The adult class was inspired by one of my favourite Australian Artists, Russell Drsydale this week. 35 minute write time. I liked mine, hope you do to.
The Seymour Women.
Mildred McKenzie was the salt of the earth. Steady, reliable – the sort of woman who could kill a black snake without so much as a whimper for a bloke’s help. Just as well Don was tosser, and scared shitless of snakes. She lived this side of the highway, past the old footy ground, the one where the clubhouse was burnt to the ground by Billy Connors when Seymour got trounced by Mansfield in the Grand Final.
Over the way – down past what used to be a fairly decent creek before the blasted drought of 47, lives Florence Kennedy with her three kids and that no good husband of hers, Kenny. KJ he insists they call him, but that’s just dressing it up. A no hoper is what he is.
Then if you keep going, past the old schoolhouse where Father Bronson used to whip the kid’s bare arses if he had a mind to, is the Cleary property. Being just over the hill makes a huge difference in this rain strapped country – 2 inches doesn’t sound like much but when it’s just over 15 inches for the year, those 2 inches are vital. The Cleary place is a dust bowl, except where those 2 inches dump on the powder fine earth and it turns into a bog patch. Mrs Cleary, as she is known, is as strong as nails, but when it comes to Paddy, she’s just as vulnerable as any woman folk out here at the top end of Vitoria.
The menfolk, well that’s a different story – this story about the day those blokes turned up at Moody’s Pub at 12 noon on a Saturday afternoon and were never seen again.
Folks all have their own version of what happened on that Saturday in December when the mercury hit 98 at eleven and didn’t go down again until Christmas Eve. But it was all said and done by then, and Mildred McKenzie, Florence Kennedy and Mrs Cleary were left with the dried-up paddocks and not much else.
When you ask the people of Seymour what happened, they look away, or change the subject to the cricket or footy, or any other god dam thing but the truth. But I know the truth, not the bullshit story they wrote in the paper, or whatever was said at the inquiry – I know because I was there.
The barman, Jock Fitz, was fed up the bloody heat like we all were, and Don Mac and KJ were going at it, blueing over who was our most famous sportsman. Donny reckoned it was Bradman, but KJ kept saying Pharlap, but Don said that didn’t count, and any fool would agree with that, but KJ kept at it. Paddy Cleary tried to talk some sense into him, but it was close to 3.30 and KJ had sunk pint after pint trying to quench his thirst and because they were in a shout, they all kept up. In the end Jock Fitz threw the lot of them outside to cool off.
They were having a smoke when a car pulled up and out gets a city bloke in a dark suit and hat. He made himself at home on the front step puffing away on a pipe and no one thought much of it.
I happened to be walking on the other side of the street, looking for a bit of business before the blokes went back home to their wives, so I heard the city slicker when he started up about an old gold mine he’d found, which is why he had a nice new vehicle and fancy threads. Being an astute businesswoman, I turned my attention to him, but he said, I wasn’t his type. I tried a bit harder with the others, cos everyone knew none of their missus’ were putting out, but the city slicker told me in no uncertain terms to take a walk, so I figured I might as well. I had a room above the pub with a fan that gave me a nice cool breeze so I figured I might as well take advantage of that myself.
I was up there, looking out the window when I saw those lame brains all pile into that fancy car – all laughing, joking and hanging out the window with their fags.
I never told anyone, cos no one wants to hear from my kind of lady and customers need to know, I don’t say a word, no matter what!
They found McKenzie, Kennedy and Cleary’s bodies out by the creek bed a few weeks later. Christmas Eve just as the mercury dropped to 62 degrees.
There was a rumour that Mildred, Florence and Mrs Cleary paid money to a city slicker to do away with their useless husbands, but no one saw anything, especially not me.
What Leeanne wrote
Every class we have between 15 and 30 minutes to write a story. I usually write with the students, partly because I get bored easily, and that's a very long time,
but more importantly, because I love to write!
Ode to the first child
Leeanne Vernon
6/6/2015
Based on discussion with three oldest children during our topic; Banned & personal experience as always!
First children are always special. A mother looks into their eyes and instantly, permanently falls in love. Then baby number two arrives and once again we fall in love. Sometimes, even more so, (baby number two’s entry is usually less dramatic)! Yet behind the scenes in this happy family situation, number one child immediately goes to work – a tireless, never ending crusade to discredit child number two.
There are many ways for first child to enact their rage at number two’s intrusion into their perfect world. Acts of sabotage, or destruction of much loved books or toys to indicate child number one’s distress at losing the individual, undivided attention of their beloved mummy. Hence, a clear message is sent to the unwanted intruder, a warning – I am number one, I’ve been here longer, and I’m loved more, so watch your back.
Age is no barrier to these attacks on the unwanted sibling, meant to undermine the confidence of parents that said child will eventually adjust. As parents we know this a reasonable reaction – poor clever, adorable, best child in the world number one, is feeling left out. Parents make a concerted effort to appease poor displaced golden child – and so second child syndrome begins. Mother makes sure to dispense extra doses of love to baby number two during 2 am feeds well away from the piercing glares of child number one.
