3LineTales

Summer holidays

It is the eve of my return to work and Ruben’s start of Grade 3. The summer holidays were so good, but in hindsight, I should have had an extra week once term began.

I had great ambitions for what I would achieve over the holidays, and I didn’t quite hit all my goals, but I achieved relaxation, a semblance of an organised home, lots of fun with Ruben, and much rejuvenation.

The coming week is an opportunity to reintroduce my grounding practices that have fallen by the wayside in the absence of structured days. I will return to day 1 of the 30 day yoga with Adriene, aiming to do one each evening, and start my days with 15 minutes of unguided meditation. Oooh, and a new routine which I am most excited about is a morning swim with Ruben before school and work one day a week. We’ve given it three early morning trials over the holidays, so I know it can be done!

Routine will return big time once uni starts next week. I am looking forward to my Semester 1 subject (Developing a Writing Project) and the opportunity it presents to progress my novel with new insights, workshopping sessions and importantly, deadlines. The preparation I did over the summer, while not as much as I had hoped, has set me up with a good starting point for the semester. Bring it on.

If you want to read about the general flavour of my summer, I go into more detail here.

A bit of southern hemisphere life update with some wintery northern hemisphere inspired lines thanks to Sonya’s photo prompt — Three Line Tales 26 January 2023.

Light

cocooned in white coats, they witness the season’s rituals.

hushed footsteps, gliding snow sleds, mitten-moulded balls and peals of laughter.

crystalline flakes refract the light that lingers a while longer each day, promising warmth, peeling away the layers.

A Return

Hello! It’s been a while! Funny, I had thought that perhaps three line tales was the best way to dip my toes back into blogsville, and when I looked sometime last year, it appeared Sonya’s prompts were no more. I was super surprised and elated to see them in my reader the other day, so here I am!

Believe it or not, despite the tumbleweeds at 10000hoursleft HQ, I have been writing, including a story on my beloved public library that was published in The Big Issue last year, and a bunch of newsletters at my substack, The Raptorial with regular monthly posts over the past 9 months (thanks to my friends from WP who have joined me over there). I have even returned to my novel which I used to go on and on and on about here.

In other news, I am still at uni (very part time), soon to enter my fourth year of a two year Associate Degree in Professional Writing and Editing. I’ve also bought a house (yay me, on 31 Dec 2020), and also in 2020, I started a writing and editing business. Oh, and somehow I succumbed to years of my son asking for a dog, and had to make good on my promise that it would happen once we have our own place … Rocco the Lagotto Romagnolo joined our family in August 2021. He’s now 19 months, very cute and sweet but still in need of training (or maybe it is me that needs to be trained in being the ‘top dog’ *sigh*).

I’m glad to be back and to have found a fun way back in. The community here means a lot to me and is a big part of why I am still writing. Occasional checks of the reader fill my heart with joy when I see bloggers from way back still blogging.

Tell me, what’d I miss? What’s new? I’ll attempt a weekly hello accompanied by a three line story, and watch out, I’ll be reading posts and engaging again. Wooh!

Oooh, and rather than complain about the ‘new’ backend as I did on a previous fleeting return, here, I have embraced it after stumbling on something (what, I do not know) that has allowed me to offset my Three Line Tales story from the rest of the post. Fancy huh?

Thanks for the inspiration, Sonya – Three Line Tales 13 Jan 2023

Saturday night lights

He broke away from the throng that was crossing the intersection of 2nd and Broadway and the stripes that promised safety. His was a lone figure following a lone white line, remaining faithful to its guidance after stepping off its edge like a sailor navigating the doldrums. A yellow cab in his line of sight sounded the alarm with a long beep that turned heads and slowed the procession of revellers entering the seedy bars along Broadway — the night was young.

Photo of a city sreet at dusk, with

The Next Chapter

pencil drawing of a type writer with partial paper visible with words 'it was a bright and sunny'

‘ “It was a dark and stormy night…” The cliché line was written in font reminiscent of a typewriter’s singular offering, with a deliberate smudge of the printed words for added authenticity. The otherwise blank sheet of paper was wrapped around the platen of the typewriter cake* from the iconic Australian Women’s Weekly Children’s Birthday Cake Book, with pastel icing of sage green and peachy creme, mint slice platen knobs, liquorice typebars, a musk stick space bar and keys of multi-coloured smarties. The aspiring author blew the candles and made her usual wish of publication before slicing through the cake as party guests whooped and cheered. That was me, Mek, 80s tragic, birthday cake baker, engineer, and increasingly, adopter of the label ‘writer’ as one of the many facets of my identity…’

That was a snippet of my 500-word statement that formed part of my application for a university course that has been on my radar for quite a while. Continue reading →

Awakening

Close up photo of a highland cow with cloudy sky background by Jacco Rienks used for sonya's three line tales microfiction prompt.
Photo by Jacco Rienks on Unsplash

Every morning—I assumed it was morning, but couldn’t be sure as the only light came from stark fluorescent tubes that were always lit—my horns were clasped and measured with calipers cinched by gloved hands.

