‘And which part of Canberra do you live in?’ she asked Tom in return.

‘I don’t. I live in Sydney but commute here most weeks for work. I run a change management consultancy and most of my key clients are here.’

She’d tried to hide her disappointment.

‘So how did you come to be at the show?’

‘One of my clients, who’s also a mate, was supposed to come with his wife, but they’ve both got swine flu. He gave the tickets to me. I had no one to bring with me, hence the empty seat next to me.’

‘Oh.’

She must have looked disappointed, as Tom reached over and placed his hand over hers.

‘I do fly into Canberra most weeks.’

She smiled. That was something. It was at that point in the conversation that Caroline had realised she really needed to go to the toilet.

‘Will you excuse me a minute? I have to go and powder my nose.’

Tom had stood up as she’d left the table and watched her walk to the ladies’ room.

‘Right, Caroline, get a grip.’ She was talking out loud. ‘The man of your dreams is waiting for you. Get your butt out there and be interesting!’

Tom stood again as she sat down. He pushed her chair in for her and sat in the one next to her, rather than across the other side of the table where he’d been earlier.

She could smell his aftershave and see the pores on the skin of his neck. She tried to concentrate, but had an overwhelming urge to snuggle her face into him, as she had done for the second half of the play.

‘May I walk you home?’

Caroline looked up, startled.

‘Well, you live so close, it’s the least I could do.’

‘I, er, um, yes, that would be lovely.’

Her mind was racing. Was this goodbye, thanks for coming, see you later, or was this can I come back to your place? She tried to remember if the place was a mess but her train of thought was cut off by Tom standing up and placing two fifties on the table and nodding to the waiter. The waiter brought Caroline’s coat and Tom helped her into it.

‘After you,’ he said.

Outside the restaurant, Caroline was grateful she’d worn a coat. It was freezing. Tom saw her shiver and put his arm around her shoulder. She was enveloped by his scent and did her best not to actually swoon.

‘Which way?’

‘Down Constitution and two blocks up Allara.’

‘Which building?’

‘It’s called The One. Pretty pretentious, but it’s got a killer view.’

She winced. Perhaps she shouldn’t say ‘killer’ to a man she’d just met. A man about whom she knew very little other than he lived in Sydney and worked in Canberra. And he liked Shakespeare. A man she should probably not be inviting back to her apartment. But it had been so long since she’d felt attracted to a man, and so long since she’d had sex. She didn’t know if she could hold out if that’s what Tom was escorting her home for.

They walked along without saying much, and Caroline decided to just enjoy the moment. Before long they were in the foyer of her building. Before she could ask him if he wanted to come up, Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out his business card.

‘I would like to see you again Caroline. Here’s my mobile and my email. Please call me. Soon.’

With that he pulled her into an embrace and kissed her gently on the forehead. He walked her to the lift and pushed the button. Caroline was incapable of speaking as she stepped into the lift. Tom gave her a small wave and a big smile. She felt warm and wonderful inside.

#fridayflash: Immersion

2009-10-16T10:57:00.002+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

The ‘new items in your inbox’ reminder flashed up on the screen and Caroline tried to ignore it again. She was immersed in writing her novel and, after a slow start, the narrative was finally starting to take shape. The tension was building in her neck and she realised she hadn’t taken a break for a couple of hours. Caroline straightened her shoulders and uncurled her fingers from the keyboard. She decided a cup of coffee was in order.

After a quick trip to the loo and to the kitchen, Caroline sat back at her walnut desk and placed her ringed coffee cup on its coaster. She didn’t want to mark the golden brown wood she’d so lovingly restored after rescuing the desk from a second hand furniture store.

Before picking up the thread of her story, Caroline remembered she had email to check. She skipped over the one from her mum; she knew it would be the same old story. Her eyes went to the ACT Writers Centre email with the subject line ‘Re: Shrew’. Her heart jumped and she double clicked as quickly as she could to open the message.

Dear Caroline, congratulations! You’ve won a double pass to The Taming of the Shrew at 6.30pm on Monday night at the Playhouse Theatre. Collect your tickets from the box office 30 minutes prior to the performance. Enjoy the play! Regards, Sassafras.

Caroline laughed. She never won anything, but had entered the competition anyway. And then she remembered she had no one to take. Mike was becoming a memory and her girlfriends were knee-deep in offspring. She didn’t think any of them would appreciate the start time anyway. Caroline sighed. She’d have to go by herself. If she went at all.

Monday rolled around and Caroline had made a lot of progress on her novel. Not that it was any good. She’d been trying to write it for years, but had always found an excuse to not start. But this year she’d signed up to NaNoWriMo, a crazy annual novel-writing concept where writers attempt to bash out fifty thousand words during November. This was the kind of stress she could handle, but only just. If she failed, the only person disappointed would be herself. She hadn’t nominated any writing buddies – that would be too much pressure.

Nonetheless, Caroline had dived in and started writing. She was half-way through, with two weeks up her sleeve. She decided to go to the play as a reward for being so good. She planned to get there fifteen minutes before show time so she’d have enough time to swallow a glass of champagne and get herself warmed up. The confidence that came with alcohol would be enough to suppress any embarrassment she’d feel at being there alone.

**********

Caroline drained her glass just as the bells started ringing. It was time to go in. She held her tickets in her hand and realised she had two just in time to rip one off and ditch it before the usher could see she was on her own. As she slid into her seat, Caroline fought off a wave of humiliation. She was front and centre, six rows from the front. Everyone in the stalls and the balconies could see she was on her own – her neighbours hadn’t yet taken their seats. She studied the program furiously.