Child number one, already able to manipulate parents and situations from birth, begins a well thought out and often devious attack on poor less beautiful, not as clever, even outright annoying younger sibling. Subtlety is the main weapon of the older more experience first child; the ability to know exactly when a parent is distracted by outside influences.
The truly brilliant golden child, or genius of the future, can even create a diversion. With this in place, said child will poke, pinch, push, taunt or accidently trip the, you’ll never be loved as much as me, second child. Acting with speed and precision, this physical interference is always unseen by parents. Whinny, crying, complaining younger brother/sister will then point to the older sibling who will categorically deny any involvement. Would child number one, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth; ever do such a horrible thing?
The simple answer is yes, but you will never see this act of treachery. If golden child ever makes an error of timing, said child is intelligent enough to convince parents their sister/brother was to blame. It was their toys, space, room, air. Parents, always proud of child number one’s intellectual brilliance and overwhelming cuteness, will forgive and exonerate them from any wrong doing then, or in the foreseeable, lifelong future.
Leeanne Vernon
6/6/2015
Based on discussion with three oldest children during our topic; Banned & personal experience as always!
First children are always special. A mother looks into their eyes and instantly, permanently falls in love. Then baby number two arrives and once again we fall in love. Sometimes, even more so, (baby number two’s entry is usually less dramatic)! Yet behind the scenes in this happy family situation, number one child immediately goes to work – a tireless, never ending crusade to discredit child number two.
There are many ways for first child to enact their rage at number two’s intrusion into their perfect world. Acts of sabotage, or destruction of much loved books or toys to indicate child number one’s distress at losing the individual, undivided attention of their beloved mummy. Hence, a clear message is sent to the unwanted intruder, a warning – I am number one, I’ve been here longer, and I’m loved more, so watch your back.
Age is no barrier to these attacks on the unwanted sibling, meant to undermine the confidence of parents that said child will eventually adjust. As parents we know this a reasonable reaction – poor clever, adorable, best child in the world number one, is feeling left out. Parents make a concerted effort to appease poor displaced golden child – and so second child syndrome begins. Mother makes sure to dispense extra doses of love to baby number two during 2 am feeds well away from the piercing glares of child number one.
Child number one, already able to manipulate parents and situations from birth, begins a well thought out and often devious attack on poor less beautiful, not as clever, even outright annoying younger sibling. Subtlety is the main weapon of the older more experience first child; the ability to know exactly when a parent is distracted by outside influences.
The truly brilliant golden child, or genius of the future, can even create a diversion. With this in place, said child will poke, pinch, push, taunt or accidently trip the, you’ll never be loved as much as me, second child. Acting with speed and precision, this physical interference is always unseen by parents. Whinny, crying, complaining younger brother/sister will then point to the older sibling who will categorically deny any involvement. Would child number one, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth; ever do such a horrible thing?
The simple answer is yes, but you will never see this act of treachery. If golden child ever makes an error of timing, said child is intelligent enough to convince parents their sister/brother was to blame. It was their toys, space, room, air. Parents, always proud of child number one’s intellectual brilliance and overwhelming cuteness, will forgive and exonerate them from any wrong doing then, or in the foreseeable, lifelong future.
Mathew makes reference to my criminal past; this is, the drawer incident, as written over two classes during the 15 minute writing time.
IT WASN'T MY FAULT
Leeanne Vernon
Everyone was excited about the new chest of drawers. Five boys in one room was a lot of socks and jocks. They were easily mixed up. Jim was older now; he didn't want to share his socks with the others. Geoffrey was skinnier than Desmond, so Dessie's jocks fell off his snake hips. And Ronnie, well his feet stunk, so no one wanted to end up with those. And Terry, he was last up, last to leave to school so he had to be content to wear whatever he could find from the bundle of odd socks and torn jocks. So you can see why everyone was excited about the new chest of drawers.
The drawers were about a metre wide and each drawer was 50 cm deep, multiplied by five. One for each boy. They were a light pine colour. I can still recall the wonderful smell of a new piece of furniture. It stood in the middle of the room underneath the window, between the two sets of bunks and Terry's little bed. We didn't get new things very often, so it was a novelty we all enjoyed.
I wasn't welcome in the boy's room. In fact, it was a dangerous place to venture. There was always someone lurking; ready with a Chinese burn or a hand squeeze that could render me immobile, and once inside their domain, there was nobody to turn to for protection. But the lure of the chest of drawers was too much for my seven-year-old self. I was curious to see who kept what where.
I found out the drawers were in a descending order – Jim, Geoffrey, Dessie, Ronnie and final Terry. I wondered how they remembered which drawer was theirs, and to me, it seemed obvious that if each drawer were named, there could be no room for error. Was I at the only one who had that thought?
That night Jim came into the lounge room mad as hell. "Who wrote on our new drawers?"
There was a mass exodus as everyone went into the end bedroom to investigate. There it was in a different coloured texta pen for each drawer – J.J.D.R.T.
