Could this be it??

I think I might of found a winner!!  I think my muse finally found gold... I'm a bit excited by this!! That I might actually have a story that I can finish, that doesn't feel like it's being pulled over broken glass to get it there...

But lets not get too carried away yet.. it might all go to the shit too ha ha..

The start of a new story

I don't know what I'm doing, I get these little snippets of stories but that's it.. very frustrating to say the least!! But here is the latest snippet of another.. not sure that i'm going to go much further with this one either..

The sound of crumpling metal stays with you; the copper smell of blood, well that stays with you even longer and then there’s the screams that pierce your every waking thought and shatter your dreams at night.  It doesn’t just affect the person in the car; it stains your whole life, your whole being and everyone around you.  Parents stop speaking to each other, siblings are forgotten, lawns no longer mowed, or in some cases scalped to bare dirt in anguish.  And once that funeral is done and dusted, what’s left? Nothing but a dusty untouched room behind a locked door and a school photo on a mantel piece; people say you’ve got to pick up the pieces and carry on, but where are the pieces to pick up? They get buried with the person you loved, the person you know you will never see again, the person, whose laugh and stories you hung on, you will never hear again. People say time heals, it gets easier, but it’s been two years and still the screams of my mother wakes me in the middle night, still my father’s hands remained clenched into fists by his side, still the whiskey jar gets empty more regularly than it used to and still I’m forgotten. However, to fully understand how we got to this point, I should take you back to where it began.

It was 1959, I was sixteen years old, and the only daughter to Robert or better known as Bob to his friends and May Worlick; along with my brother Robbie we were happy.  The Summers were long, hot and lazy.  We live in Portland, Victoria.  A small beach town at the bottom of nowhere; a place that time seems to have forgotten, except the holiday makers that is.  Life was simple. We the only thing we had to worry about was getting to church on time on a Sunday and not getting too sunburnt during our long Summer days in the sun.

Robbie was three years older than me, he had just got a car, he bought off Minky Williams with his money that he been saving from the endless amount of odd jobs he was doing.  He was what girls thought were so cute, with his slicked back brown hair, kept in check with the combe he always had stored in his shirt pocket, his levis rolled at the bottom, his converse shoes clean and neat, and eyes a chocolate brown. He never had a shortage of dates, but once he got that FJ Holden, the girls grew in numbers. That car was the pride of his life. It was a dark blue, and he had so many plans, he wanted to put a bigger motor, he wanted to paint flames on the sides.  But the truth was that it was a rust bucket. But Robbie loved that car, more than he loved life himself.  Our mum always worried about him driving too fast and every time he left she would send a little prayer up to God that he would be safe.  

Claudia

(Another story I started but haven't got round to finishing..)

Claudia

By Samantha King

The moonlight danced on the river edge, the water lapped lazily at its edges, the wind had stilled and the crickets had finished their musical dance for the night.  The scent of grass, wildflowers and the willow floated sensuously in the air.  Off in the distance she could hear the crack and pop of a distant fire, some soldier’s fire, maybe her soldier’s fire.  Claudia sighed and looked hard at the moon, trying to find an answer, seeking the truth.  So many lies had been told, so many stories woven into fact.  The truth nothing more than a foggy haze of memories forced, forgotten and imagined, the questions lingered in her brain, swirling like a tornado in the dust bowl. 

Claudia grew up in a small village called Northwood she lived with her mother and grandmother.  Her father she never knew.  She had imagined him tall, strong, a long beard and the scent of pine, his hands gnarled and twisted like the trunk of the old oak. His eyes green and shining like her own, his fiery red hair kept neat and trimmed.  But it was all imagination.  Her mother said she never knew him.  It was a midnight mistake.  Claudia had been a mistake made on the side of forest for a loaf and his catch of deer; nothing more than a mistake. 

Claudia’s mother was a broken woman, her hair stained grey, her face as ragged as a torn rag blowing in the wind.  She had nothing but tatters to wear, her nails bitten down to the cuticles, her feet, dirty and calloused from a life of no shoes and hard work.  Claudia wondered if she had ever been a beautiful woman, although her grandmother says she was.  But to Claudia she was no more than a broken old hag, who took great pleasure in causing Claudia pain.

Tears prickled at the back of her eyes as flashes of torment and unkind words spat in her direction flooded her memory.  Angrily, Claudia swiped at her eyes; grunting in disgust at letting herself to be hurt by her mother’s actions.  She had once heard a preacher teach in the square that hurt people hurt people.  Claudia had thought so hard about it, her mother, what was her hurt? She couldn’t speak with her mother, her mother hated her.  She had tried to ask her grandmother what had made her mother so angry, but her grandmother’s soft eyes just drifted away as she patted Claudia’s hand without saying a word.

