Early Morning

So early....
I am not really awake.
My eyes are fuzzy.
I feel sluggish.
It was dark when I got up.

I wish I was this girl...

Pooh

I am thankful....

For the taxes that I pay, because it means that I am employed.
For the clothes that fit a little too snug, because it means I have enough to eat.
For my shadow that watches me work, because it means I am out in the sunshine.
For a floor that needs mopping, and windows that need cleaning, because it means I have a home.
For all the complaining I hear about the government, because it means that we have freedom of speech.
For the parking spot I find at the far end of the parking lot, because it means I am capable of walking and that I have been blessed with transportation.
For the pile of laundry and ironing, because it means I have clothes to wear.
For weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day, because it means I have been capable of working hard.
For the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours, because it means that I am alive.

Judges

The Judges’ decision would be final. It would be the only one that mattered, and there would be no appeal.


The accused sat in the witness stand – the only one who would speak on her behalf. It was her word against all of theirs’, and so far her chances weren’t good. She sat self-consciously with her hands at her sides, and felt the penetrating gazes of the Judges on her. They were relentless, they wouldn’t stop until the decision had been made, and there was no “mercy of the court” upon which she could throw herself. The next set of gazes were somewhat worse, there was no alliance with the Jury, no common sense of humanity. There was no pity, no sense of compassion. There was hardened accusation mixed with pure relief that it was her and not them up on the stand. There was a sick sense of glee that she was on trial, like rats rejoicing that they had no succumbed to the temptation of the cheese in the trap while they watched the unfortunate rat suffer.


The allegations were laid out; they covered all manner of evils from the simplest of error to the most grievous of offences. Every exposed moment of her young life was thrust at her with all the menace and hostility of a finger in the face. She nodded meekly as they were read out, one by one her transgressions were put to her, mounting the case against her. Would she even be given a chance to speak? She doubted if it would make any difference. There was so much here already, so much had been inferred against her that her still small voice of protest would mean little against the burden of proof. Much like a witch-hunt, a mere accusation was almost sufficient to prove any claim.


She could feel her owl-like glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, and she resisted the urge to correct them and push them back up. Even the slightest of movements would set them off like a pack of wild wolves and the case against her would be decided for life. Fear was all around her, and she could feel the familiar well of tears inside her. SHE MUST NOT CRY! The trial would be over and her humiliation would be complete. To her surprise, she was given a chance to speak, to defend the claims, to present her own evidence. She began, but try as she might she could not get the right words to come out, and it seemed as if everyone, including her own body was conspiring against her to have her doomed to conviction.


The Judges looked away from her for the first time, exchanging looks with each other. There was no need even for a jury vote on this one. The result would in any case be unanimous and in complete accord with the Judges; constitutional rights and a fair trial had not found their way in to this court yet. Her voice trailed off as the Judges looked back to her. It seemed their decision had been made. The gavel banged down onto the hard wooden desk as the verdict was handed down. She hung her head in the witness box, unable to speak.


The Judges collected their designer lunchboxes and dusted off their pretty A-line skirts, swinging their willowy hips as they disappeared off to their own lives. The Jury began to disperse, silently, no-one wanting to speak about the trial that had just occurred. Little Wendy removed her glasses and wept big splashy tears as she sat alone in the playground with her biggest crime; that of being uncool.

10 lies people tell (supposedly to make you feel better) and what they ACTUALLY mean

1. No, those jeans don’t make you look fat! (It’s not the jeans. It’s the lumpy burger-and-fries combo that has become your ass that makes you look fat).

2. It’s no trouble at all. (It’s a serious imposition, but now that you’ve asked me, I don’t want to say no and sound like a douche).


3. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. (I have no idea what I’m doing, but I want to seem in charge. If this breaks, it’s your own fault).


4. I honestly think you are the most beautiful girl in the world (Of course you’re not the most beautiful girl in the world! If you were, you would be in calendars. But, you are the prettiest girl that I have a shot with).


