Fung Glui Cried

Fung Glui had the sort of face that looked depressed. Even when he was happy, he had the countenance of one who was thinking that it was all going to go down the drain at any minute.

So when it was announced that the end of the world was coming, no one was surprised to see Fung Glui looking miserable. In fact, amongst the angst and distress that the forthcoming total destruction was bringing ahead of the actual event, it was quite easy to lose him in the crowd.

But Fung Glui was more than miserable. He was more than depressed. Fung Glui felt that his entire being was already dead. And he had good reason to feel that way.

He looked about the world around him and saw his family - moaning and wailing. "It's the end of us all" they cried. "We're all going to be killed" they sobbed. He couldn't really blame them, but ...

When he went out into the street, he saw a local shop keeper smashing jars of pickles on the floor. "All going to be destroyed" the man kept repeating, "All going to be destroyed. My business that I worked so hard to build" - smash a jar - "totally wiped out" - smash a jar - "My life savings gone" - smash a jar - "it's the end of my world". Fung Glui walked on past the man, keeping his distance. He couldn't really blame the man, but ...

A little further on a couple of young people were drinking and obviously out of control. "Fun before the end of the planet" they sang. They seemed to have lost their despair in their intoxication but Fung Glui could see the sadness that remained soberly in their eyes. He couldn't really blame then, but ...

Two very old men were sitting on the side of the road. They were talking of the past; of their lives; of their childhood. "I did so many things and saw so many things" one said to the other, "but now it's all going to be lost. My memories will die with the world" he said. "Mine too" said the other. "It's a calamity - it's terrible" and they both shook their heads. "It's the end of the world" they said together and put their heads in their hands. Fung Glui bowed at them with respect as he passed. He couldn't really blame them, but ...

A mother and father were cradling their children. The mother was sobbing, the children were crying and the father was ashen faced. "They'll never see the mountains. They'll never swim in our beautiful lakes" wept the mother. "They could have grown up to create beautiful works or art or wonderful machines" said the father, his voice breaking. He rocked his child in his arms and the mother clung to hers tightly as if to protect them from the unstoppable destruction. Fung Glui felt his eyes moisten. He couldn't really blame them, but ...

There was a hill where Fung Glui liked to sit. He thought he'd sit there now - it would be his last chance. He climbed the grassy slope to the top and sat down on the apex. From here, he could look down into the town at the villages weeping and crying, getting drunk, fighting and generally lamenting the loss of their village; their world; their lives.

But he didn't look down on them. He looked instead upwards. Up there, in the sky, was where the end would come - as certainly as this morning had come, as certainly as tomorrow morning would not. He thought of the villagers as he looked up - no, he couldn't really blame them, but ... they were so insular, so self-oriented. True, it was the end of their business. It was the end of their village. It was the end of their lives, of their children's lives. True, it was the end of their culture, of their history and of their world.

But it was not just their world.

For 'end of the world' was not the correct words - this was not what was going to happen. It was the end of the universe.

And, for the end of the universe, Fung Glui cried.

I hear the wind ...

I hear the wind in the dead of night, and on it a million voices ride,
A world is crying out for help; vainly crying out for help,
But will it be denied?

I hear the babies at the milk-less breast; I hear them barely breathing.
I hear their mothers frantic wailing, “Help my child” I hear them wailing,
And then I hear them grieving.

I hear the suffering of the sick; I hear their tired cough,
I hear their groaning, exhausted moaning,
That they’ve finally had enough.

I hear the shouts of angry families, torn by abuse,
I hear the violence never ending, the pitch of voices, all ascending,
And, after, the excuse.

I hear the echo on the streets, of footsteps through the night,
I hear the homeless search for shelter, anywhere offering secure shelter,
Who will ease their plight?

I hear the wind in the early morn, bringing sounds of war,
A world is crying out for peace, vainly crying out for peace,
With a voice we just ignore.

I hear the injured soldiers scream; I hear them as they die,
I hear their families broken hearts, shattered lives, and funeral carts,
I hear them as they cry,

I hear the rumble of explosions, of terrorist attack,
I hear the piercing shriek of sirens, the futile warning of the sirens,
My resolve begins to crack.

I hear the wind that rolls the waves and whispers in the trees,
The world is calling out for care; vainly calling out for care,
But, the consumer disagrees.

