Home | Contest | Write A Book | Write Ebooks For Cash | Be A Travel Writer | Write Children's Books Write For Newspapers | Write An Ezine | Write A Blog | Writing Skills & Tips | Novel Writing Software Please take a moment to bookmark this site and join our free hot tips list. Read & Rate Our Writing Contest Entries! See what other people have written, and rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. This is an opportunity to view a wide variety of short stories and see what kind of original material is being submitted to us on a daily basis. After you rate an entry, you will be randomly redirected to another entry to rate. You may read and rate as many entries as you wish! The user-rating system is simply a fun way for writers to receive a public opinion of their work, and does not affect the judging for the cash prizes. If you wish to enter the contest, you may enter for free here. Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Sarana Haeata-Mcclelland Melbourne Morning. I lay I lay and lay and lay But you did not come. I tried to imagine you, Tried so hard my head turned into a sour lemon And tried to pop off my neck like a champagne cork
Still,
☼ ☼ ☼ Sunny Morning. He lay He lay and lay and lay But she did not come. He tried to imagine her, Tried so extremely hard that his head Turned into a pomegranate, Each little seed expanding, expanding, EXPANDING Untill it exploded, And was lost for ever Then they opened their eyes Melbourne Morning. My God I was tired. Guess the midnight tequila shots at Brent’s weren’t the best of ideas… oh but how they seemed like it at the time. POUNDING. Watery eyes. POUNDING. Dizziness. POUNDING. Oh God here it comes… I watched the contents of my stomach make their merry little way into my graffitied toilet bowl (everyone who stepped foot inside the apartment put their personal mark on my toilet bowl… some way or another.) I smiled as I saw the message from Mick the pizza guy. He seemed a little freaked out when I gave him that permanent marker, stared him straight in the eye, and boldly said “ Do it for ya country Mick. Be the kind of Pizza man you always wanted to be.” In a voice that deemed judgement day was upon us. Sitting back now I felt a little better. The unsettling gurgling feeling that seemed to come the day after one–hell–of–goodnight, had settled more to a slow simmering. Door flies open. Half dressed flat mate (a.k.a Jen) is bolting for the signature invaded toilet. Ooo a little wobbly on the side lines there, can she make it? The crowd is silent. Silent. SILENT. So silent its deafening. Face contorted, arms swaggering. Oh! And she’s on her knees. Only a few more moments left till the equivalent to the eruption of Mount Vesuvius… Suspense. Oh the suspense. BOOM! “Tequila shots?” “Yup…” Now we’re laughing. Laughing like theirs no tomorrow. Laughing like two teenagers after their first joint. And it suddenly all feels good. And for a little while I forget that I dreamt of him again last night. Despite that goddamn headache that just doesn’t get the message – GO AWAY! NOBODY LOVES YOU! But hey… I guess that’s why hangovers weren’t made with ears. Sunny Morning. If you looked out the window you could see the dappled sunbeams frolicking on the leafy foliage that framed the house. It reminded him of little kids and their excitement when they learn they can actually interact with other beings. So pure and joyful. Like laughter carried on a warm summer breeze. His name is Jazz. Her name is Love. The sun felt hot on his skin, like someone was holding a magnifying glass to his forearm. He rolled onto his back, and watched the ceiling darken through at least fifteen different shades as a cloud passed over the once shining sun, Going, going, gone. He could hear “Fred the Flatmate” clumsily trying to find the milk whilst cursing crazy obscenities at the door frame, for getting in the way of his big toe at the start of his great expedition to the coffee machine. Jazz chuckled as he imagined a wild life commentator joining the household – “Now if you look at this magnificent specimen here, known as the “Fred the Flatmate” you can actually tell just by the looking at it, the lack of brain waves running through its head. Oh this really is something special A Fred the Flatmate in its natural habitat!” …chuckle… A soft smile parted his lips as he recalled his dream. One day soon. Very soon. Melbourne Morning. Thought. It can be a philosophy in itself. What is philosophy? Its thought, ideas that come to form in the great abyss of our mind – some deep yearning to ask a question then attempt to explain the answer. What is reality? What is real? Are you awake in your dreams and simply in a state of unconsciousness during what we believe is actuality. When we stare into a surrealist painting are we staring