The neighbours were not happy about my choice of yard art. Beck shot me a look this morning before crossing to Mildred’s house.
I found the bison and hunter at a pawn shop. The owner wanted to get rid of them – cheap! He said it was an important reminder of our near-sighted ancestors killing all the bison.
“They’re special, you won’t find these anywhere”, the man assured. Sure, they looked ridiculous, but I wanted something like that for my stuffy neighbourhood. We moved here two months ago and I needed to get some laughs. My neighbours weren’t bad people, just very dull.
At 8pm, I heard Beck shouting over the TV.
“You have to get her to get rid of those stupid things. Mum keeps waking up at night to talk to the statue. She tells him how much she missed him while he was away hunting”.
“We are NOT going to remove the statues – make your mother take her medication!!”
I have been finding it difficult to complete some of my stories over the last two weeks. Not for the lack of wanting, but the restrictions I created for myself in damaging my muscles from “over-writing”. You may ask, “over-writing? What is that?” It is similar to tennis elbow.
After coming to a conclusion I could not write any more words because the pain was too much, I saw my physiotherapist today and she told me I left it too late and there was nothing to do except sleep and rest. She made me promise to stay away from the computer for two days. I had the same injury when I actually played tennis over 20 years ago, so I found it amusing. Well, I had to make a post so I’ll be quick and yes, I have taken some pain killers to help.
I found this article about my problem and thought, if other writers have the same symptoms, they may find it useful.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve felt a nagging and persistent pain in my elbow, right between those two little bones on the underside (if you hold your arm slightly bent). “Tennis elbow” was the first thing that came to mind, but I haven’t played in years.
I type, though. A lot. That got me wondering. Is tennis elbow—or “computer elbow”—another painful consequence of the writing life?
Turns out, it is. (groan) The good news is you can do things to prevent it, or in my case, speed up the healing process.
Through my son Nathan and his friend Hamish, I got hooked on this audible storytelling a few days ago. After my day job and house-work, I found myself listening until I fell asleep with the episodes still running. The falling asleep part was not because of boredom, but early hours of the next day, which my human body could not stay awake until. The story was captivating. The way journalist Sarah Koenig told the story took me through several emotional states – fear, anger, frustrations and sadness. These emotions also wore me out, but I wanted more.
The Alibi
It’s Baltimore, 1999. Hae Min Lee, a popular high-school senior, disappears after school one day. Six weeks later detectives arrest her classmate and ex-boyfriend, Adnan Syed, for her murder. He says he’s innocent – though he can’t exactly remember what he was doing on that January afternoon. But someone can. A classmate at Woodlawn High School says she knows where Adnan was. The trouble is, she’s nowhere to be found.
Brought to you by Serial, a podcast from the creators of This American Life, and is hosted by Koenig. Serial tells one story – a true story – over the course of an entire season. Each season, they follow a plot and characters wherever it takes them. And they don’t know what happens at the end until they get there, not long before you get there with Serial. Each week the plot brings you the next chapter in the story, so it’s important to listen to the episodes in order, starting with Episode 1. Lucky The Alibi started at the end of 2014 and was completed early this year so that’s what I did for the last two days, between my day job and house-hold chores – listening. I was completely absorbed in the 12 episodes up to yesterday afternoon. I cannot say what happens in episode 12, but do start from episode 1 to fully enjoy the effect of case-solving.
Leakin Park where, on February 9, a man known as “Mr S” came across Hae’s body, 127 feet back from the road, buried in a shallow grave behind a log.
Episode 1
On January 13, 1999, a girl named Hae Min Lee, a senior at Woodlawn High School in Baltimore County, Maryland, disappeared. A month later, her body turned up in a city park. She’d been strangled. Her 17-year-old ex-boyfriend, Adnan Syed, was arrested for the crime, and within a year, he was convicted and sentenced to spend the rest of his life in prison. The case against him was largely based on the story of one witness, Adnan’s friend Jay, who testified that he helped Adnan bury Hae’s body. But Adnan has always maintained he had nothing to do with Hae’s death. Some people believe he’s telling the truth. Many others don’t.
Koenig, who hosts Serial, first learned about this case more than a year ago. In the months since, she’s been sorting through box after box (after box) of legal documents and investigators’ notes, listening to trial testimony and police interrogations, and talking to everyone she can find who remembers what happened between Adnan Syed and Hae Min Lee fifteen years ago. What she realized is that the trial covered up a far more complicated story, which neither the jury nor the public got to hear. The high school scene, the shifting statements to police, the prejudices, the sketchy alibis, the scant forensic evidence – all of it leads back to the most basic questions: How can you know a person’s character? How can you tell what they’re capable of? In Season One of Serial, she looks for answers.
