Category: Diary December

I’m not going to lie, day 34’s story was like pulling teeth. I had very little sleep as my air mattress got a hole in it and the tent had leaked. It was the final day of December and I had been sent in a beautiful prompt:

“A diary entry from when I was 10. Below is a tally of how many times my brother (N) Nice to me (A) Annoys me (H) Hurts me (T) Teases me (O) Other. I was a strange child, and Dylan was a mean brother.”

I was determined to do it justice but obviously didn’t have the brain power. After much scribbling out and re-writing I settled on this. I still don’t really like it, and it had more words spelt wrongly than correctly (this Woodford trip made me realise that without ‘spellcheck’ and the oxford dictionary site I am nothing). 

POWER BECKONS FOR GEORGIA II

Queen’s first day

The youngest Queen ever to take the throne began her reign today. First on the agenda was the implementation of NAHTO. Citizens will be rewarded or punished based on; niceness, annoying habits, hurtfulness, teasing and “other”. Most fear these harsh new regulations, personally overseen by the Queen herself. However, it seems most punishments are based on the denial of ice cream and only the Queen’s brother has been in the line of fire so far. Many did enjoy the Holi party thrown by her majesty, especially the Vegemite catering.   

Home correspondent Sam Smiles

PS. Sam Smiles is a radio presenter and keen dancer who I met at Woodford. We bumped into him at nearly every gig we went to and it turns out we also have the same taste in TV. If I didn’t seen him at a gig I began feeling anxious that I was in the wrong place. 

On day 32 I got sprayed with “Temple of Light”… I’m still not sure exactly what this is but it was 40 degrees so any cool liquid spray was welcome. On day 33 I decided to write a story about what ‘Temple of Light’ might be. 

Diary,

I’d worshiped the Temple of Light my entire life. The whole town did. We lived by its strange flashes and obeyed its glow. Then the light went out. We tried everything to get it back. Nothing worked. We are lost without the light. The work is hard, the days long and the food tasteless.

Today I decided to go sit by the Temple and remember those better days. I sat right at the back, so no one could see. Leaning against the wall I felt something stick into my back: a tiny switch labelled “reboot”.

At that moment I saved the town and lost my faith.

Dom

Written whilst listening to the people’s orchestra at Woodford, who were playing a monster inspired piece (this year’s theme)

Diary,

Everyday was the same. Always hiding from the humans. Occasionally one spotted a tail disappearing behind a tree, or heard our claws crunching on a branch. But we were never seen in our full glory. The elders are scared we’ll be hunted for our beautiful fur or strong horns. But I didn’t believe them. I led a group into the town in peaceful protest. 

The elders were wrong. As we marched the humans tried to kill us, but they didn’t seem interested in the fur. They looked scared. The others escaped but I was hurt. As I frantically limped away, a girl let me hide in her house. She said she’d known about us for years but was too scared to march through our dwelling. As she bound my leg I felt perhaps we were more similar than we first assumed.

Love,

Monster 

Stimulus this day was verbal submission from Alita who saw two girls with face paint and gave me “Laughing Butterfly”.

Diary,

A Butterfly told me to fly into an electric lamp. They think they’re so much better than us, always laughing at us. I was angry, but then a man pinned him to a board and hung him next to the lamp.

Love, 

Moth.

So begins the long backlog of story posts from Woodford land where I saw Canadian beards, Bollywood elephants, Sentient dreadlocks and much much more. 

Day 30 (the 27th Dec- my birthday!) was my first day there. I decided to use one of the street signs at my campsite as inspiration:

 

Diary,

James always said dad was a pansy. I’ve always liked dad. He wasn’t around much. Most days he was away, but I always got a note in my lunch box. Nothing special, just a little joke. James looked after me most of the time. He was a few years older. A very cold and tough brother to grow up with. Last week we found out dad was really sick. As he wrote out his affairs today, I noticed his handwriting wasn’t like the notes in my lunch box all those years ago. Then James signed off and I realised. It wasn’t dad at all. I confronted James but he just said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Dad’s the pansy.”

-Woody

“This December a parent comes to the realisation that it is time to tell his 12 year old that Santa Claus may not be real.” – Georgia Wellington.

I embellished on this slightly… I’ve actually done what happened after this parent told their kid. 