I hear the cracking of the earth, drying in the sun,
I hear the plaintive cries of sheep, as they lay them down to sleep,
The lullaby of the gun.

I hear the protestations of a planet under stress,
The mournful cries of hunted whales, of ducks, of rabbits, and of snails,
The painful end to human pest.

I hear the heartbeat of the planet, no longer strong and sure,
I hear the earth’s lamentations, victim of our own temptations,
Exploited to the core.

Oh, the wind that turns the sails of the windmills of our souls,
Hear it call and cry in earnest, screaming whispers in deadly earnest,
Silenced by opinion polls.

Harken to the praises of the foolish, for their paper gods,
Their frenzied babble of devotion, to plastic life and cheap emotion,
And wisdom built on winks and nods.

I hear the lost who call for succor, unsure where to turn,
Who blindly stumble through confusion, in the darkness of illusion,
Seeking truth they can't discern.

I hear the wind in the dead of night, and on it a million voices..... fail.
Each hope and prayer and expectation, mangled for media mastication,
Just Love 'em or hate 'em, 'till the news is stale.

Herod and the Dance

"Dance for me" asked Herod.

But the answer was always the same. No.

He'd asked many times - pleaded even, but always, everytime, without fail, the answer was the same. No.

He almost didn't ask again. Almost.

But he did ask just once again and this time the answer was YES. He could hardly believe his ears. The answer was YES. Finally, he was going to get to see the dance. He almost felt faint - the excitement, the anticipation - it was so great that he almost couldn't contain himself.

'Yes', the answer was 'Yes'!

He was sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest like a child. His eyes were sparkling like a teenager. His breathing was fast and furious and his pulse raced. It was going to happen - it was actually going to happen. And it was going to happen now.....

Herod felt his adrenalin literally spurting round his brain.

The lights went out. He drooled slightly.

The music started. He dribbled.

The scent of the dancer tingled in his nostrils.

And then the lights shone out and the dance began.

An enormous giant of a man gyrated before him, holding a large salmi in his hands. It was happening.

The dance of the salami.

Australia Day - Advance Australia Fair

Australia Day is coming (26th January) so I felt an update to the National Anthem was called for - one that encapsulated Australia as it is now rather than how it used to be.

Perhaps you'll hum along.....


Australians call out with one voice,
To all across the sea,
We value race and culture and
Rule with democracy.

   Black or white, we'll stand as one,
   So to the world we'll swear,
   To tolerate our Aussie mate,
   Advance Australia fair!

In human lives we shall not trade,
Nor human rights neglect,
We're all a part of this one world,
This globe we must protect,

   With terrorists we shall not deal,
   Nor give in to despair,
   Our calls for peace, will never cease,
   Advance Australia fair!

We've Muslims, Jews and Christians too,
Where all may choose their path,
Where elderly may walk the streets,
And little children laugh,

   Where spirits rise and friendships grow,
   Where people ever care,
   Where hate and fear are nowhere near,
   Advance Australia fair!

In joyful strains then let us sing,
"Advance Australia fair!"

Just Get Over It!

You might notice, if you read blogs or comments posted to news articles and so forth, that there is a prevailing school of psychological thought providing a panacea to the worlds problems. It is the 'Get Over It' cure.

Unhappy about the abuses committed on the bodies of loved ones - well, 'get over it'.

Upset about people stealing your culture and art? - well, 'get over it'.

WWII cemetery desecrated? - well, 'get over it'.

There are three problems with this wonderful 21st century cure-all attitude of the n-lightened oxygen-starved masses of internet wisdom.

1. Because an issue has little impact on them personally, they have no consideration for those who are suffering because of it. Put simply, they lack empathy and they lack respect - two essentially qualities for building a better world.

2. It is not possible to just 'get over' things. If any of these self-appointed experts in human mental processes actually had any real insight or knowledge, then they would know that there are no issues that we can just 'get over'. Regardless of their determination or good intentions, a phobic cannot just 'get over' their fears. A depressive cannot 'get over' their depression. A carer cannot just 'get over' caring for others. It is not a choice. It is not like deciding not to watch Neighbours. Telling anyone to just 'get over' something shows up a level of ignorance which only perpetuates the mistreatment of those who are suffering.