Suddenly a screech split the air, at first Claudia thought it was a fox making a kill, but her skin began to prickle and she knew the scream came from her mother.  The hair on her neck began to stand on edge, as she strained to listen for more.  Had it been no more than a mouse? Claudia knew it couldn’t be mice were no strangers to the home.  Without warning, the scream came again.  This time the shriek, was more manic, more frightened.  Claudia knew she should be running towards the home, but her feet suddenly felt as if they were encased in two large blocks.  She couldn’t move. When the third scream pierced the air, she was able to shift, her heart beating so hard in her chest it felt it might burst out at any moment. 

“Dear Goddess, please don’t let it be me gran” Claudia whispered as she ran, gaining speed with each stride.

As she reached the doorway of their modest home, she could see the lamp wavering, her mother’s sobs, wracking and breathless.  A man stood in the doorway, his face white as that of a ghost. His hands smeared red.

“What in the devil have yer done?” he kept saying.

Claudia afraid to look in through the doorway, she moved in beside the man, where she saw her grandmothers legs, feet bare, toes curled, sprawled onto the dusty floor.  Tears began to flow from her eyes, as she turned to run. Claudia looked up to the man, he looked down at her, his eyes filled with tears, his eyebrows turned in a furrow of concern, his piercing green eyes boring into the blood on his hands.  Claudia felt her shoulders jerk back, spinning her on the spot, within inches of her face, was her mothers, twisted, pitted face, her blackened teeth showing in a grimace.  She screamed, Claudia, feeling her stinking breath hit her face.  Claudia recoiled in disgust and fear, jerking herself free of her mother’s grasp.

“Claudia, me child, it twasn’t me, I swear to yer” she heard her mother screaming as she ran, running to somewhere, she didn’t know where, just far away from the murderous woman who hated her.

The piercing green eyes following her steps, in her mind, those eyes were everywhere, watching her, they had always been watching now more so.

Runai.

He knew his child, her ginger locks, and shining green eyes unlike his own.  Greta had been beautiful once, she had been clean, she had even been loving. Runai had loved her. He remembered holding her in his arms, under the great oak, planning their future, as he stroked her growing belly. She had laughed, her laugh that caused the fee to dance with delight and his heart skip a beat. But other men desired Greta; other men wanted what Runai had.

He remembered the day he had come home to see his woman broken, bleeding, tears streamed down her face, carving their way through the blood that oozed from her head.  Anger filled his soul, his eyes that usually danced with delight upon seeing Greta, darkened into a deep angry green, that of the deepest oceans.  His fists clenched so tight he could feel the nails pierce the skin.

“Who did this” he roared.

Greta let out a scream of fright, and backed deeper into the darkened corner she had wedged herself, her rounded belly protruding from her torn dress. Runai knew that he needed to be gentle, but his anger filled him so much so that he couldn’t find the gentleness in him.  He turned to find his axe, as he decided upon killing every man until he found the one who had taken Greta’s soul.  As Greta let out an earth shattering scream, he turned to see her hands bloody and wet, her legs wide apart, there laid a child, naked and pink, with hair flaming red.  His heart ached, his child to come into this world at this moment, while her mother so broken and worn lay in a corner like a beaten dog, and he so angry and tormented.  A small cry soft and meek uttered from the child’s lips.  Greta’s eyes wide and frightened like a trapped rabbit looked from Runai back to the child.

With the child’s next cry it snapped Runai into action, as he run for the door, he saw Greta’s mother coming through.  He pushed the woman to the side as he blindly ran, looking for the culprit that would cause such pain to his once happy family. 

It's not just a sex thing

(The start of a story I started writing a bit ago.. I sort of got stuck with it.. I have a few of these ha ha)

It's not just a sex thing

By Samantha King

“The dreams I dream are that of a man to sweep me from this place. I know I’ve heard all the feminist rantings, we don’t need a man. But God damn it, I want one.  Not one of those silly boys, not some macho hero, I want a man who wants me. Maybe it’s some warped daddy issue, maybe I didn’t get spanked enough or some stupid Freudian thing. But I just want to be needed.  I love the idea of some Phantom of the Opera desiring me as much as he did Christine.  I wouldn’t care that he was deformed. Hell yeah I want a man who would steal me away from the world, one that would kill for me. Ok well maybe not kill for me well maybe, no; that just made me sound psychotic.”

Lily sat in a huge green leather chair, facing a tiny frail looking grey haired woman, who took notes like it was some sort of marathon.  She would look up at Lily every now and then, and nod.  Lily had no idea what was going through her brain as she blurted out her one greatest desire.