ALSO NOTICE*
I will be away at Woodford Folk Festival for the next week (till new years day). So! All my stories will be written there and ideas taken from people there. There is little internet and electricity there so I’ll be taking a photo of my handwritten stories each day and sending them to facebook/twitter on my phone.

Dear Lilly,

I’m sorry I told you Santa wasn’t real. I’m a terrible parent. You must have been shocked when you noticed and I was gone, but I’m told I should be able to come home soon. It’s so cold here. At least I’ve made friends with some a few other parents at the re-education camp.

Dad

If lost please return to sender:

Santa Claus 
1 Reindeer Lane 
North Pole 
99705

I Challenge you… to one of those Christmas letters people send to everyone they know to tell them all about their year – From Michael Gillette. Merry Christmas all!

Dear loved one,

This year has been filled with joy and discovery. I joined the Spirit Collective and had my eyes opened. So I would like to give you the greatest gift of all this Christmas: forgiveness. Last year’s Christmas Cuddles Gathering is all water under the bridge. I certainly don’t blame anyone for not getting into the spirit or going to mum’s without me. I know many of you told me not to join another group but the collective is truly wondrous. They’ve even taught me how to listen again.

Hoping your year will be as filled with joy as mine.

Michelle

Rachel- you asked for: 

“A Christmas tree who knows it’s his last day before being shoved in a box and left for a year.”

So here ya go!

When you’re stuck in a dark garage for 50 weeks a year you tend to question your existence more than most.

Years ago I was a display tree. I was set up for months in a large metropolitan department store. Families looked at me with wonder. I thought I was hot stuff and destined for great things.

With a few days before Christmas (my big day) I was sold to a dysfunctional middle class family at half price because of minor damages. In the car on the way home I spotted great leafy statues, I was just a mere imitation of these natural wonders. They were independent and grew where they wanted. I was contained in a plastic bag (the shop had lost my box) and made by a machine.

When I got home I was pampered for a few days. But soon enough I was shoved into the dark garage and ignored. I was very hurt and outraged. My existence seemed so pointless. I was just a collection of convenient green plastic bits to display each year in order to fit in with a tradition that is completely misinterpreted and now based on consumerism.

But this Christmas as I am being packed away, I’ve realised something. I still have my thoughts. This year I had developed entire philosophies in the dark, and even made friends with the broken toaster next to me. We’d argued about the intricacies of death and life for objects like us. Perhaps it wasn’t such a pointless existence after all.

Itchy Pants – from Cinnamon Eacott. 

Diary,

I propose new underpants washing directions:

Do not iron dry. Elastic will melt into brittle itchy spikes of doom. You will try to surreptitiously scratch yourself just before you go on stage for your speech. And only then will you realise that everyone can see backstage. This may cause colour change (blushing), shrinkage (of brain power on stage) and damages (to job prospects).

-Fran

“With poems written down their bare backs in sharpies low on ink” from Christopher Murray.

They said he was mad. No-one went near the house. It was covered in writing; the walls, the path, the fence. Conservative villagers thought it was the devil speaking through him.

When I moved in, I wasn’t scared. He needed help, so I went to visit. I tried to read the path on the way in, but couldn’t make sense of it. Most of it was like another language.

Buzzing with anticipation, I knocked on the door. He’d probably be so happy to have a visitor.

As it turned out he was very happy to see me, and seemingly sane. We ate and chatted. The walls were covered in writing, the shelves full of journals and the tables cluttered with art. Not wanting to be rude I didn’t mention the writing.

I went back every day. He was lovely but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed help and sometimes I’d hear noises from upstairs.  Perhaps I could bring my psychologist friend over next time?

Eventually I worked up the courage to ask about the writing.

“My wife is agoraphobic,” he began. “She’d like to come down to see you but she’s too afraid.”

I looked upstairs and saw a face disappear.

“Because she can’t go outside, I started writing her a story. Dragons, tribes, distant lands, new languages…” he explained.

I thought back to the nonsensical words on the path.

“I started writing it on the walls for fun. She just finished reading the hallway before you came,” he added. “Then I had the idea to continue it outside. If she ever wants to finish the story, she’ll have to leave the house.”