On October 3, 2014, a podcast unraveling the tale of the teenage girl’s murder in Baltimore aired. Barely a month into its release, the podcast broke download records and changed how audio journalism was perceived all over the world.
Podcasts are becoming the latest non-linear way of delivering the news, and some are applying the narrative format to explore—and expose—stories that have never been touched on before. The Alibi reached thousands over-night as Koenig took listeners through the scenes of what happened to Hae Min Lee and details of where her ex-boyfriend Adnan Syed was – on that fateful day.
I personally feel that this (podcast of a crime or any story) could be an interesting exercise for writers to learn how to describe scenes and structure different chapters in word imagery for their readers. It teaches you ways to keep your reader hooked in each chapter until the end. Where you pause to ask questions in your story as Koenig did in Serial, your readers will be asking these questions too as you take them with you through your plot.
I really enjoyed listening to The Alibi.
To listen to the story in all 12 episodes, click here.
Once upon a time in a land far, far away, beyond the blue fog of Torrest Straits lived many tribes in Papua New Guinea. Amongst them, a fierce warrior named Katham led the Ahe people.
Seeking fertile land Katham attacked Tikeleng, Apo and Aluki tribes for the Lahe coastline. The early 1900s battle took place near a large river. Positioned in the thick tropical forest Katham and his warriors fought till his last coastal enemy fell. Katham and two ardent followers returned inland. They crossed the river, which they named Bu-dac, meaning Blood River, because it was red and filled with floating bodies. The three heard loud splashing. Katham approached the shallow bank cautiously thinking an injured enemy was still alive.
To his astonishment, he found a toddler struggling for air and Katham picked up and hugged the baby boy. The baby threw up water and cried. Without other survivors, Katham returned home, named and raised the toddler as his son.
Based on our (Ahe people’s) history as told by my grandmother, Geyamlamuo Poaluawe Baim. Budac remains a river where our people wash daily. The toddler’s three generations are still part of our family. Our village Wagang remains in the position Katham fought for. Thank you Barbara for a perfect picture to inspire my oral history.
My grandmother Geyamlamuo Poaluawe Baim (Geyam) was born on 4/4/1919. She died in 2008 while I was away in Vietnam on a university field trip. Like many others she raised, I called her Tinang which means mother. I miss her so much even though I know, she is always with me.
Dew glistened on blades and seed pockets as we walked through the thick wet grass. My sun-tanned legs were studded in pale green grass seeds. I wore my brown shorts and an old white T-shirt, ripped on the shoulders with pin holes all over. It was cooler and easier to work in. I was turning eight and tall.
“Jesus loves me this I know, for the bible tells me so”, I sang quietly as grandma and I headed for our garden. Tinang sang with me and then stopped. The morning was cool and the humidity took its time to arrive. I tried pushing the grass apart with a stick before stepping into the track so I would not step on toads, snakes or get wet. My feet were covered in mud. If we did not go to the main market in Lae town, Papua New Guinea on Saturdays, I would be out fishing or gardening with Tinang. I was glad Tinang’s elephantiasis leg did not swell up today and I knew even if her foot bothered her, she would have never mentioned it.
We had left the main road to Wagang village and were crossing the wet over-grown track to our old garden. The old and new gardens were side by side. We needed to pick up some young banana shoots, tapioca sticks and kaukau (sweet potato) leaves for the new garden. It was almost 8am. I knew the time because the ambulance had come to pick up my uncle for work at 7am and we had walked an hour from the village. We stopped to visit my aunt; otherwise it would have taken us half hour to 45 minutes. Our garden was further away than other gardens.
“Ampom Mamang!” grandma whispered suddenly.
Tinang at her home in Lae 2006.
That was a very quiet order, telling me to stop singing.
Over the birds’ songs and the wind rustling the leaves, I could hear voices and wood chopping.
“They are close” grandma said.
“Who were they?” “What were they chopping on our land?” I needed clarity but grandma’s eyes indicated – now was not the time.
We both stood still and listened. We could not see anyone yet. I knew the noisemakers were not our villagers. They spoke a different language and sometimes in conversation, they would speak pidgin. This meant, “they” were outsiders, most likely the squatter settlers. We called them Kaii. This word means foreigners. Tinang and I had no idea how many they were.