Jim stood pointing at Terry. "Look what you've done."
Terry was looking at the chest of drawers when Jim thumped him. "You're a bloody idiot. You've wrecked our new drawers."
I stood behind the crowd. Mum, dad, Pauline, Faye and the five boys. I couldn't see over the big kids’ heads but there could be no doubt, mum was cross.
Even dad, who never got nearly as mad as her, was eyeballing Terry, while he pulled his belt off his trousers. "This is why there's no point having new things in this house."
Terry was blubbering by now, "It wasn't me."
Geoffrey said, "You're the only one who'd do something as stupid as this."
"But I didn't," he cried as mum grabbed hold of him for dad to wallop.
I was standing behind them all wondering what all the fuss was about, surely it was convenient to have initials on each drawer. Being a different colour texta on each drawer looked – well – pretty. Why couldn't anyone else see that?
By now, Terry was crying out, "It wasn't me. It wasn't me," as dad laid the belt against his bare butt. Terry bawled louder than I had ever heard. I backed out of the room, while the others stood around to witness his punishment.
Geoffrey said, "Give the bloody idiot another one for wrecking my drawer."
All the while I looked at the letter J written for Geoffrey's drawer not understanding what the problem was. There was part of me that felt bad for Terry, part of me that wanted to tell them to leave him alone, but I got my fair share, so I kept quiet; found a place to hide from Terry's crying.
After Terry's torture was over, everyone went back to the lounge room, except Terry.
Mum said, "Stay in your room and think about what you've done."
I thought about what Terry did lots of times over the next few years and it wasn't until I was grown-up and safely moved out of home, before I finally confessed. "It was my fault."
IT WASN'T MY FAULT
Leeanne Vernon
Everyone was excited about the new chest of drawers. Five boys in one room was a lot of socks and jocks. They were easily mixed up. Jim was older now; he didn't want to share his socks with the others. Geoffrey was skinnier than Desmond, so Dessie's jocks fell off his snake hips. And Ronnie, well his feet stunk, so no one wanted to end up with those. And Terry, he was last up, last to leave to school so he had to be content to wear whatever he could find from the bundle of odd socks and torn jocks. So you can see why everyone was excited about the new chest of drawers.
The drawers were about a metre wide and each drawer was 50 cm deep, multiplied by five. One for each boy. They were a light pine colour. I can still recall the wonderful smell of a new piece of furniture. It stood in the middle of the room underneath the window, between the two sets of bunks and Terry's little bed. We didn't get new things very often, so it was a novelty we all enjoyed.
I wasn't welcome in the boy's room. In fact, it was a dangerous place to venture. There was always someone lurking; ready with a Chinese burn or a hand squeeze that could render me immobile, and once inside their domain, there was nobody to turn to for protection. But the lure of the chest of drawers was too much for my seven-year-old self. I was curious to see who kept what where.
I found out the drawers were in a descending order – Jim, Geoffrey, Dessie, Ronnie and final Terry. I wondered how they remembered which drawer was theirs, and to me, it seemed obvious that if each drawer were named, there could be no room for error. Was I at the only one who had that thought?
That night Jim came into the lounge room mad as hell. "Who wrote on our new drawers?"
There was a mass exodus as everyone went into the end bedroom to investigate. There it was in a different coloured texta pen for each drawer – J.J.D.R.T.
Jim stood pointing at Terry. "Look what you've done."
Terry was looking at the chest of drawers when Jim thumped him. "You're a bloody idiot. You've wrecked our new drawers."
I stood behind the crowd. Mum, dad, Pauline, Faye and the five boys. I couldn't see over the big kids’ heads but there could be no doubt, mum was cross.
Even dad, who never got nearly as mad as her, was eyeballing Terry, while he pulled his belt off his trousers. "This is why there's no point having new things in this house."
Terry was blubbering by now, "It wasn't me."
Geoffrey said, "You're the only one who'd do something as stupid as this."
"But I didn't," he cried as mum grabbed hold of him for dad to wallop.
I was standing behind them all wondering what all the fuss was about, surely it was convenient to have initials on each drawer. Being a different colour texta on each drawer looked – well – pretty. Why couldn't anyone else see that?
By now, Terry was crying out, "It wasn't me. It wasn't me," as dad laid the belt against his bare butt. Terry bawled louder than I had ever heard. I backed out of the room, while the others stood around to witness his punishment.
Geoffrey said, "Give the bloody idiot another one for wrecking my drawer."
All the while I looked at the letter J written for Geoffrey's drawer not understanding what the problem was. There was part of me that felt bad for Terry, part of me that wanted to tell them to leave him alone, but I got my fair share, so I kept quiet; found a place to hide from Terry's crying.
After Terry's torture was over, everyone went back to the lounge room, except Terry.
Mum said, "Stay in your room and think about what you've done."
I thought about what Terry did lots of times over the next few years and it wasn't until I was grown-up and safely moved out of home, before I finally confessed. "It was my fault."