I suddenly felt terrible for assuming he needed medication or assessments.

“Can I meet her?” I asked.

“I have an idea,” he said.

With dragon poetry written down my back in a sharpie low on ink, I stood at the front door. He had added me into the story. After some coaxing, his wife came down and continued reading. As she read my back she cleared the threshold. It was the first time she’d been outside in 8 years.

This is my diary from around year 6-8. I was challenged the other day to find my entry from the first day of year 8 and write a story on that. So I thought I’d do a Haiku using only direct quotes & phrases. The following is my 13 year old thoughts on moving to high school.

Like waaay better

Boys and girls talk like it’s normal

We all just grow up

 

Last night at a birthday drinks I was told “tomorrow you have to write a Dr. Seuss style poem about yourself!” by someone I’d basically just met.  My enthusiasm for the project was starting to wane, but it’s always rekindled by people shouting, tweeting, facebooking and carrier pigeon-ing me funny challenges. Okay I haven’t had the last one yet but I’d love to!

Anyway Rohan (don’t know your last name) here is your poem. As you wish! (Yes Princess Bride reference)

 

Who is this girl you may ask?

The idiot who set this ridiculous task.

Born 1991. Nicknamed ‘freya-tuck’ the fat roly-pole

But grew into more of a spindly, clumsy new born foal

As she got older she fended and friended her way through life

Got through school, jobs and uni without too much strife

 

She’s written, re-written, been smitten, bitten, likes to listen, had a kitten,

never been christened and has a crazy family from Britain.

 

She seems to be physically dyslexic and was shy at school

It’s amazing she has so many friends and doesn’t look more of a fool

She’s scared of confrontation, gated communities, drowning and spiders

She loves television, the smell of rain, funny laughs and trying new ciders

 

She wants to be a writer but she thinks she’s pretty rough

Maybe not good enough

She’s hoping this challenge will help her write better stuff

Perhaps she’ll even make a name as Freya Wright-Brough

And hopefully no-one will call her bluff

“Wayne the Angel” was today’s prompt. Poor old Wayne.

My ethereal guidance could’ve prevented war today, but was drowned out by giggles. What happened to a rose by any name?

~Angel Wayne

On the 12th day of Christmas Lucy Sweeney gave to me: “Three way neck tie causes some debate at an office Christmas party.”

Dear Diary,

I’ve had a Christmas epiphany. The office Christmas party was tonight. I hosted Todd’s-Tantalising-Team-Trivia as usual. Then I told them I was popping to the loo, but really I was going change into my Zany Santa outfit as a treat.

I hid behind the bar, ready to surprise them. I heard their familiar voices approaching the bar. I tuned in and heard they were making fun of my trivia. They were just being sore losers. More voices joined in, apparently they only came to Kofta and Karaoke night for the free feed, and there really was a spare spot on their 5 aside team.

 The young bar tender looked down at me crouching between the taps with a look of pity. Surely someone would stand up for me? This is probably just banter; I’m their fun out-of-the-box manager.

My secretary Denise piped up. This was it. She loves me. She suggested the Zany Santa outfit. Instead I discovered she thought the novelty three-person-ties were not fun team building exercises after all, but rather violated their human rights. This was met with roaring laughter, which was only topped when she revealed that she had suggested the Zany Santa outfit as a sarcastic joke.

This was the final pin in my blow-up ego. I stood up and ripped off my googly eye glasses and “fun’n’furry cropped Santa jacket”. My workers’ mortified faces stared back at me.

“I’m moving departments,” I declared. “For the record, the three-way-necktie scheme was a great way to get a promotion. If any of you had lasted a full day attached to your team, you would have got a pay rise. But it appears none of you can appreciate my post modern ironic humour. The jokes on you!”

And I left.

When I closed the door there was a roar of laughter. Perhaps my jokes were getting through after all?

Todd

Today’s idea: “A man trying to throw himself in front of a car at a pedestrian crossing” from Caitlin Callanan.

Diary,

First day at a new school is always hard. I’ve learnt to make strategic friends. Pick a big scary kid and you should be safe from bullying.