Tinang signed that we would take a short cut through the trees and hide in the bushes near our coconut trees. The trees were planted as a landmark close to the boundary of the Martin Luther Seminary. This spot had some vines and thick undergrowth. Beyond the seminary, our tribal land was occupied by hundreds of illegal squatter settlers. They came from Morobe Province and the highlands of Papua New Guinea. Many settlers had lived there for up to three generations and claimed the land as theirs. Often, there were fights between villagers and the settlers.
As grandma and I got closer, the sound of chopping became distinct. People were talking and laughing. They joked and laughed as they went about their business.
Through the thick undergrowth and heavily entwined creepers, we counted seven adult male. Three had ‘weapons’ – two knives and one axe. Grandma and I only had one bush knife. I looked at her and then I watched the others break the dry firewood and stacked them on bush vines – prepared to be tied into a bundle.
Tinang made eyes to be quiet and move quickly. She was almost sixty, but she could move quickly even with her bad leg. She cut a long creeper and removed all the leaves. It was strong and several metres long. Then grandma cut the second one and did the same thing.
Two of the men started playing and chased each other and one jumped almost into our secret hiding place under the vines. I froze. The man fell two metres away, got up and ran and playfully pushed his friend over.
His friend tripped over some Hessian bags and fell. It was the first time I noticed the old brown bags were filled with food. We called these bags “copra bags” because our people sold their copra in the bags. I counted seven bags and four bundles of bananas. They could not get anymore bananas because I knew from last week, only four were ready to harvest. They did take a lot of sweet potatoes and tapioca. They also had taros that I could see from the open bags. They men harvested our gardens for themselves and now to top it off, they helped themselves to our firewood. They must have begun this thieving trip very early this morning I thought and I felt very angry.
I looked at grandma and she was very busy tying ropes in different parts of the bush – it was like, she was setting up a rope trap. I wondered how we would catch these grown men in our rope traps. I was afraid.
I lifted my chin in a question to grandma and made eyes at the ropes. She signalled me to wait and see. Once she tied the two creepers on all the small Aducbo trees, she brought their ends to one spot and told me to stand there and get ready to pull. I grabbed the robes and took my position. She worked under the vines and tied all the trunks of small trees in a semicircle.
Tinang cut two more strong thick vines and quietly under the cover of the vines, she creeped around to the opposite of the spot where I was. She winked at me and smiled. I knew she was up to something and although I was afraid of the men, I was confident she had a good plan.
After she tied the ropes at her side, grandma returned to me and asked.
“Are you afraid?”
“No Tinang” I said and smiled at her.
She hugged me. Then she whispered in my ear that she will give me a queue when she starts yelling abuses – I must, in my loudest and scariest voice scream and be very abusive as well and pull the two ropes at the same time.
The words I was to scream out were; ”What are you doing? What are you doing on my land?” “We will kill you, we will get you! We are coming for you!”
Grandma returned to her position and she stared hard at me and nodded, I nodded back and she started pulling the trees and screaming abuses. All the trees became alive in a semi-circle. I was surprised.
Caught off guard too, the men ran in my direction and I started doing the same thing. The ropes yanked the small trees – making noise and in an ambush, leaving only two escape routes. One gap led back to the garden and one led to the opening facing the Martin Luther seminary. Fleeing back in the direction to the garden, the men realised their mistake, turned and ran to the seminary. Tinang and I kept screaming and shaking pulling the trees and bushes until we were sure the thieves were gone. Then we hugged and laughed until we cried.
We inspected and confirmed the bags of food were harvested from our gardens. The thieves also left their two bush-knives and an axe. There were some dirty ripped smelly shirts, which we threw into the trees to hang as flags to celebrate our successful ambush.
Together, grandma and I carried the bags to new hiding places. Then we took the axe and bush knives and went to get my uncles to help carry our harvest home.
“Pizza anyone?” James grinned and set the pizza on the table.
“Rusty!” I called my Chihuahua.
Rusty chewed all of James’ shoes yesterday. Last night, James threatened to drop him off at RSPCA. I lost my appetite for 24-hours. Starving, I grabbed the pizza.
“Wait, I need to cut it” he said and produced a large kitchen knife. He sliced the pizza and I noticed an odd smell. Perhaps it was our compost that smelt. I quickly ate three slices. It was delicious, yet I could taste something else apart from the cheesy mushroom.
“You having any?” I asked reaching for the fourth slice. “I’m not hungry”. Then, I stopped. There was brown fur on the meaty medallions. I picked it with my fingernail. “What’s this?”
