You’re lame, one whispers as Mum searches my face. She eyes her purse. Tighten my lips sticky with gloss. Smile; shake my head. “I’m fine, thanks, Mum.” Nope, you’re a loser says the voice louder as I walk out the door. You’re so lame, a charity case. All you got is loose change. I got my words, I say, so shut the f#$k up. A shrill laugh like a banshee. Yeah, you got your words. They’re broke like you.

 

I tell you story, you write ten books! His accent’s thick, I imagine he has a moustache to match. Not in the mood for your migrant story I tell him. Oh, but I want to tell you how I get shot in my back when I kidnap my bride! Sounds interesting, really, but today I’m writing about boys. Teenage boys, angry boys, horny boys. I carry her and my back break from pain but I never let go. Fair effort with a bullet in your back. Yes, that same bullet kill me forty years later. Oh. His words nip my brain like hooks.     

 

Hey stop writing. I can smell the shit you’re spinning from here. Piss off. I tap the keyboard like a woodpecker. Tap tap tap out that hideous voice. But I’m serious. Just because you’ve fluked your way in to a magazine or two doesn’t make you a writer. Tap tap. It’s not about publication, it’s about creation. HA HA HA. The laugh settles around my bubble of hope like frost. Tap.       

 

Them Indians are a worry. This voice is whiny like a mozzie. They’re taking over the country. I don’t want to hear it. You think you’re better than me you wog? Didn’t say that. You’ve all taken over the country, a bunch of cockroaches. Bzzzzzz. Not listening. You stink like kebabs. Blah blah blah. I’ll never forget what you people did in Gallipoli. You’re so low. I don’t want to write about you. Then you move here to add insult, you stupid Turks. You’re an ignorant pig. Nah, I’m an Aussie.   

 

Her eyes are like two black holes, they suck you in like lies. She sounds evil. They’re dark and mysterious like the jungle where lions sleep and the howl of wolves drill my ears. What else has she got? My guts, they are slippery in her hands. Hmm. Bit gross. I’m scared she’ll let go and I’ll slip through her fingers. Been nice listening, really, but who’d want to read this gruesome shit? Cross out the words, close my notebook on many ideas that may never hit the white screen.

I’ve opened another notebook with lots of space for new voices in 2010, a year full of holes. Have fun filling them in with love,  adventure, randomness, new beginnings and happy endings lovely people. I know I will 🙂

Have a happy New Year!

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