Engrossed as she was, Caroline didn’t notice the man trying to squeeze past her until he was almost sitting in her lap.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

Caroline said nothing but her cheeks coloured. She again found something very important to read in the program. Within minutes the lights dimmed and an actor strolled out onto the stage. Caroline eased her shoulders back and relaxed. She loved Shakespeare.

The champagne had done its work and loosened her up nicely. Before long she’d forgotten she was on her own and was laughing out loud at the antics of Petruchio and Cambio (also known as Lucentio). She didn’t laugh quite so hard at The Shrew. The unmistakable scent of misogyny perfumed the air and her feminist sensibilities refused to just enjoy the show. Caroline was pleased to see that the actress playing The Shrew was delivering her lines laced with sarcasm – surely a pointer to the cast’s understanding that the play, while hilarious, was an undoubted anachronism?

It was while Caroline was wrestling with these thoughts as well as trying to keep up with the machine-gun-fast dialogue that she felt the unfamiliar contact of flesh against hers. Her arm burnt at the touch of the man seated next to her. Caroline fought against the urge to whip her arm away. It had been so long since a man had touched her that it had shocked her. More shocking was that he did not remove his arm from her space; in fact he seemed to press it harder against her arm.

She snuck a look at him but he did not seem to notice; his eyes were sparkling as he followed the action onstage. Where her arm had been on fire moments earlier, it now seemed to be warm and felt good. Caroline dared to let her left leg move imperceptibly closer to the man’s. Soon they were touching. Caroline felt excitement course through her body from her toes to her crown. After a few minutes more the man placed his right arm around Caroline’s shoulders and gently pulled her in close. She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. She knew how the play ended.

#Fridayflash: Dental Check

2009-10-09T08:25:00.003+11:00

By Lily Mulholland

Eddie eased himself back in the chair. The squeaking noises coming from under his backside took him back to childhood, when his mother had literally forced him to come. She had peeled his fingers from the car door one afternoon and tanned his hide with such emphasis that Eddie never did it again.

‘Comfortable?’ peeped the dental assistant.

‘Ah, yeah, sure,’ he said. He was clearly uncomfortable – his nails were digging trenches in the vinyl armrests.

‘Great,’ she chirped. ‘I’ll go and let Dr Ron know that you’re ready. Back in a jiffy.’

‘Okayay.’ Eddie found himself unconsciously mimicking her singsong voice.

He stared up at the ceiling, taking in the thoughtfully placed laminated pictures of waterfalls and beach scenes. He realised he was holding his breath and made an effort to try to breathe normally. That made him think of the time Fiona had tried to teach him one of her new age breathing techniques she’d picked up at yoga. Or was it pilates? He couldn’t remember. She’d tried to convince him to meditate before he went to sleep. He’d rather have just fucked her – his favourite stress relief technique. Fiona, on the other hand, loved sex but it didn’t put her to sleep. It got her thinking, usually about what Eddie was thinking about.

‘You have to breathe in through your left nostril and out through your right,’ she’d said.

‘Are you pulling my leg?’

‘No Eddie, I’m trying to help you. Now concentrate.’

Eddie tried and to his complete amazement he found that he could actually do it.

‘I’m doing it Fiona!’

‘Good boy, Eddie,’ she’d said, her voice tinged with the slightest hint of sarcasm. ‘Now keep it going for the next ten minutes.’

Eddie was asleep in two. Fiona had pretty much given up after that. He hadn’t seen her in a while. He tried to remember how long it had been.

Eddie’s reminiscences were interrupted by the arrival of Dr Ron, in whose wake followed Chirpy and possibly her sister, Tweety.

‘Hello Mr Andresen!’ Dr Ron spoke in exclamation marks.

‘How are we today?’ And the ‘royal we’.

‘Fine thanks,’ mumbled Eddie. He wasn’t one for small talk.

‘So, we’re in for a root canal, eh?’ asked Dr Ron.

‘Apparently.’

‘Well, I’d like to say it won’t hurt a bit, but I’d be lying!’

Eddie watched on as Tweedledum and Tweedledee buzzed around Dr Ron, fitting him with new gloves, a mask and goggles, laying out equipment on trays, and filling two large syringes with what he hoped was the good stuff.

Dr Ron seated himself and spun around with a flourish towards Eddie. He pulled the light down close over Eddie’s face.

‘Open wide!’

Eddie opened his mouth and closed his eyes. His fingers were interlocked across his chest, a tight bridge of knuckles. He tried to think of something relaxing as Dr Ron stuffed several cotton wads into Eddie’s right cheek. He settled on Fiona’s breasts. They really were something. That creamy white skin with two perfect little strawberries. He felt a familiar warm feeling in his pants until the prick of the steel needle in his gum killed it dead.

He’d already had a root canal on the left side, performed by a no-nonsense army dentist last year. Since he’d got out he’d had to pay for his own dental work. That had been a shock. So here he was, subjected to the blindingly white smiles of Dr Ron and his two bimbettes.

The smell of anaesthetic was overpowering and making him feel sick. Eddie watched as Dr Ron withdrew the needle and asked Chirpy for the second one. Dr Ron hovered the needle over the insertion point on the inside of the gum.

‘Are we okay?’

Eddie tried to say no, but with a face full of cotton and half a fist already in his mouth, it came out as a tortured kind of assent. Dr Ron pushed the needle deep into the gum. Eddie passed out.

**********

‘Welcome back Mr Andresen.’

Eddie heard Chirpy’s voice.

‘You’ve been asleep for quite some time.’