3. Possibly the most important problem with this attitude is the hyper-egotistic assumption that the person in question should 'get over' their current problem or dilemma. In most cases, the 'problem' that they are told to 'just get over' is actually a sign of compassion in one form or another. What they are being told is to be selfish and egocentric. 'Get over it' and be like me, says the sage advisers of internet wisdom, care about no-one but yourself and stuff the rest. Seriously, is that really the sort of world we want? A world where everyone is out just for themselves without any care or consideration for others?

This fad for telling people to 'get over' things - their health issues, their ethical issues or their religious issues - comes down to one simple statement. 'Go away because I don't want to know'.

Well, for all those people out there who don't like other people having concerns about the world....... GET OVER IT!

For everyone else - Well Done!

The Amazing Story of Tibetan Tim

EXPERIENCE THE JOYS OF LIVING IN CENSORSHIP CITY - CHINA.

This is an ********** story of ********** Tim and how he ******** the ************ against all the odds to ******** a victory against the *************** ***********.

********** Tim emerged one day from his makeshift home. It was a cold day but then most days were cold. The fire inside burnt bright and lit the eyes of his children as they huddled around it. His wife busied herself preparing the days meal.

It was a day like any other really - nothing much different, which was exactly how he liked it. At least, that is what he thought.

He had just walked perhaps a step or two away towards a friends home when he heard *********. He literally froze in mid step. ************ was almost unheard of, unless someone injured themselves. He looked about quickly to see the origin of the sound and made out a *************** running being pursued by a group of ***********.

The ************* were riding on horseback and they struck out at the ************ and he fell to the ground. Quickly they dismounted and beat the ************* brutally. His cries echoed about and people all rushed from their homes to see what was going on.

Several ********** from the local ************** came rushing out, their robes wafting in the wind. They rushed to the *********** and the *************** then turned on them. Although they were being ********** and ********** they did not fight back or defend themselves, just try to escape the blows. The ************ then marched one ********** over to another and gave him a *************. The language, being foreign, was not too clear but the meaning was. He had to *********** the other ************* or he would be *************.

It was a nightmare - one that they could not waken from. A nightmare that still goes on.

The *********** was crying and didn't want to ************ the ************* but they ********** and ************ at him and then he did. He collapsed on to of the ********** and then the ***************** shot him too.

Then the ************ took a bundle from one of the horses and dumped it on the ground. They laughed and rode off.

Everyone was afraid to go near it - they were frightened, but ********* Tim decided that someone had to take the risk. He unwrapped the bundle of rags to reveal a ********** very badly ********* and clearly ************. He wept for her.

*********** Tim then decided that he would do anything in his power to make people realize the *********** and ************** that was going on. So he packed up his family and undertook a mighty cross country trek to ********** where he discovered safety and security. There, he told as many people as he could about the ************ that were occurring in his homeland.

Want the whole story?
Go Here (if your country does not censor)

A Work in Progress

Sometimes writers are asked about the techniques they use - how they create characters, how they devise plots - do they rewrite once? twice? a hundred times?

In order to give a small insight to the sorts of revisions that I personally put into my writing, I have decided to make a number of revisions of one particular short story public.

The story is entitled "The Dream of Ernst Meyer".

So far it has been through about five revisions - more will probably come. By clicking on the links below you can follow each revision as well as see some of the comments that others have left against each.

Perhaps this may inspire you to revise, revise and revise.

The Dream of Ernst Meyer

The Dream of Ernst Meyer - Revision 1
The Dream of Ernst Meyer - Revision 2
The Dream of Ernst Meyer - Revision 4
The Dream of Ernst Meyer - Revision 5
The Dream of Ernst Meyer - Revision 6

In many ways, the story is never finished.

That's what writing is all about.

A Death at Christmas

A Christmas Story - but with a difference.

The old man sat on the edge of his bed and belched loudly. There were exactly one hundred and fifty-eight unopened bottles of port on the floor, each one silently screaming at him to drink them. The hundred and fifty-ninth stood almost empty on a table beside the bed and whispered 'finish me' to him - over and over and over. He obeyed, pouring the remainder of the bottle into the biological wine glass of his mouth. He gulped it down. He hated port but then he pretty well hated everything right now.