into the pure face of truth and what is to be known as the real world? What are we before we become a “living” being? Is the state we are in now what is known as limbo? What if what we are calling life is exactly that, limbo? A state between REAL life, and death. We have simply made a world OUT OF the limbo section. The idea that we have actually already lived life, and our “death” from this world is the real passing on to the other side. Before we lived, we had already died. I dunno, just a thought. Sunny Morning. Another night spent searching for something… or rather someone, that could fill the deep void that existed within him. He was slowly losing himself and he knew it. It almost hurt to feel the failure close around him, to let the defeat seep into his being like puss oozing from an infected cut. It felt like a lifetime of meaningless one night stands. He felt dirty, like a used band-aid. Dirty and hopeless. Yet no matter how much he could lie to himself, he knew that he could not give up searching, consciously or sub-consciously he would always be looking. Looking for the being that invaded his dreams and every thought. She seemed not so much a person but a feeling. A lingering moment in which he could tell that one day they would meet, and then finally, that soft lasting feeling would never leave. “Hey hobo” Fred believed that insulting someone was a great way to start a conversation. He also believed that if you threw a dog out the window of a six storey building it would think it a great adventure and enjoy and appreciate the experience, contrary to popular belief. The Truth? They never saw Hobbles again. “Howdy” He replied “Guess what tonight is! Come on you cant’v forgotten!” It was like Fred’s eyes took on the form of an elbow, nudging Jazz till it actually starts to hurt. Jazz thought. Oh how he thought. Slowly it started to creep up on him. For a moment his heavy blanket of sorrow lifts like a kite floating on the windy air. “NACHO NIGHT!” They proceeded to groove and jive their way to the kitchen. If one looked in to the kitchen at that precise moment, at that precise time, they would have known how Hobbles felt when he was given his one way ticket out the window: Scared Shitless. For, at that precise moment at that precise time, Fred’s jiving behind could be seen doing a rather suggestive circular motion, whilst Jazz made thrusting hip movements towards the fridge. Two hours and a kitchen-so-messy-it’s-intimidating later, the two were at the table; Nachos: Check, Extra sauce: Check, Cheese the size of a small child: Check, Eating utensils: Unnecessary. And it’s on! Arms moving so fast they become a blur to the naked eye. Mouths opening and closing so often jaws start to wish god had never invented them. The only thing to describe Nacho night at Jazz and Fred’s place? Travel back to cave man time and you’ll start to get the picture… Primitive. Animalistic. Scary. “’ ‘ey ‘ou ‘ot ‘ork t’morrow?” Fred manages to squeeze out between corn chips and some threatening sour cream. All Jazz can interpret from this cryptic message from his flat mate is “work”. But this is enough. Stomach plummets to the ground. Blanket swings back over head. Jazz mumbles every remotely dirty word he could think of. “Remind me why I chose to fix crap holes again?” Jazz asks of his nacho-scoffing companion. “Ha, beats me. I just assumed you were some crazy faeces fiend” “Yep…thanks” “Anytime!” And then they happily returned to Nacho land. A land where torrents of meat sauce tumble from cliffs of corn chips, into an iridescent lake of sour cream… gee, wadda land. Melbourne Morning. Lately I just can’t seem to stop questioning things. Maybe it’s just a phase I’m going through, or a level that I’ve slowly been progressing towards and finally reached. Something is going to happen though, I can feel it. When I wake up in the morning, I wake with a feeling of excitement, an air of joy. But every day that passes and it doesn’t happen leaves me with a little box filled with anger, annoyance and disappointment all wrapped in a pretty pink bow of yet more excitement – knowing that tomorrow could be the day that I see him, touch him, let the sweet scent of his hair fill my nostrils, day that proves his existence. “Dammit! Hey I think the loo’s flooding” : Jen Half hour later: knock, knock, KNOCK. “Love that’s probly the plumber man! C’you grab it” Jens voice zig-zaggs between doors and hallways to meet my ears. Door opens. I see you. My feet lift off the ground. I’m flying, you’re flying. We here music, we dream dreams. We see the view from high a top clouds. Misty, sparkling swirls. My eyes, your eyes. Our eyes. The one being made from two lost souls dreaming of their other self.
One Very Sunny Melbourne Morning, I woke
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