On the walk to school I struck up conversation with a boy. He told me he was expelled from his last school. Perfect bully-shield candidate I thought. I asked him if he wanted to smoke behind the sheds (this is the type of thing bully-shields like to do). He agreed, saying he liked to live life on the edge and proceeding to jump in front of the oncoming traffic. Lucky he jumped at the exact time we passed a pedestrian crossing. This should have been a give-away that my new ally was a faker: a loner like me. My mistake became clear as we walked into class and he tried to convince me ‘wanker’ was a term of endearment.

I’ve made friends with a bully-magnet.

Callum

“A bearded lady almost wins a conservative beauty contest” from Matt Hsu was pulled this morning. So here we go:

15/12/2030,

I have a confession. About a week ago, I was accused of being sexist in the media. When I judged the Miss Queenslander competition I wasn’t being forward thinking; I was being selfish. I didn’t vote for the bearded lady because I really think she is beautiful. I voted for her as a stunt so people would think I wasn’t shallow. Now I am held up as a spokes person for gender equality. I want to tell everyone that I’m a fake, but I think I’ve legitimately helped the movement. 

I guess the constant feminist conference talks are payback for my selfishness. I suppose it’s not so bad, it beats most minister duties. I’m actually getting in to this whole feminism thing. Last week I even got to do an ironic topless calendar with some hot feminists.  

Tony

Today I pulled out “Held hostage in a traffic jam” which came from a twitter conversation I had with the traffic guy at ABC radio on the very first day of my challenge. 

Dear Diary,

I was sitting in traffic, enjoying the privacy of my tinted windows, belting out Robbie Williams when the door opened. A man climbed inside. He looked just like robbers do in films, bag of cash and all. He even said “Drive!”

I told him I couldn’t, I was stuck in traffic. He looked up for the first time and let out a stream of amazingly misused abuse. Things like “those bitchers sent me on a wild fucking goof chase!”

“At least you waited for me. Thanks. They told me to look for the ugly tinted car,” he had finished.

I’d gone to protest but then felt anxious he might have a gun, so I asked him how much he got.

Nothing. In fact, he’d held up a pet store with what turned out to be a water pistol and had been laughed out of the store. His supposed mates had tricked him. I felt bad for him. But he needed to know I wasn’t the driver either.

When I told him he pulled a knife (albeit the wrong way at first) and said I was now his hostage. He couldn’t have me telling everyone. Just I was feeling genuinely afraid of this nutter, he suddenly stops and looks at the CD player.

“Is this Robbie?” he asked.

I nod.

“Well, perhaps I’ll let you go this once. But don’t squeak! I don’t take kindly snatches!”

I didn’t even have time to tell him it was “snitches” before he was gone. At least it was an interesting drive home.

Brad

Today I drew ‘Once in a blue moon’ from Cinnamon Eacott. Here is my twitter tuesday story… a diary entry from a young boy.

Jen says I can only ask her out on a blue moon. I don’t know what that means so on Halloween when a Smurf mooned us I asked her. She said no.

Today’s entry idea is from Liam Lowry (first idea from America!) who gave me simply “Magic Snow” 

Diary,

I was born today. I got made by a boy called Liam. I wish he gave me legs. It’s hard jumping around on a big ball. I don’t like the nose he gave me much either. I would have preferred something more inventive than a carrot. But he’s a nice boy. Last winter I was made in a park and an anti-snowman group threw salt on me. I’ve never been accepted by a human before.

Liam feeds me chocolate and only drinks juice when I’m around (water is so cannibal!). He even gave me this diary to write in. I taught him about precipitation and snow-reincarnation. Tomorrow he said we could make a snow dog. I’ve always wanted a dog!

-Snowy (humans aren’t too inventive with names either)

Jason Engel messaged the page with this a while ago:

“A chicken crosses the road, chickens friend wants to know why, WHYYYYY!?!?”

Well Chicken #8 is hopefully about to explain it all for you Jason.

Dear diary,

This will be my last diary entry before the uprising.

Ever since I can remember I’ve been crossing roads. We’re brought up that way. None of the other chickens ever questioned it until last month. I still remember coming back from my shift on the road. Chicken #6 looked at me and asked the question I’d been waiting for: “why?” It was then I knew we had a chance.