He put the empty bottle on the floor carefully, next to two others. It had taken him seventeen years to drink the first bottle and less than seventeen minutes to drink the last one. But nauseating as it had been, it had done its job - done its job admirably in fact. He now had enough courage to do what needed to be done. He looked at the other bottle which stood on the table. He couldn't see the label - in his condition he could barely see the bottle - but he knew its contents. It was full of sleeping tablets, guarenteed to give you a good rest. That was what he wanted now - a good rest. A permanent rest. The Big Sleep. That was why he'd needed the port. He didn't have the guts to take them sober.

In actual fact, he did have the guts because he was extremely fat. What he lacked, when sober, was the courage to take the tablets. Guts, he reflected with one eyebrow cocked in amusement, was something he had never been short of. Guts, in fact, had been one of his trademarks. Even now - now that he was washed up, now that he was a total failure - he still had guts to be proud of. No, it was courage he lacked. At least, that was what he lacked when sober. But now.....

He was about to pick up the bottle when he remembered his promise. He could break that, he thought. It had been a stupid idea anyway. And it was a promise by a failure to a failure - himself. No, he could forget that promise.

Only he couldn't forget that promise. He had always been a man of honour - a man of his word. He had always kept his promises - he had always delivered. It was another of his trademarks. He wrestled with the thought for a moment or two, then put the bottle back on the table. No, a promise was a promise - even if it was just to himself. He had made it and he should keep it. Before he gave up completely and took the tablets, he would give them a call. That was what he promised himself before he'd drunk the port, and even failures have got their honour.

He fished in the bed for his mobile phone. He found and flicked it open. It seemed to waver in front of his eyes, so he shut them tightly then opened them again. A little better. He did it again. Success. He could see the keypad. Slowly and very carefully he typed in a number and put the phone to his ear. After a couple of seconds he heard it ring at the other end. Twice the tone went and he almost put it down. Almost. But then someone answered.

"Hello - you have called Crisis Line. My name is Jane. Tell me about your problem".

The voice was soothing.

"Well" began the old man. "I guess I'm a failure" he said quietly.

"Now I'm sure that's not true, but tell me why you think it could be" said Jane.

"You see I dedicated my whole life to my children. To making them happy" he said. A tear ran down one cheek. "But now it's come to an end. No one likes me - they won't even let me give them presents" said the old man and sobbed quietly.

"Are these children your family?" asked Jane sympathetically.

The old man took a deep breath and said "No. I have no family. I'm all alone. I just like to make children happy, so I give them presents."

Jane made a note in her book on mandatory reporting.

"So who doesn't like you?" she asked.

"Everyone. No one" he said - a little confused and certainly still somewhat drunk. "The church lot for example. They say I'm evil. Some of them used to love me - I gave some of them presents too when they were children. But now, they hate me. I'm a bad influence, they say. I am un-christian, un-islam, un-jewish. You name it - they all want to be rid of me - for the childrens' sake they say."

Jane made another note in her book on mandatory reporting and signalled her supervisor to come over.

"Even the schools and kindergartens are against me now. I mean what's the harm in sitting the kiddies on my lap and give them toys? They say people might be offended. Offended?" he felt hurt and angry at the word. "How can bringing pleasure to little children be offensive" he asked loudly. But then he apologised. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell. It's not your fault - you are trying to help" he said.

Jane's supervisor had picked up a headset and locked into the call too. He exchanged knowing and suspicious glances with Jane.

"Tell me" said Jane. "You like children do you?".

The old man's eyes lit up. "Yes" he said. "They are wonderful. Full of innocence and hope. I love to see them happy". His face clouded over for a moment, then darkened. "But no-one else seems to want them to be happy. They just want to keep me away from them. And I can't bare it." He broke down and cried.

Jane and her supervisor both scribbled in their individual books on mandatory reporting.

"And I've just had this letter" said the old man. "It came today. It says I have to get a police check or I can't even see the children. It's the law, it says. A police check. And I can't do it. I can't. It's over. My life is over" and he broke down and cried again.

"Why not?" asked Jane, but there was no trace of sympathy in her voice now. "Why can't you - what are you afraid of?"

The old man said nothing.

"Well?" asked Jane demandingly. "What have you got to hide then? Got some special secrets have we?" she asked accusingly.

Father Christmas pressed the hang up button. What was the use? He'd kept his promise - he'd tried. But it was no use. He knew it would be no use - but he'd kept his promise and tried. How could he get a police check? He thought about the form they'd sent him laughed a humourless laugh. It was ridiculous. Name - Father Christmas. Address - the North Pole. Family - Reindeers and Elves. Purpose of Request - To visit children in the middle of the night while they slept and give them suprises. How could he put that down? They really would think he was a pervert.

