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.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Chinese Whisperings: The Yin and Yang Books
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.
Friday, September 24, 2010
#fridayflash: Skin Therapy
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)
Skin TherapyLily 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)
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Dog Days of Summer competition winners announced
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.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Best of Friday Flash Vol 1 - out now!
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.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
#fridayflash: Just Drive
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.
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.
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.
Friday, June 11, 2010
#fridayflash: 'Last Man Standing'
Head on over to AntipodeanSF for this week's #fridayflash story, 'Last Man Standing'. Cheers!
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