‘Growing too slowly…’

The man in the white coat would mutter to himself each time before shuffling away, almost tripping over his too-long trousers, to top up my trough with a bland oily porridge that was served cold and congealed. It was unappetising but I’d eat it all, nothing escaping, not even the irony of all the meals I once snapped and shared with friends as though they’d mattered (the meals that is); the freedoms I’d taken for granted had never been photo worthy. Continue reading →

La Porte de L’Enfer

Photo of a wooden door on a stone building, shut with a chain and padlock. Used as photo prompt for flash fiction.
Photo by Bogdan Dada on Unsplash

I’ve lost count of the number of times ‘the only thing private are his thoughts’ has been muttered by passers-by believing their words to be original and witty; while I retain the dignity of private thoughts in my nakedness, the pleasure is dimmed somewhat by the many distractions that rarely allow for a single coherent train of thought: visitors taking photographs; amateurs and professionals alike making sketches I’ve learnt to not take personally when certain proportions are downgraded to fun size; pretentious conversations about art; scrunched up pages of a sketch book hurled at me; crude paper planes projected with whimsy in my direction, their sharp points denting on impact, gravity ensuring I never receive the message; heads bowed in studious attention toward a Lonely Planet within my line of sight, page open to an image of me as the reader verifies the importance of their visit; and of course, that originality and wit rearing its head again with poses mimicking mine, taunting me as the comedian’s jaunty limbs move in and out of freeze frame with fluidity that escapes me.

As the sun sets on the grounds and the last of the visitors makes a beeline to the gift shop, the first muted signal of evening’s silence cloaks me like a lovers embrace, something akin to a tempered version of that kissing pair who don’t get a moment away from one another.

With the quiet of closing, when left alone with my thoughts for a spell, I’m grateful for being on the right side of the real gates of hell; knowing the screams from that garden shed will take their queue when the bells toll at midnight, telling a tale of a more brutal inferno than our maker envisioned, the fury and despair of forced retirement where the wounded, the shattered, and those with chips on their shoulders too large to repair are banished for eternity.

 

Story inspired by Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week 97 and memories of a visit to the Musée Rodin in Paris a long time ago.

 

Impartiality

Photo of three people riding horses through the bush in an Australian cattle station. Used as a prompt for microfiction.
Photo by Tobias Keller on Unsplash

In the unseen timelines of the mortal trio, that day was marked as the occasion of the light dimming in each of their hearts forevermore, disconnected as they were from the source.

They’d slunk out of the forest triumphant, leaving behind an unrecongnisable world: sacrifices made in the name of gods they didn’t believe in, although flashbacks were tinged with fear of the wrath of those same dieties.

Meanwhile, the sun continued to rise and set, bearing witness to daylight thievery and acts of grace with the same silent intensity.

 

Inspired by Sonya’s Three Line Tales Week 95.

Excess Baggage

Photo of a pile of dirty dishes in a small sink with a single tap, used as a micro fiction prompt
Photo by Scott Umstattd on Unsplash

We stopped at Novosibirsk and waited on the  platform; as with all other stops, there were locals selling soda, peanuts, pickled fish, two-minute noodles, and the powdered mash potato that had been my staple; I’d get hot water from the surly samovar attendant and with a little stirring, giving me that sense of having cooked a meal, I turned out a delicious starchy mush that paired nicely with whatever vodka was going. Continue reading →

Pre-Iron Age Chef

Photo of a snake skeleton use as a prompt for a three line tale, microfiction story
Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash

 

Today in the kitchen stadium, the challenger has plated up a char grilled Adaptosaurus on a bed of mashed sweet potato with a side of shredded brussel sprouts stir-fried with the secret ingredient: full-moon-bathed silvered almonds.

If you want to recreate this gastronomic wonder at home, the first step of course is to hunt down your creature, good luck with that—we picked one up at British Museum deli—they’re hard to come by, so if you’re stuck, use chicken and adjust the cooking time accordingly. Carefully debone your protein with a sharpened stone, lather with crushed garlic and coconut oil, and pop it on the grill for an age—paleolithic magic!

 

Inspired by Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week 82

The Used Car Salesman

Photo of a blue volkswagon combi van used as a prompt for a microfiction story

Photo by Annie Theby on Unsplash

She paid in cash, said it was her savings and emptied a beaten up old suitcase on my desk; between you and me, I usually let people feel they’re getting away with a deal, play along with their haggling and knock off five hundred or so and everybody’s happy, but she wasn’t having none of that—couldn’t wait to dump the cash and drive off with the combi, but then said something about not being able to drive a stick and walked off.

Fred rubbed the stubble on his chin—the bristling of the short hairs gave him pleasure—as he waited for the officer to catch up with her note taking— So why the questions? Was she some kind of crim? Hadn’t seen her around these parts till…

The other officer—carrying a sizable black plastic bag—walked up behind Fred, cutting him off mid-sentence You might want to have a lawyer present before you do any more talking. Frederick Ainsley Bartlett, you are under arrest for…

 

Inspired by Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week Eighty. I really did’t know where this one was going and feel like it was a bit of a cop out (no pun intended) ending, but maybe I’ll continue it. I so often add half baked promises at the bottom of my posts haha. If you have any thoughts on what Frederick is getting arrested for, please do share…

Game, Set, Match

Photo of a woman whimsically dancing on wet tennis court- used as prompt for three line tales microfiction
Photo by Sam Burriss

As much as she hated needles, Lynne was game for another dose, high spirited for 9 in the morning because Frank was home doing the vacuuming and once their respective chores were complete, they’d join the Senior Spartans on their monthly lunch outing. With the cold infusion slow dripping like a hipster’s coffee- into the orifice forged by the nurse’s ‘… little sting’- there was nothing to do but look around the room, make small talk with the nurse and other patient, or- as was mainly the case- look down at her gnarled hands, driftwood garnished with the ring Frank had given her 55 years earlier- hands that had changed Noel and Fiona’s nappies, held a glass to toast each child’s wedding, cooked countless shepherd’s pies- now too set in their ways to do as Lynne instructs. No way they’d hold the arm of the hoover much less a tennis racket these days, at least not long enough to raise much dust. Continue reading →