He let the phone drop to the floor and picked up the sleeping pills. After a few minutes he threw the bottle to the floor in exasperation. Those childproof caps were a menace, he thought. He fell to his knees and crawled over to the bottle. He picked it up again and this time he brought it down upon the floor with his hand. It smashed. He looked, hazily, at the broken glass and the pills weaving about each other. No matter. A little glass might quicken the process he thought.

He was just about to scoop the whole lot up when there was a knock on the door. It's quite suprising how something very unexpected - even impossible - can sober you up. Father Christmas swept the broken glass and the pills under his bed quickly, stood up, and went to the door. There came more knocking - urgent knocking. No-one came to visit you at the North Pole - but someone had and they were in a hurry.

He opened the door. A large rabbit, about six foot high, stood there covered in snow. "About time" said the rabbit. "I thought you were dead" and it pushed past him into the warm. He closed the door after it.

"I nearly was" said Father Christmas soberly.

The rabbit looked concerned. "I was afraid you'd try something like that. So I came over. I brought some port" he said and then, noticing the bottles on the floor, added "but mine's non-alcoholic. Come on. I've got a couple of chocolate eggs left - we'll share them".

So the Easter Bunny and Father Christmas sat feasting on easter eggs and non-alcoholic port. And for at least one more night, hope remained for the Spirit of Christmas to triumph over the strangulation of red tape.

True stories are often more shocking than the made up ones.

2009 marks the 50th anniversary of China's horrific invasion of Tibet. Apart from 50 years of genocide, torture, labour camps, the detention of children and environmental destruction on a scale that would turn a hardened logger into a greeny, it also marks 50 years of the world's disinterest - Tibet is a long way away and someone else's problem.

I wrote the following item ten years ago now on the 40th anniversary of killing. I am so sad that the situation in Tibet is definitely unimproved - if anything it has gotten much worse. This year, the 50th anniversary, it would be well to make one of our New Years resolutions to do just a little to help address this 50 year oversight. Many eyes and cameras will be on Tibet this year - it's your big chance to do something for the world.

Snap Snap, Feign a grin,
The Peoples Camera is watching you,
You'd better hide the truth within,
Animals of the Peoples Zoo.

The World must see a happy face,
And forget the million that have died,
Forget destruction of a race,
Forget about their genocide.

Peaceful cries for humanity,
With ruthless violence are suppressed,
With torture, death and brutality,
But call it just Arrest.

A minority in their homeland,
Monks beaten, nuns violated,
Religion, culture, history banned,
A people being eradicated.

Under curfew the people wait,
Ever victims of repression,
That's the way that Tibetans celebrate
Their 50 years of oppression.

Snap Snap, Feign a grin,
The Peoples Camera is watching you,
You'd better hide the truth within,
Animals of the Peoples Zoo.

Go find out more

An Open Letter RE: Christmas

I am utterly sick of Christmas - totally, and absolutely sick of it. I quite think I might literally explode if I hear just one more person say “Merry Christmas”. Merry Christmas - bah!

It’s not the religious side of things - that’s ok with me. I’m not what you’d call a Christian, but each to their own. No, I don’t mind the carols, or even the hypocrisy of the once-a-year church-goers. Once a year is better than never I guess.

I don’t mind the other side of it either - the economy of the throwaway society - the rustle of paper on Christmas morning, the twinkle of tinsel, the coloured glow of fairy lights. It’s just harmless fun.

No, my problem with Christmas is the food. In this so-called time of goodwill and kindness, ordinary people transform into gluttons. They eat and eat and then they eat even more. That’s bad enough but what really gets me is just what they eat. Goodwill they say yet they sit down and eat your brother, or your sister - licking their lips and salivating. They eat my family and dribble the juice of their being down their chins while they laugh and spread good cheer! And then - and then they eat you. Good will? Not from my perspective. A time of gratuitous over-indulgence at the expense of others - at the expense of us. Merry Christmas? Bah!

I am praying - very hard - to whatever Gods might hear and pay heed to a lowly victim like me.

Great God of the consumed,
Save me and my family from these uncaring consumers.
We are the victims of joy, the sufferers of human joy.
Please, great God, save us.

With great respect and love,
The Christmas Pudding.