Eddie tried to open his eyes, but the lids felt so heavy.

Eddie’s tongue felt its way along the teeth on the bottom right side of his gum. Everything felt normal, apart from the inevitable bruising. He tried to bring his hand up to rub his jaw, but he couldn’t lift his hand. Either hand. Eddie tried again and realised that his four limbs were held fast in restraints.

‘What the fuck?’

‘I’m afraid you’re in no state to go anywhere Mr Andresen.’ The voice had taken on a different tone.

Eddie tried to open his eyes again. He half succeeded. Enough to see that he was no longer in Dr Ron’s rooms, but was in a large oval shaped room devoid of any furniture other than the bed he was in.

‘What the hell is going on?’

‘We’ve harvested your X chromosomes Mr Andresen.’

‘My what?’

‘Your sperm Mr Andresen. But only those carrying the X chromosome. We require them for our breeding program.’

‘Breeding program?’

‘We have completed phase one of our absorption program and taken sufficient breeders for our start-up requirements. A major undertaking, but suitable young women were easily sourced by Dr Ron.’

‘We are now in phase two. We require human X chromosomes to mate with ours. Once mated, the embryos will be implanted into the breeders, creating the perfect beings.’

Eddie’s head was spinning.

‘Perfect beings? What the fucking hell are you talking about?’

‘It’s not important. You have served your purpose. Once you are fully recovered, you’ll be returned to your apartment. Don’t bother talking to the authorities. Your army medical file has been altered to show you were discharged due to paranoid delusion.’

Eddie stared at Chirpy with her sickening white smile. It was only then that he was struck with the terrifying thought of how exactly they’d stolen his sperm.

Story accepted at MicroHorror

2009-10-07T08:39:00.002+11:00

As part of my experimentation in genre, I've written another dark fiction piece and submitted it to MicroHorror for its 2009 Story Contest. It's up on MicroHorror now. Click here to read 'Prisoner'.

#fridayflash: A Reservoir Dog

2009-10-02T09:21:00.000+10:00

- Why am I Mr Yellow?

- Because you’re a faggot! All right?

- Why can’t we pick our own colours?

- No way. Tried it once. It doesn’t work. You get four guys all fightin’ over who gets to be Mr. Black.

******************************

- I just don’t think we’re gettin’ our cut, all right?

- But we’re not the lead act. We’re just the support.

- So you think I’m getting a big head then, do you?

- Nah, I just think you should realise that this isn’t about you.

- Yeah, but you’re gettin’ your own show. Bet you’ll get paid a lot more now.

- Well you need to pitch your ideas for your own show – that’s what I did. I’ve been working my backside off, brown-nosing Mr Blue for years.

- I don’t think he’d go for it. Mr Blue’s got it in for me.

- Well try Mr Purple. You know he’s got Mr Blue’s ear.

- Mr Purple? He’s a lightweight, always smoking ‘herbal’ cigarettes. Maybe I could have a go with Mr Red. He’s kinda goofy. Might be more prepared to listen to me.

- Well just don’t come over all aggressive. You’re a bit like a dog with a bone sometimes, you know.

- I know, I just can’t shake this off. I feel like we’re being stiffed. You know what I saw the other day? Our faces – yours, mine, Henry’s and Dorothy’s – on toddler wipes. Toddler wipes I tell you! That’s what the skivs think of us. They think we’re shit – literally!

- Well that’s what you signed up for when you got the contract.

- Sure, but –

- Hey Henry, you happy with your gig?

- Bahreebop Wags! Bahreebop Cap’n. What’s going on? I thought we were supposed to be rehearsing.

- Old Wagsy here reckons the fab four are scrooging him

– Dude you’ve gottta chill out. You get plenty of bones and there’s plenty of bitches in the crowd. I gotta tell you, I’ve got my eight hands full with those yummy mummies backstage every afternoon! Maybe you should get Dorothy to make you a cup of rosy tea – that’ll help settle you down.

- Henry, you’re such a fag. I’m outta here. You pussies can keep kissing those Wiggles’ butts, but I’m gone. Ciao ciao fellas.

Before Wags can get any further, Captain Feathersword unsheathes his blade.

- Have you lost your fuckin’ mind? I’m not gonna let you make a terrible mistake.

Wags, sensing a challenge, turns around and bares his teeth. Henry tries to intervene.

- Come on, guys. Nobody wants this.

Wags snarls at Henry. Henry starts to fidget and his trademark giggle consumes him. Wags advances on Captain Feathersword, who turns his sword on himself and attempts hara-kiri. He doesn’t get far; his sword is a fuchsia feather.

Dorothy, who has been watching from behind the scrim, rolls her eyes and worries for the future.

‘We’re supposed to be fuckin’ professionals.’

************

With apologies to Quentin Tarantino. The dialogue in italics is from the Reservoir Dogs script. The rest is mine :)

A leap of faith

2009-09-30T14:02:00.003+10:00

Posting our stories on our blogs is taking a big leap of faith. We trust that whether our readers love or loathe our writing, they will respect the author for putting it 'out there' for the greater good.

What we don't expect is for someone to steal it.

Unfortunately, there are some unscrupulous bastards out there. Here's one of them, exposed by a very good and diligent writer. Richard Ridyard, reap what you sow.

#fridayflash: Book Club

2009-09-25T09:23:00.002+10:00

By Lily Mulholland

Fran ran her white-gloved right hand along the smooth spine of the book she held carefully in her left. She couldn’t believe she was holding a very rare first edition imprint of a Henry James. She loved his work and had coveted The Two Magics but knew she couldn’t afford the asking price for a first.