“It’s Rusty! He tastes good huh?” James said. I dropped the slice and ran with my hands on my mouth. (150 words)
Branches Unbound, Wendy Wahl’s work at the Grand Rapids Art Museum, Photo by: Jim West
It’s not news that the world of printed text on paper is challenged in the 21st century by digital media and the reorganization of how information is created, distributed and accessed. Knowledge saving and sharing continues to be reinvented – 5000 years ago the Incans used a device called a quipu made of string and knots for communication, 3000 years ago the Sumerians had libraries containing clay tablets while the Egyptians used papyrus and parchment scrolls.
Kansas City Public Library, Missouri. photo by Mike Sinclair
During the Han Dynasty the Chinese invented paper to write on and in the 15th century Europeans began printing with movable type to create a codex. In the 1970s computers were incorporated into the printing process.Social and environmental conditions along with technological developments influence the structure of books that are produced. These objects evolve to fit the needs of the cultures that use them. Today there are e-readers with names like kindle, nook and ibook. For nearly a decade my response to the current transformation has been to use discarded encyclopedias as a material to create art works and large scaled installations as an expression of the significance and potency of the printed word on paper. Read More
Inspired by Millie Thom and others who take part in this exercise, I decided to try the flash fiction challenge. The challenge asks for a story in 100 -150 words from a picture and a first line prompted by host, Barbara W. Beachman.
Image copyright: Barbara Beachman.
“When the team heard the dam explode, the team knew they had limited time to make it to safety.
They were collecting specimens along the riverbank when local villagers warned; environment activists were blowing up the dam. The five ran and jumped into their yellow Kathmandu raft and anxiously strapped on life jackets. Gushing water headed downhill towards them. The raft was spat by the force of dam water metres into the air and slammed down into racing current.
“Noooooo!” screamed Wendy; she had been thrown off the raft.
Wendy! Wendy! The remaining scientists yelled against loud sounds of the rushing water. Nothing. The four held on tightly as the tiny, floating yellow raft bounced roughly down the wide powerful current. Kilometres later, the water poured into Mellow River.
Soon, darkness came and the current delivered them ashore a deserted bank. They lost everything and still, no sign of Wendy. (150 words)
This was how we ended our creative writing workshop this week.
My creative writing group surprised me with champagne and birthday cake last week. Thank you Judy Ward for baking the delicious coffee-chocolate and Orange cakes and thank you Isabel and fellow writers for the champagne and all the snacks. We also celebrated the end of another great term of work-shopping our stories. The eight-week long workshop ended on Tuesday. Many writers in the group have been attending this workshop at Kenmore, Queensland (Australia) for as long as five years. I have been part of the group for two years. Author Isabel D’Avila Winter is a beautifully crazy and an inspiring teacher. Below was the note I got in email before we had our last workshop.
“No reading for next week, because we’ll be too busy eating the leftover TimTams and madly workshopping our work. We’ll also be discussing the upcoming local writing competition, and brainstorming what kind of stories might be suitable to enter,” Isabel D’ Avila Winter.
Isabel is seated in front (left). Other participants included writers of memoir, rural romance, fantasy, sci-fi and crime fiction. We are not all females, we do have two male writers. Tom was not well this night and the other male writer, Bill, took this lovely picture. The group members have planned to enter the local writing competition in August.
I find that being part of this group was a major contributing factor in my story-telling; both in finding constant inspiration to write and sharing my work for an honest feedback. I also enjoy listening to each writer’s story.
I have personally met Malcolm Fraser in my reporting days in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. It was very sad this afternoon to hear of his passing.
ABC News reported former Liberal prime minister Malcolm Fraser has been remembered as “a giant of Australian politics” and a “great moral compass” following his death early this morning at the age of 84.
“It is with deep sadness that we inform you that after a brief illness, John Malcolm Fraser died peacefully in the early hours of the morning of 20 March, 2015,” a statement released by his office said.
Malcolm Fraser Australia’s 22nd prime minister, in power from 1975 to 1983, and founding chairman of CARE Australia
“We appreciate that this will be a shock to all who knew and loved him, but ask that the family be left in peace at this difficult time.”
Mr Fraser — Australia’s 22nd prime minister — was born into a wealthy pastoral family in 1930 and first entered Parliament in 1955 as its youngest MP.
An important and extended conversation between Phillip Adams and the late Mr Fraser, recorded fourteen years ago, in his office back in February 2001.
They discuss his heritage and early life, his decision to get into politics and his political legacy.
Tribalmystic Stories 