3 years ago I met Irish Bloke #4 on my break and he started to speak to me. We sat together every break after that. Eventually I picked up some human language and he told me that there was another world out there. A world which isn’t dictated by dads in sandals and the insides of Christmas crackers. Though I didn’t believe him, it was a nice thought.

But when Chicken #6 asked why we crossed the road, I realised we had to try. What if we all refused to walk across the road?

We’ve spent weeks convincing the other chickens and today is the day. I hope there is another world. I hope we are not kept alive only by the imaginations of idiots in paper Christmas crowns.

Yours,

Chicken #8

PS. Irish Bloke #4 if you’re reading this, I’m glad you found my Diary. I’m sorry you couldn’t convince all the Blokes to walk off the job. Thank you for giving me hope.

I think we could all guess where this was going when I drew “A small dog called Rupert befriends a Giant” from Sue Wright. 

Diary,

Giant find friend. Friend is dog. Giant call him Rupert. Giant walk Rupert. Rupert get tired after two giant steps so Giant carry him.

Others laugh and point. They not believing my threats anymore. They chase us. Giant drop Rupert. Giant lose Rupert. Giant start to cry. Others catch up. Giant run. Giant make it to cave. Giant’s wailing cause rock fall. Others leave.

Giant has no friends. Giant go to bed. Not even quilt make Giant feel better.

When Giant wake up, Rupert is there. Rupert turn out to be expert at hiding and scavenging. Rupert has stolen bone collection from others.

Now when Rupert and Giant go walking. Others cower. They think Giant is magic who can move rocks, summon bones and bring dogs back from dead.

Love

Giant

Today’s challenge: Twitter Tuesday (Story under 140 characters) + Diary December (must be a diary entry or based off someones diary entry) + Cheryl Lowry’s prompt “A tango dancer finds herself in Buenos Aries without her favourite 9cm stilettos.” 

Buenos Aries Day 1: I forgot my stilettos. The audience stared. A bittersweet realisation: magic shoes were real, my tango talent wasn’t.

Today’s idea was from Alita Pashley who gave me this:

“Sticky-outty hair because too much Harry Potter (and wine) happened last night. Now I have homicidal feelings towards some less-than-desirable colleagues who are not letting me buy coffee.
Please include magical realism.
(34 words! BAM!)”

1am.      Wine. Shouting. Argument over Horcruxes. Uncontrollable laughter.

2am.      Carried home by Snape. He’s surprisingly nice. Room has turned into dodgy                            spinning fete ride.

8am.      Wake up late. Nargles have taken all my matching socks.

9am.      Get to work. Meeting. Homicidal feelings toward colleagues who won’t let me buy                  coffee.

10am.    Communal stale biscuits tell me I have to eat them. Regret. Can I sleep with eyes                  open?

11am.    No.

12pm.   Colleagues argue over name of steps in new marketing strategy. ‘Planks’ or                             ‘platforms’? Kill me now.

1pm.      Meeting over. Lunch commencing. Winning!

2pm.      Toilet break. Mirror points out I’m losing. Seem to have modelled my hair on                          Cameron Diaz in ‘Something about Mary’.

3pm.      Okay need to do actual work. Who is texting me? Shut up phone, I am being                          productive!

4pm.      Another text. Must be a sign. Trying to concentrate on work today is futile. Check                phone, it’s Snape!

5pm.      See you later suckers. This woman has a date to get ready for.

6pm.      Make up tricked me. Snape is now dating the Joker. What is his real name?

7pm.      He’s at the door. I can’t just call him Snape.

8pm.      Why haven’t I asked his real name yet? I can’t go back.

9pm.      Snape is a lot hotter without wig.

10pm.   Sweat gods, please have mercy on me and my white top.

11pm.   Snape went for hug. I went for kiss. Disaster.

12am.    Home again. Master Google laughs at me and tells me I ballsed it up. At least I                        won’t have to admit I don’t know his name.

First day of ‘Diary December’ so I’m keeping it simple. Today’s idea brought to you by Erin Michelle: “A quilt made of materials not normally associated with quilts.”

Diary,

Giant make quilt for cave today out of woven tree branches, cow skins, hay and flattened human tin wheelie boxes. Giant get called soft by others. Giant doesn’t care. Giant’s cave is fabulous. Also, giant tell others that next time it will be made from their skin.

Love

Giant