‘May I open it?’ she asked its owner.

‘If you wish. My interest is in the covers. I don’t much care for the contents.’

Fran paused for a moment, taking in the man’s expression. He was looking at her quite strangely, with a faraway look in his eyes. She remembered to keep her face impassive, recalling the feedback she’d had at work recently. They’d had to undergo the torturous process of a three-sixty degree review and several of her co-workers at the library had commented – anonymously of course – that they felt Fran looked down on them. That she often wore a look of contempt on her face when they were talking to her. Fran’s cheeks burned with embarrassment at the recollection. She didn’t think badly of her colleagues. She just often couldn’t hear them properly and had to concentrate extra hard to understand what they were saying.

When she realised she was blushing, she felt even more uncomfortable, knowing the man would think she was blushing because of what he’d said to her.

‘Get a grip, Fran.’ And now she was talking to herself. And all the while the man was watching her. She carefully opened the book and quickly read a few lines of her favourite James story, The Turn of the Screw. She closed the book and placed it carefully back on the stand.

‘It’s in wonderful condition,’ she said to the man, avoiding his inscrutable gaze, as she removed the cotton gloves.

‘To the untrained eye, perhaps. When I purchased it the cover had been water damaged. If you look closely you will see that the leather is perishing and beyond repair. Refinishing my collection is my greatest passion.’

At the word ‘passion’ Fran looked up at the man. His face had taken on a different appearance. A new visage. He looked entirely different. Younger.

‘Would you like to see some of the other books I’ve refinished?’

‘Oh, yes please.’

He beckoned to her to follow. She did as she was bid and walked through a series of interconnected rooms. Her eyes opened wider as she was transported through each room, for every wall was lined floor to ceiling with shelving – each filled with books. When they reached the farthest room, Fran gasped audibly. Before was a room whose four walls were full of rare books, each covered in creamy leather embossed with gold. The effect was almost overwhelming.

The man turned and looked at her.

‘You have a good appreciation of beauty. These books form the heart of my collection. I keep them in this special room which was built especially to house them. It is climate controlled, moisture controlled and sound proofed.’

‘Sound proofed?’ Fran thought to herself.

‘I like to read in peace. I do not like interruptions,’ he said.

It was as though the man could read her mind. A chill ran from her head to her toes and back again.

‘Are you cold, my dear?’ asked the man.

‘A little.’

‘Come, let us have something to drink and get down to business.’

‘When will the others be here?’

‘Others?’ His response to her question trailed off as he led the way back through the series of rooms and down the stairs to what she supposed would be called the parlour. It was that kind of house.

‘Here, have a sherry.’ The man offered a small cut crystal glass to Fran which she took obediently.

‘And you must try this panforte. I had it imported from Siena. I discovered it on one of my book buying visits.’ Again, Fran took the plate that was offered to her without demurring. He spoke with an authority she did not question.

‘So,’ she tried again, ‘Who else is coming this evening?’

‘Who else?’

‘Yes,’ she said, a whisper of exasperation entwining itself around her words, ‘to the book club meeting?’

‘You’re it, my dear.’

‘Oh. I thought...’

‘Drink your sherry.’

Fran was starting to feel a little light-headed. ‘I really don’t think I should.’

‘Drink.’ It was more a command than an entreaty.

‘I don’t ...’ Fran’s voice faded as she slumped back in the couch, her plate and glass tumbling towards the hand-cut silk rug that spread across the room like freshly spilled blood.

*****

Fran awoke. She was cold. She tried to move but her head felt heavy and her body was leaden. Unconsciousness reclaimed her.

*****

‘And now, my dear, let us get down to business.’

Vincent turned the girl over onto her back and slit her shirt open from hem to neck. He parted the fabric and ran his hand over the skin of the girl’s ample back. He was pleased. The girl’s back was unblemished. He had chosen wisely, a librarian devoting her life to books and reading. No freckled flesh, no tattoos. Young women these days were often disappointing.

Holding his scalpel aloft for a moment, Vincent took the time to ensure he made his first incision in exactly the right place. The new leather for his precious Joyce had to be absolutely perfect.

#fridayflash: No Sanctuary

2009-09-18T10:22:00.035+10:00

By Lily Mulholland

‘Is the padre here?’ I ask.

The old man nods.

‘Can we see him?’

We landed on Suai beach yesterday to find a gutted village. Only one or two buildings still had a roof, many were burnt to their foundation. Now we were looking for the priest, hoping he’d speak enough English to tell us what had happened.

The man leads us across the busted concrete quadrangle that runs adjacent to the cathedral. The building wears the unmistakable imprint of war. Bullet holes puncture the facade in a poor man’s filigree. The charred remains of the doors swing from their hinges. Chunks of masonry are missing. Of the congregation there is barely a trace.

Stooped and bent, the man takes us past the cathedral entrance and down its far side to the original church. Its walls look like the jagged teeth of a dinosaur, the frame like the ribcage of a rotting whale. The roof has been torched. Outside the small church three timeworn women are singing a dirge in low but strong voices. They do not look up at our approach.

‘Estes soldados querem ver o padre,’ says our guide. One of the women acknowledges the man and stands slowly while the others continue singing. The woman looks at us, turns and enters the burnt out shell. We follow her and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in protest. Fingering the trigger of my Steyr, I step through the charcoal doorframe, followed by Sal, my cameraman, and Bob, who is doing audio.

The woman stands in front of large piles of debris that litters the building’s floor.

‘Está aqui,’ she says. She points to a mound at her feet. I look and see human bones, ash, burnt timber and other detritus.