“So who played your favourite Phantom?” she asked Lily, her glasses sitting perched on the tip of her nose.  Lily wanted to reach over and push them up her face properly. Just the little things irritated Lily.

“Well it’s either Michael Crawford or Gerard Butler.  I think probably Gerard Butler, only because it was made into a movie and I can watch him.” After all it was Gerard Butler’s face behind the mask she thought about in the dark, but she wasn’t going to tell this woman about it, she might just die of a stroke.

“So is it the Phantom that you are obsessed with or Gerard Butler?”

“No definite the Phantom, I mean don’t get me wrong, Gerard has very sexy eyes, a body I could lick for hours, and an accent that makes me weak at the knees, but it’s not until I see him in the mask, playing that dark and mysterious role and singing with that dark gravelly voice, that’s when he is at his most lustful, it’s the Phantom I want.  I never understood, why Christine would ever want to run away with that other ridiculous man Raoul”

The woman was scribbling away, Lily couldn’t quite make out what she was writing, but she was sure that it would be something about how she was insane, with major sexual hang ups.  After all isn’t that what all therapists were about?

“So have you ever acted out being Christine in your sexual life?”

Lily blushed, she had. But it didn’t end well.  Her boyfriend dumped her the next day. He was mortified by the whole thing.  Mason had been a great boyfriend, so patient; he knew that he had to share their lives with this fictional character.  Then one day she had asked him, if he would wear the mask, while they made love. He had agreed, but then something took hold of Lily.  She became an animal, tearing at his skin with her nails and teeth. It was no longer making love, but hard core animalistic fucking. She loved it; Mason, well not so. A buzzer suddenly chimed and broke Lily’s thought.

“Lily I’m sorry but our session is finished for today, can we pick this up again next week?” the woman had at least fixed her glasses.

Lily smiled and stood up, feeling like she had accomplished nothing.  She wasn’t any less addicted to the Phantom or Gerard Butler’s version of him.  As she left the faceless building in a sea of buildings, she couldn’t shake the night with Mason out of her mind.  She was sorry that it had weirded Mason out. But she wanted more, not just the sex, but the danger, the unknown, the being stolen away.  Lily had even once taken opera lessons, in hope that she could join some old theatre that just might have an opera ghost.  She didn’t even finish out the lesson; before the instructor told her that maybe she would be better doing thrash metal rather than ruining Madame Butterfly.

Oscar Wilde a wise man

"Democracy is the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people".

It's amazing that he said this so many years ago!! It's like he is talking about Australia today!!

"One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other" Jane Austen

I discovered this quote this morning when I was looking through my Oxford Dictionary of Quotes book (yep I'm a nerd!!).  And it made me think of how true this is.
This quote resonated with me so much.
We truly don't know what brings the other side of the world pleasure.  I remember a story told to me by a youth pastor once, and she said the preacher stood in a church of a very multicultural area, and he spoke of the "poor poor African children" only being able to have a hoop and a stick to play with, and the young African girl sitting next to the youth pastor leant over to her and said "obviously he hasn't played tyre and stick before".  She then later on went on to tell the Youth Pastor how exciting this game was as a kid.  They didn't have xbox's or ninetendos but they didn't care, they had a tyre and a stick.  That was the coolest game out.
So it makes me think, it is nothing more than our perception that says that these people are oppressed. It makes me question about what gives us as the Western Society the right to go into these countries and tell them that they way they are doing things are wrong? Especially when in our own country there are so many things we aren't getting right!
We have extreme poverty in Australia, we have homelessness, we have drug addiction, we have crime, we have child abuse we have so much that is wrong in this country, so why should be trying to "fix" another part of the world?
That doesn't mean that we should turn our backs when true atrocities happen.
But it reminds me of another story.  It was a tribe in South America.  And the missionaries went to this tribe, they introduced to them the lighter, however, previously the tribe would leave their fire going unless they were making love to their wife, it would get blown out, until the morning.  But introducing the lighter allowed the tribe to light their fires at any time.  So this meant that men suddenly realised that they could go to other women and have sex with them, but relight the fire, when they left, so no body knew.. Actually I think I have that story wrong, but it was something like that. Anyway the point was,  because of the Western culture's meddling a once faithful people now learnt how to be unfaithful.
Anywho that's my fambling for today ha ha.

Yummy herb extracts...

I have just discovered a way to make my own organic herb extract..

All you need is your herb of choice and some vodka.

cut your herbs into small pieces, put into a jar and fill up with vodka..

simple huh? it takes about a month to infuse.. and smells and tastes great!!