Hey guys and Tweep Nation podcast devotees lol, ok our beloved Tweeps, we were joined by the awesome Kevin Swarbrick, @KevinSwarbrick, on this week’s podcast. He is such a great guy and he’s written two autobiographical books that rock! Join us to hear Amber swoon over his northern English accent and me douse her with the hose, and see if you can understand Kev when he says Book and is that ‘look’ or ‘Luke’ hmm…
Monthly Archives: April 2012
What didn’t we talk about today? My new book, Amber’s friend’s dream, jumping off moving horses and interesting recipe books ;). Warning: this episode contains hysterical laughter and gooey white stuff. Gotta love our Tweep Nation podcast 😉
This piece is one of the weekly exercises for uni. I like posting them here because I kill 2 birds with one stone, so to speak – and yes I know that’s a cliche but I can use one if I want.
He sits in the doorway, huddled in a dirty blanket. It is 5 am, but he is awake; the cold that makes smoke of his breath has no respect for his circumstances. He lifts shaking hands to his mouth – one holds the cigarette, the other flicks the lighter. He inhales, then coughs until a hard ball of brown mucous flies out from his mouth. Staring at the black pavement he wonders how he got here. He lived with his mother until she died two years ago. Their housing commission flat was given to someone else, and what little money he had, ran out after a month in an inner-city, boarding house. He lifted the bottle to his lips, cheap wine that he could no longer taste. A tear drop of red touched his tongue. He shook his head and spoke to no one, “Fucking government. I can’t even have me wine.” He let the bottle fall to the ground, the paper bag he bought it in, muffling the sound. He took another drag on his cigarette, coughed, spat, repeat. His days were like that. He stood, gathered his blanket and patted his pocket to check for his smokes. Shoulders drooping forward as he walked, he drifted through time until the bottle-o opened, and he wondered why.
I know some of us absolutely love voting, and elections can never come around quickly enough. So, lucky then that the Sydney Writers Centre is holding a blog competition. I won’t bore you with any details, except to say, vote for me, vote for me now! Sorry for being pushy, but you know, if I don’t win, I will cry. What do you mean you don’t care if I cry? Well that’s just mean :(.
For those of you who are kind enough to push a button, which incidentally, takes less time than picking your nose, press my button, please. Here it is, the big, shiny button that you need to press, for me >>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>
Did I mention I want world peace?
Voting closes 9th May, 2012, and may the best blogger win – as long as it’s me.
Today on Tweep Nation we have a talented guest – Jeff Stalnaker. In addition to our normal stupidity, silliness and laughter, we get to hear Jeff perform a new song. Jeff has married his rockin’ music with Amber’s gritty poetry, for an awesome song called “Windsong Way.” If you are a Michael Jackson fan, be prepared to be offended, sorry – well I’m not really, but anyway…
Ok, following is a story I’ve written for a flash fiction competition. The rules are that it has to have some sort of faery activity and it has to be less than 350 words. So here’s my effort.
Tim hid under the wharf. His parents stood above, he could see the soles of their shoes through the small spaces between the timbers. He had escaped to this shadowy space, when his parents had started shouting at each other again. He drew squiggles in the sand with a stick, water lapping at his feet.
Venomous words reached him, their hate wringing tears from the young boy. He dropped his stick and pushed his palms over his ears. Staring at the water, but seeing nothing, he chanted quietly, “Please take me away, please take me away.” Almost unnoticeable at first, he heard a flute. The notes enticed him and he dropped his hands. He focused then, and felt the notes brushing against his skin; a warm caress, and then he saw her.
A faery emerged from the water, her skin shimmering silver, her eyes dark pebbles that have lain on a riverbed for millennia. She smiled at him and her voice slipped in between the flute melody.
“Timmy swim with me,
To a life of serenity
Under the sea.
Timmy hold my hand,
I will show you peace
Where your smile will be free
Donna looked at Frank, cursing him under her breath, I hope you have a heart attack and die, right now. Frank shook his head, another out of control fight, another pylon taken out of their relationship; they were about to collapse and he knew he would be the one to lose the most. He would lose Tim.
Frank blinked, “Where’s Tim?” In a moment neither one would ever forget, they realised he was not there. Frank found Timmy’s sneakers under the wharf. When he tipped them upside down, silver glitter floated to the ground.
Flute music haunts their sleep and Tim’s parents dream of a woman, black eyes deep and mocking. She holds their son, his blue face reflected in her silver skin, his hair floats this way and that, with the underwater currents, and his mouth smiles at something only his dead eyes can see.