‘Militia?’ I ask.

‘Sim, a milícia disparou no padre,’ she answers. The militia had killed the padre.

‘Obrigada senhora.’ I thank her and motion for Sal and Bob to follow me back outside.

‘Do you want any of this on film boss?’ asks Sal.

‘No, we’ll leave it for the news crews – they’ll get here this arvo if the intel’s right. Let’s get back to HQ and see the int guys. I reckon the special ops guys went through here too fast to get this level of detail.’

I don't mention this is an international media story waiting to happen. More evidence that the Indonesian-backed militia were ruthless in their killing spree. Not what the fledgling peace process needs. We have a matter of hours before this story hits the wires.

We nod to the old fella and start heading back on foot to HQ, just up the main road in what had been the Indonesian-run court house. We don't get far before we notice a young man watching us from the trees beyond the church compound. We head over to where the guy is squatting.

‘Bom dia. Você fala o Inglês?’ Right now I’m glad I’d memorised the basics from the Portuguese conversation guides thrust at us on our way out of Australia. No doubt my accent stinks, but the East Timorese seem to get the gist of what I am saying.

‘Yes, speak English senhora.’

‘You want to tell us something?’

‘Sim. Have you in catedral?’ he asks.

I shake my head.

‘Yes. Need you see,’ he says as he stands up. ‘Come.’

We follow the man back toward the cathedral. My neck hairs are dancing again. I signal the boys to look lively as we enter through the broken doors, wondering what the hell we are going to see. We’ve already found a dead priest.

Once inside, it became clear why the building appeared so war-ravaged from outside. It wasn’t finished. What looked like explosives damage was incomplete masonry. Rudely constructed bamboo scaffolding sections the nave, with platforms of varying heights blocking the apse from view.

The man hovers at the base of a bamboo tower, looking pale, ghostly. I look at him and, though he says nothing, his eyes travel upwards, along the line of scaffold. My eyes follow and, as I become used to the dim light, I make out a dribble line of what looks like dried paint coming from one of the platforms. I check out the other towers and they too are painted red. I realise it isn’t paint, but blood. Lots of it.

‘How many?’

‘Fifty, senhora.’ My guts drop.

‘Who killed them?’

‘Militia. Found them in church, hiding. Santuário,’ he says, tears tracing rivers down his cheeks.

‘They were seeking sanctuary?’

‘Sim senhora.’ This wasn’t a fight. It was slaughter.

‘Where are the bodies?’

He crosses himself at this question. I know it was blunt, but I had to get answers and fast. We are overdue. They’ll be prepping a search team back at brigade headquarters and the last thing I want is for my guys to cop the embarrassment of being ‘rescued’.

‘Militia took them. Burned them.’

‘In the church?’

‘Yes.’

I thank him and we walk out blinking into the sunlight. Bob and Sal don’t speak as we head back. I understand. Families who’d been living next door to each other for generations had turned upon each other. How could the East Timorese coexist peacefully after this? While our peacemaking force has brought an end to the killing, it can’t resolve the real issues. The Indonesians were gone, but they made sure all they left behind was a divided people.

As we pass the HQ perimeter guards, a boy, no more than eight years old, calls out to me.

‘Hello missus! Lolly?’

I toss him a muesli bar. It isn’t what he wants but it won’t rot his teeth either. He grins and gives me a cheeky wave.

‘Tankoo missus!’

I smile. After all that has happened around him he can still laugh. Can that be enough?

********************

This story is based loosely on memories of my time in East Timor in 1999. You can read about the fact behind the fiction here and here.

Learning the craft: short story workshop

2009-09-13T17:32:00.005+10:00

I had a fabulous couple of hours out of the house sans children yesterday, attending my first writing workshop. Hosted by the ACT Writers Centre, the short story workshop was run by Australian author Craig Cormick, who took us through what elements constitute great short stories. He also talked about the difference between stories that win competitions and those that are published by literary magazines and journals. He had some great writing exercises for us to do, as well as some excellent examples of short stories that exemplified the points he was making. I think all participants got something out of the workshop - I certainly did. I look forward to putting some of what I learned into practice. I have no doubt it will make my writing stronger and more real.
Something else that will help me learn the craft is the Sleepers Almanac. Or almanacs, as I ordered not only the current edition from Sleepers Publishing, but also the previous three editions. The almanac is an anthology of emerging Australian writing talent. I know what I'll be reading for the foreseeable future! I just have to remember to read as a writer as well as a reader :)

#fridayflash: The Waiting Game

2009-09-11T12:55:00.004+10:00

By Lily Mulholland

Ellen felt ridiculous worrying about her crowning glory. She had only just started to like her hair, which was silver with blonde streaks and had somehow lost its irrational kinks as she’d mellowed into her early 60s. Now she was fretting about the possibility of it falling out. Not strand by strand as it had after her three pregnancies, but in large, undignified, unstoppable chunks.

It had all started with a visit to the blood bank. Being a good nurse, she knew how important it was to give blood and had only missed one or two appointments over the past thirty years. She’d left home in plenty of time to make the drive across town, circled the block only four times looking for a spot, parked the car and walked back up the street to the donation centre. Ellen sat in line, moving up the plastic chair snake as it came closer to her turn. Having already filled out the paperwork, she had a magazine ready to go as soon as she could be seated comfortably in the blood donation chair.

Before she could get comfortable her haemoglobin levels had to be checked by a nurse in one of the interview booths. ‘Just a little prick’, Ellen said to herself out of habit – it had been one of her well-worn nursing jokes – as the lancet was pushed into her finger and a solitary drop of blood squeezed out onto the test strip. The nurse inserted the strip into the scanner and pushed the button. After a few seconds she pursed her lips and said with a slight frown, ‘Nope, you won’t be giving blood today Ellen – your Hb levels are too low.’

