- What’s on
Gaele has written a piece for the project so that you can bounce off it or keep it in mind for interchangeability of what you write.
We are all writing in first person, present tense, with roughly the same word count of between 100 to 150 words for each section. The theme is EMBODY – which can be taken however you wish.
Run, run, as fast as you can . . .
Sun is shining, sky is blue and I’m in love with you. Joking, I’m not in love with anybody, not even myself.
Crookedness rules the waves, God Save the Queen, advance Australia! My unsteady gait, every step I risk tripping, falling in a heap on the ground. Security has never been my strength. Strength has never been my security. Not physical strength anyway.
At school, one kid used to yell, ‘Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man,’ and tear off laughing.
I thought, ‘Who the hell is the gingerbread man?’ and wobbled my way to the classroom.
I continue to walk the dangerous mile, the sea lapping against the stone wall, salty rhythms, lullabies smelling of seaweed. Alone, longing for the steady arm of a kind person.
They don’t know. Why would they? How could they . . . know? Running, jogging, speed-walking, sweaty in leggings, ears plugged, pump up the jam, isolate the sound, pin it down, silence the soundscape. The landscape, the sky, the water blue, yellow warmth on my skin.
The familiar fatigue skulks heavy through my limbs. My muscle shredded like pulled beef, slow-cooked thigh. My knees grind. Pain and I insist on walking the beauty, the peace of the bay. Not far now. But I must rest.
A bell dings, dings, dings and I move out of the way, leaning against the wall, in the slip stream of a cyclist. Too fast for me, people sprinting by.
‘Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the ginger bread man.’ Someone behind me, yells.
I turn to look. He slows down. ‘I ran from the baker and his wife too. You’ll never catch me, ha ha, not you.’
He stops and leans on the wall next to me. I breathe his skin, freshly baked, just out of the oven. Such a cocky man. I turn and in two bites, I eat his head, his black currant eyes. I eat his arms and his legs. Seagulls dive, wailing and squawking. They peck and gobble until there is nothing left.
I continue to walk my wobbling path. Revenge is ginger. Revenge is sweet.