Return of the Dead

Yes, I realise I’m late for Halloween.
Congratulations, Protection for winning the Melbourne Cup though. Go, Germany!
Expectation is the greatest burden man can bear.
No, I don’t believe in that wom’n nonsense. We have a lot more things to worry about before semantics.
See you tomorrow.


There goes Number Three

The third lost daily prompt/postaday and I’m livid.

For posterity, when we have more hope and might consider risking another post on a web browser,


Super Upset

This post isn’t anything special or thought-out. I’m just blowing off some steam – I did two daily prompts with much angsting, and thought I was protecting myself by saving drafts constantly but now those drafts are nowhere to be found, and all I have are empty posts.

Eurgh. Working on this. Watch this space for updates, I’ve not become a glitchy bot poster.

Thank Crime for Peripeteia

And was October or September when I drifted away from this blog again, thinking that the everyday life – my everyday life, unlike others’ – was too dull – too conflictless – too peaceful – for me to relive in print. 


Long story short, Sober story drunk: I was stolen from. It rocked my world, it really did. Right in its struts, my world was rocked. How could this happen to me? I thought; who could do this?; who could do this and remain stoic and unbending with the shattering of my innocence under their deeds?

I was furious, sad but most of all, embarrassed. I thought that my naivete was once again exhibited, flashed at the world of sleazy boys and girls getting together, of drugs and rock and roll – of vulgarity, fucking and commonness. I know by now, as a “young woman” of the age of twenty, that when I’m shown up like that, a large part of my anger is born of shame and a desire to be more worldly.

But ultimately, this occasion, this occurrence of the loss of three hundred expensive Australian dollars, has lead me to back here, to you. All my die-hard fans, you’ve waited long, or not, for my return to the small, printed screen and only time will tell if you have never to wait again. When I have anger within me that I can’t rightfully release onto others, or express to someone who’ll understand all the words I use, I’ll always have the great, unlimitable plains of the Internet. 

I really can’t wrap my head around a person who can see someone’s suffering and not recant soon after. Inform me, Internet.

Writing Advice; “Good Writing Is Persisting” (short fiction)

An example of simple story with a distinct concept running through it from head to tail. It will be a good reference text for when I first try to write a short story. Note the 3rd person! Whoa – impressive – it’s been a while.

Daily Prompt: Sad But True

Tell us about the harshest, most difficult to hear — but accurate — criticism you’ve ever gotten. Does it still apply?

Peggy was absolutely crushed. Written in a red marker on the title page of her short story as if from the blood of her own heart, “Rubbish, dithering screed unfit for human consumption.” It was handed back to her by Professor Carson with all the force that impelled those words.

She stayed after class to confront him. With red eyes she approached his desk.

“Are you purposely trying to fail me?’ she said timidly.

“What you wrote was sentimental drivel,” Carson said. “Meant to somehow impress me. I’m not impressed by dishonesty. Write with passion and not weepy bleeding gobbledygook. This is stuff written by silly fourteen year old girls who lives in a make-believe world of princes, princesses, toads, and evil step-mothers. You’re trying…

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