‘Oh blast,’ said Ellen, ‘I wonder what’s going on. My iron levels have been up and down over the years but my haemoglobin is usually fine.’

‘Best get yourself checked out by your GP, love. You want to nip any problems in the bud, eh?’

Ellen had taken herself into town to do a spot of shopping as consolation. After she’d worn herself out sufficiently she headed back home. She made an appointment with her doctor for two days’ time.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Ellen said to the doctor as she sat down in his office. ‘But I guess I’m getting to the age where bits start to fall off, so I thought I’d better come and see you anyway.’

Dr Martens raised an eyebrow at Ellen. He’d been Ellen’s doctor for at least twenty years and knew she didn’t make frivolous appointments.

‘Good idea. I don’t like the sound of your haemoglobin levels, so I’m sending you off for some blood tests confirm the reading. Also, we might as well check your iron levels while you’re there. Now, depending on how the results look, I think we’ll be sending you off for a gastroscopy and endoscopy just to check things out.’

Ellen grimaced. She knew this meant a general anaesthetic and a camera up/down each end. ‘Hopefully not simultaneously,’ she thought.

The tests had come back. While Ellen’s Hb reading was slightly low, her iron levels were well below normal. She’d made a booking for the procedures at a local clinic, pleased that she didn’t have to go into hospital. She didn’t like hospitals much – she knew she’d spend the whole time scrutinising the old equipment, harried staff and peeling paint on the walls knowing that nothing much had changed in the ten years since she’d given up nursing.

When she’d awoken and recovered – proud of her body’s ability to bounce back from surgery so quickly – the specialist had come to see her and tell her the news.

‘We found a lump I’m afraid. In your upper right quadrant, just under you ribcage.’

Ellen heard the words ‘lump’ and ‘afraid’.

‘How big?’

‘About the size of twenty cent piece. We can’t tell if it’s benign or malignant, so we’ve taken a sample and have sent it off to pathology for testing.’

‘Oh,’ mouthed Ellen.

‘You’ll need to have a CAT scan tomorrow just to see if there are any other problems, and then you’ll need to see a surgeon.’

‘Oh,’ said Ellen again. She somehow remembered to speak. ‘Thanks.’ She had nursed oncology patients.

Her husband arrived shortly after the specialist had moved onto the next patient. Russell listened with a worried face as Ellen relayed the conversation with as little emotion as she could. Ellen placed her hand on his and told him not to worry.

‘There’s no point in worrying until we have the test results. We’ll listen to what the oncologist tells us and, whatever happens, we’ll work through it.’

Ellen was glad she was made of tough stuff. Every time her mind started reeling, she told herself to get a grip. ‘I will not worry until there’s something to worry about.’

After Russell had taken her home, Ellen took a gin and tonic into the sunroom along with the phone. She rang each of her children and told them the news. She felt like she was describing events happening to someone else, but knew she couldn’t stay in denial forever. Come Monday, she’d know either way: benign or malignant. Single or spread. She took another sip and enjoyed the warmth of the sun as it bathed her body in light.

Short story submitted - 'The Dan experience'

2009-09-07T09:48:00.005+10:00

I've submitted a second, longer piece for possible publication in the forthcoming Eve's Harvest anthology, to be published by Lip Magazine. The theme for the anthology is 'one'. 'The Dan experience' is about the disappointing emptiness of first love.

Submissions are being accepted via email or through WEbook. As I posted mine to WEbook, it's available for your reading pleasure here. You can also leave feedback. It's a bit scary submitting material that exposes bits of yourself, don't you think?

Fridayflash: Snowgate

2009-09-04T11:58:00.005+10:00

Withdrawn for submission elsewhere.

Playing with metre

2009-08-31T10:26:00.000+10:00

Whoa Nelly! As I get a bit more serious about writing poetry and learning about prosody, scansion, metre, etc, as opposed to just writing what I think sounds good, I'm realising how much we didn't learn in school! I remember 'iambic pentametre' from my Shakespeare days, but I didn't ever really grasp what it meant.

There are some great resources on the web for helping numpties like me come to grips with the technicalities of poetry:

Wikipedia entries on metre, prosody and scansion
Interactive quiz on metre
AllPoetry
Discovering the iamb and the trochee

(I'd be delighted if anyone would provide further relevant links)

You need to know them in order to use them to your advantage, to break with tradition, or to use traditional constructs to create something purposely formal or constrained.

The below poem is in 'iambic trimetre', meaning there are three 'feet', each of which comprises two syllables, the first unstressed, followed by a stressed syllable, except the fourth line, which has an omitted unstressed syllable. I wrote it after a shocking night last night, where I was febrile and delirious in turns. Noice!

Through my delirium
I can't get past 'I can't';
The words they will not budge.
Tears escape my eyes,
A sleep of toss and turns.

Vegetable poetry

2009-08-30T16:48:00.000+10:00

Ha! It's not an oxymoron, but a challenge from Positive Words Magazine to write a poem of 10 lines or less or a short story of 100 words or less containing the word 'vegetable(s)'. In response I've penned a poem called 'Herbaceous Heart', which I've submitted.