5. It’s not you, it’s me. (There is no doubt about this: it's you! I’m wonderful. You are not. We are over)


6. No, that’s not weird. Everyone does that. (No-one does that! That is completely weird! What the hell were you thinking sharing that with another human being? You disgust me.)


7. That guy? No, I don’t know him (Oh, you meant HIM! Oh, yeah, I thought you meant the guy with the ‘Homeless’ sign standing 20 meters away from the guy I know. Um, yeah, we used to date a little. And by a little I mean we used to play Naked Twister every Tuesday in my less reformed days. )


8. I’m listening. (You talk too much, and I am thinking about Call of Duty/my outfit for tomorrow/dinner).


9. Of course I would tell you if I ever cheat on you! (Do I look stupid? I have a better chance of not cheating on you than ever telling you when/if I do)


10. I don’t mind if you don’t shave. (I LOVE your hairy legs, you don’t have to go waxing today. It’s like having a scratching post right next to me. I feel like a cat.)

Dying

Does the thought of death scare you? Particularly your death, obviously. Death in general is not a particularly terrifying theme, otherwise Shakespeare wouldn’t have been so popular, nor his later mimic, Quentin Tarantino.


Death scares the hell out of me. One moment you’re here, then next, gone.


Religion and faith are a comfort, but you’ve got to admit that the thought has gone through your head; “What if we’re wrong?” Heaven forbid, What if the Jews WERE right?


All this said, I have a morbid fascination with Doomsday science, an unhealthy interest in Armeggedon theories and a growing need to know what happened to the dinosaurs and *gasp* whether it will happen to us.


Then I realised something: my death scares me, but only because I’ll be leaving people behind. If we all go together, I beat my FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) and it no longer worries me.


Self-centred or self-preserving?

Writing is hard

When I was younger, I could bang out a 5-hundred word paragraph without thinking twice about it. I used to win competitions for cheesy poetry I wrote in 5 minutes (brag brag brag). Now, when I have to write something, I overthink it to the nth degree and I find myself getting stuck and despondent about it. The pen (computer keys) stick against my fingers and my mind clogs when I try to find ideas. I can hear the works jamming as if a spanner has been thrown in. The thought of being creative or funny is something of an impossibility. I read other bloggers and think to myself "How do they do it?" They seem so effortlessly talented, so naturally hilarious, so brilliantly poignant.



But if I consider my reactions now, versus what they used to be, to so many other things, it seems to have become something of a shocking trend. When I was 10, despite having a soul-chilling fear of heights (and, more significantly, depths) I would happily leap off a 5-metre diving board to prove to all and sundry that I wasn’t chicken (even though I've always found that an inappropriate slur. Chickens are not, by nature, at all timid)Big Bang Theory . Now, I make sure that I go to swimming pools without the temptation of proving myself (i.e. no diving boards). What if I break my neck? What if I jump and hit the water at a funny angle and sprain my ankle or tear a ligament? I used to walk all over the fairly rickety and unsafe roof over my grandmother’s house and play balancing games. Now, I wouldn’t dream of taking chances like that.


I was playing in the park the other day on one of those dare-devil merry-go-rounds. We used to swing those around until the world was a blur, climb off and laugh at how unable we were to walk in a straight line. Now, I was hesitant to have it go faster than a light haziness. (Interestingly enough, we don’t mind the dizziness from unnatural additives like wine and coffee, but heaven forbid a natural high likely to result in a small sprain).


Perhaps it’s now that we know consequences, and things about physics ("forces" and such-like). We know the result of a broken collarbone, the expense of a torn ligament or the black dizziness that sets in when something is seriously busted.


To a large extent that is how I feel about writing these days. No more do I leap blindly into text, allowing my imagination to take over and let the story write itself. Now I consider plot, and character and punctuation. I think about what the reader will be feeling when they read the story. I consider public reaction. I think too much, rather than feeling, and it has lead me to not be writing like I should be.


My next challenge? I’m writing a South African sci-fi short story. I shall valiantly attempt to write it like I would when I was a child. I shall endeavour to write for the sheer joy of the written word, rather than for any other motive. (I will make the greatest effort to not have my story sound like a valedictory speech).


Wish me luck!