Here's some more 'food for thought' on vegetable poetry:

Word History: Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" contains many striking phrases and images, but perhaps most puzzling to modern readers is one in this promise from the speaker to his beloved: "Had we but world enough, and time . . . /My vegetable love should grow/Vaster than empires and more slow." One critic has playfully praised Marvell for his ability to make one "think of pumpkins and eternity in one breath," but vegetable in this case is only indirectly related to edible plants. Here the word is used figuratively in the sense "having the property of life and growth, as does a plant," a use based on an ancient religious and philosophical notion of the tripartite soul. As interpreted by the Scholastics, the vegetative soul was common to plants, animals, and humans; the sensitive soul was common to animals and humans; and the rational soul was found only in humans. "Vegetable love" is thus a love that grows, takes nourishment, and reproduces, although slowly. Marvell's 17th-century use illustrates the original sense of vegetable, first recorded in the 15th century. In 1582 we find recorded for the first time the adjective use of vegetable familiar to us, "having to do with plants." In a work of the same date appears the first instance of vegetable as a noun, meaning "a plant." It is not until the 18th century that we find the noun and adjective used more restrictively to refer specifically to certain kinds of plants that are eaten.

Source: Dictionary.com

Paradise Anthology submission in

2009-08-29T15:58:00.003+10:00

Sheesh a 25-word story is a tough ask! I did my best and sent in a sub. I did have a chuckle at the word limit for the bio being twice that of the short, short story!

The Paradise Anthology is seeking short stories 25 word maximum for their next issue to be released in February as part of the St Kilda Festival. Writers will be paid a minimum $20 plus a free copy of the magazine. One story only submitted per writer. Please send stories double spaced in 12 point Times New Roman plus a 50-word bio to paradisesubmissions@y7mail.com

Senryu: Empty words

2009-08-29T11:46:00.003+10:00

Words fall soundlessly
Like leaves from a tree in drought.
Speaking empty thoughts.

Senryu: Certainty

2009-08-23T21:35:00.000+10:00

Babies' sleep patterns:
Even more certain in life
Than death and taxes

Haiku: When the cat's away

2009-08-22T21:34:00.000+10:00

Day descends to night;
Children make sleeping noises.
Time for mice to play.

Haiku: Imagination and Smoulder

2009-08-13T15:44:00.001+10:00

These two aren't really Haiku - there's no reference to nature for a start. They're more like Twaiku (mini poems posted on Twitter that are 5-7-5 syllables). These ones fall under the category of #HotHaiku.

You shoot me that look -
The one that makes me smoulder.
It's been a long time.

You brush right past me,
All my senses come alive.
Imagination.

Can workshops really help you write award-winning stories?

2009-08-12T12:58:00.002+10:00

Well, I will find out on 12 September whether I'm a sucker for a catchy workshop title, or whether it really can help me write good short stories. The workshop is being run by the ACT Writers Centre.

Not much in the way of writing going on here. We've been busy with birthdays, parties and life in general. But I have been enjoying reading Story by Robert McKee and Best Australian Short Stories 2008 edited by Delia Falconer. Inspiring stuff.

Poem: Mediterranean blue

2009-08-03T10:03:00.000+10:00

i. Aquamarine sea
At the bottom of the cliff:
inviting me in.

ii. A narrow pathway ...
Wondering where it leads to,
Cut from the same rock

iii. I follow it down,
A goat track to the abyss.
The sun disappears.

iv. Steps carved from white stone,
Spiralling, leading me down.
Mysterious light.

v. Down and down I go.
Finally, it opens up:
Celestial pool.

vi. Diving deep into
Mediterranean blue...
Floating in the night.

Poem: Little man

2009-08-02T10:30:00.000+10:00

I remember you when I'm sleeping.
Watching your little face,
As you drink your fill from me.

I remember you when I’m dreaming.
Holding your hand with mine,
As you gaze into my eyes.

I remember you when I’m bathing.
Smelling your milky skin,
As you smile with chubby cheeks.

I remember you when I'm awake.
Finding you not breathing,
Your lips a purplish bruise.

I remember you when I’m crying.
Holding you close to me,
Before you went away.

I remember you when I’m happy.
Knowing you will always be
My darling little man.

+++++++++

I wrote this poem for another mother, one I've never met. I read her story about losing her six-month old baby through Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and it hasn't left me. I look at my beautiful son and hold him tight, knowing how lucky I am.

Also posted here.

WEbook submission: Memories

2009-08-01T15:55:00.001+10:00

I may be just procrastinating from doing the jobs I should really be doing, but these 50-word stories keep coming to me. Here's another one. Very melancholic and sad. You have been warned.

WEbook submission: Stinky pants

2009-08-01T11:26:00.000+10:00

Another nanostory - this one for all the mums out there!

Learning about poetry

2009-08-01T10:31:00.000+10:00

It's amazing what you can find on the web. In my last post I liked to AllPoetry.com, as I'd found a great piece explaining poetic metre. A bit more poking about the site revealed several online courses in poetry that appealed. As I only have limited time each day to spend creatively, I'm keeping my enrollments to a minimum! I've enrolled in Beginners Haiku and Gentle Introduction to Metre.

While I've been writing heaps of 'Twaiku' 5-7-5 syllable poems on Twitter, they're not really Haiku in the traditional sense. In my bid to become a better writer, I thought I should learn how to write real Haiku. This one was composed for my first assignment.

Bird's head
Hidden under wing -
Dusk falls

This Haiku is truer to the traditional structure even though it doesn't conform to the syllabic 'rules'. This is because the Japanese language is not structured around syllables, rather it is structured around 'on'. I don't understand the linguistic details, but I do know that it is better to follow the intent of Haiku than the literal translation of the Japanese rules.

The above Haiku is an attempt to juxtapose two images from nature, revealing something about the environment that surrounds me.

WEbook submission: Rolling stuck

2009-07-31T22:58:00.001+10:00

Another WEbooks nanostory submission. The theme this time is 'story loop'. Mine takes place on a train.

WEbook submission: Shuffling sideways

2009-07-30T20:28:00.002+10:00

Some nights I'm so tired I find it hard to write anything. The WEbook nanostory projects are fantastic for finding inspiration. The one I'm contributing to is themed 'What I did last summer' and each submission has to be exactly 50 words. That's not a lot of space to tell a story. It can be any genre, as long as it relates to summer holidays and is 50 words, no more, no less. My latest submission is 'Shuffling sideways'. If you're struggling to get going, give it a try. It won't hurt a bit!

Scribe fiction prize - for 'seasoned' writers!

2009-07-29T10:30:00.001+10:00

It's nice to see that first-time novelists who aren't in the 'youth' category are being recognised with the inaugural CAL Scribe Fiction Prize! While I have nothing to enter this year, who knows what I might be able to do for next year. I do have a story idea for a novel, but I need to do a lot more writing and learning about the craft before I attempt anything like that.

But if you have a manuscript that's ready to go and you're over 35 years of age, here's the link.

WEbook submission: Squeezing a watermelon

2009-07-28T15:57:00.003+10:00

If you haven't checked out WEbook yet, it's a cool place to workshop your writing, as well as make your own contributions to 'projects'. They also have challenges. I submitted a 50-word nanostory here, called 'Squeezing a watermelon'.

Haiku: Milky smile

2009-07-27T11:55:00.000+10:00

Breastfeeding baby,
Little snorts of happiness.
Drunken milky smile.

Short story submitted

2009-07-27T10:49:00.000+10:00

Lipmag is seeking contributions for its first fiction anthology, titled Eve's Harvest. I've submitted a short story called 'Release'. Wonder if it'll get accepted for publication?

Haiku: Rosy

2009-07-26T09:18:00.001+10:00

Rosy cheeked baby,
Lips the colour of cherries.
Ate red chalk again!

Undertow

2009-07-25T10:13:00.001+10:00

My heart is like an ocean
Filled with aching needs.
Unspoken me pulled under
By a relentless ebbing tide.
How can I break free from the undertow?

Haiku: Aquamarine

2009-07-24T10:09:00.000+10:00

Aquamarine sea
At the bottom of the cliff...
Inviting me in.

Haiku: Puddle jumping

2009-07-23T22:28:00.002+10:00

Daughter in gumboots:
Let's go puddle-jumping mum!
Splashing up a storm.

Don't use words

2009-07-23T09:34:00.000+10:00

Speak to me
But don't use words;
You've already
Said too much.
Reach into me,
And know my needs;
I can be saved
By your touch.

Frozen

2009-07-22T22:21:00.000+10:00

Jo froze on the inside as the target emerged from the train and walked past the newsstand where she was waiting. She sucked in her breath, slid her hand inside her coat pocket and found the paper-wrapped gum she kept for moments like these. She unwrapped it with one hand and slowly moved the stick up into her mouth. It used to be cigarettes she used to give her a reason to loiter, but since her cancer scare she had given them up. Jo started chewing and made her move. The target was walking quickly. If he was checking for a tail, Jo couldn't see it. That meant one of two things: either he was unaware of her presence, or he was on the grid. A fellow spook. Shit. That would make this morning's work all the more difficult. She knew there couldn't be any cock-ups today. Spartan was counting on her. Jo was maintaining a good distance from the black-coated man, while at the same time making it look like she wasn't in a hurry. A tricky balancing act, but one that she was confident she'd mastered over the past five years in the service. She was just about to phone in to control when her target stopped dead and spun around. He took off his glasses and stared straight at her as she faltered. Hello Josephine.

Haiku: Procrastinating

2009-07-22T08:51:00.000+10:00

Procrastination
Is an art to master...
When the pressure's on.

In print

2009-07-21T22:02:00.000+10:00

Being a bit dubious about the worth of Twitter, I didn't really bother checking it out until my brother's better half suckered me in. The status update box bounds you to 140 characters - not a lot of wriggle room in which to express yourself. It occurred to me that 140 characters is plenty for Haiku. I reacquainted myself with the 'rules' for Haiku and decided that, given my time constraints, this form of creative expression was one I could probably embrace productively. I broadcast a few and then realised I would not be the only micropoet out there and discovered a whole new world on Twitter. I was studying for a Public Policy exam at the time, and Haiku gave me the perfect opportunity to procrastinte in a slightly constructive way! I wrote a few in between cramming. Then one of the feeds I follow on Twitter prompted me to submit one of my Haiku for possible publication in a new journal being published in the US - The Arts Politic. I was surprised when, a few days later, the editors contacted me wanting to publish the Haiku I had submitted, in addition to another one I had broadcast. Woohoo! In print! Here's the link. Turns out I 'won' the competition - I didn't realise they were only publishing one 'winner'. What a surprise. I guess that makes me a published poet!!!!!!!!!!!

Haiku: Baby sleep

2009-07-20T19:04:00.000+10:00

Worry that you've died
Each time I approach your door...
Sleeping peacefully.

Haiku: Morning fog

2009-07-19T18:51:00.000+10:00

Mountain disappears.
Morning fog in Canberra:
I can't see the trees.

Ten seconds a day

2009-07-19T18:48:00.000+10:00

That's about the sum total of time I have each day to write. So I'd better use it! This blog will be my record and motivator. I will try to write a post a day. Maybe that's why I like Haiku so much!