Self-Harm and the Trans* Community

An estimated 40 to 50% of GLBTIQ (Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Trans*, Intersex, Queer) people self-harm, or attempt suicide at least once in their lifetime.

National estimates suggest between 4 to 7% of Australian youth (aged 15 – 24 years) have engaged in self-harming behaviours. 63% of respondents of the Trans Mental Health Study 2012 (Study 2012) harmed more prior to transitioning, and only 3% after. Of these, 60% felt the reasons for self-harm related to being trans* either directly, or indirectly.

A recent Australian review of LGBTI mental health reported that 50% of trans* Australians had attempted suicide. This is almost identical to a UK study which suggested 48%. Suicidal ideation and attempts are more frequent pre-transition. One respondent said, "I feel as if I am always going to be different by the society around me, and either patronised as a ‘brave survivor’ or avoided as an incomprehensible alien artefact – never just treated as a person."

Self-harm reduces following transition for the majority of those who have a history of self-harm. "My feelings of self and worth, not to mention, my confidence has grown exponentially since coming out, and presenting male. I am not ashamed of myself anymore – it’s been a wonderful journey," said Azaria**, 31, Adelaide, SA. A respondent in the Study 2012 said, "I gained the guts to stop caring what other people thought about me. I wake up every day with a few billion people hating me just for existing, and it doesn’t matter."

The majority of trans* people feel that the way their community is represented in the media has a negative effect on their emotional wellbeing. "Tabloid stories about transpeople are often exploitative, invasive of privacy, inaccurate, irrelevant or intended to drum up transphobia." Just look at the Courier Mail reporting the death of Mayang Prastyo a couple of weeks ago. Insensitive, sensational headlines, and photos, described the trans* murder victim as ‘she-male’ and ‘lady boy’.

Transgender and gender diverse people are more likely to experience mental distress due to the social disapproval and discrimination they encounter in their daily lives. Their mental health status is disclosed by some, depending on their perceived reaction from doctors or health care professionals. According to Gender Disorder Information, ‘Some shrinks want to solve the other problems before they tackle the gender issues – but what if the gender issues are the likely source of the problem?’ Many trans* people will hide feelings of depression or self-harm in fear it will delay their transition.

Discrimination is one of the main factors influencing trans* mental health and self-harm. Abuse, discrimination and stress are all too common. Going Upstream (a framework for promoting the mental health of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and intersex (LGBTI) people) suggests that 49% of LGBTI youth experience some form of abuse in childhood. The Study 2012 confirms this. ‘Once dysphoria is resolved via transition, all that remains is people’s attitudes. Once society stops discrimination against us, then it will be safe to say that being trans* is not a bad thing,’ participants said, ‘I am more comfortable with my appearance and who I am, but it also makes me very aware that others aren’t.’

From Writing Themselves in 3 2010, a national study of SSAIGD (Same Sex Attracted, Intersex, and Gender Diverse) people aged 14 – 24 years, has shown that 18% who have never been subjected to physical or verbal heterosexist abuse, had self-harmed. 31% had self-harmed after verbal abuse and 55% after physical heterosexist abuse. Data from 2013 Growing Up Queer suggests that 33% of young people have self-harmed after homophobic or transphobic abuse. ‘I was sexually abused as a child by a close relative… I was emotionally abused growing up, perhaps responsible for my self-esteem issues and confidence problems now,’ said Azaria.

According to the experience of many trans* people, healthcare services are "inadequate and staffed by uneducated workers, especially when gender issues are coupled with self-harm". Self-harm and ‘alternative’ lifestyles are still relatively taboo in our society. A high per cent of trans* people have reported feeling emotionally distressed about their mental health whilst attending a Gender Identity Clinic (GIC). 

These frustrations are just as common here in South Australia. Newly identifying trans* people are required to see Gender Clinic prior to transitioning. There is only one GIC in Adelaide, and no alternative other than travelling interstate for care. South Australian law is still abiding by the Sexual Reassignment Act, written in 1988. Obeying outdated rules and regulations in fear of archaic laws leaves no room for best professional practice and individualised care for trans* people.

I attended the ANZPATH conference, Adelaide October 4 - 6, and there the first seeds of developing a national voice for the Australian trans* community were established. This is exciting. It is a work in progress that is going to take time and commitment, but it is going to reap some fantastic steps forward for the trans* community, and the future of gender diverse people in Australia, and hopefully, the world.

**Name changed.

THE DAY THE SAUCERS CAME by Neil Gaiman

Short Story Review:
THE DAY THE SAUCERS CAME by Neil Gaiman

The Day the Saucers Came is a wonderfully piece of social commentary, as Neil Gaiman so expertly delivers – at the same entertaining while making us stop and reflect.

The first paragraph describes how saucers land and the people of Earth stare, waiting, wondering. The paragraph ends with: ‘But you didn’t notice.’

The second paragraph tells us that on the day the saucers came, ‘By some coincidence, was the day that the graves gave up their dead and the zombies pushed up through the soft earth…’ And yet again ends, ‘You did not notice this.’

For each paragraph, an additional event is added, so, The Day that the Saucers Came becomes the, Saucer-Zombie-Battling-Gods Day, The Ragnarok and Fairies Day, The Day the Great Winds Came and Snows, and the Cities Turned to Crystal, The Day all Plants Died and Plastics Dissolved, The Day Computers Turned, the Screens Telling us We Would Obey Day… and on and on. And all the while; ‘you didn’t see them coming’, or, ‘you had no idea of any of this’, or, ‘you didn’t notice any of this,’ because…

‘You were looking at your telephone, wondering if I was going to call.’

So it’s either social commentary, or a devoted love story. Either way, it’s incredibly entertaining.

There is no dialogue. The tension is created as each paragraph gets longer and adds more events to it, kind of reminiscent of The House That Jack Built – narrative moving the story forward into the climax because with more and more events. We want to know what it is that is keeping this character so oblivious to all these awesome events. 

THE PRICE by Neil Gaiman

Short Story Review: THE PRICE by Neil Gaiman

The Price is about a black cat that turns up at Neil's house. After sharing space with this cat for a month, one morning it turns up, ‘almost unrecognisable’. He’s beaten, tired, and thin. He’s taken to the Vet, patched up, and taken care of, but the fighting continues. ‘Each night the scratches would be worse – one night his side would be chewed up, the next it would be his underbelly, raked with claw marks and bloody to the touch’.

The cat is confined to the basement to recover. ‘The four days that the Black Cat lived in the basement were a bad four days in my household’. On that fourth night the Black Cat prowls the basement pining to be let out, and once freed, returns to its diligent watch. By morning, the wounds and scratches have appeared again – but good luck has returned to the house.

Neil decides enough is enough and devises a plan to discover the culprit of the overnight attacks. Armed with see-in-the-dark binoculars, he sets up to watch.

It’s the Devil who comes down the driveway. ‘The thing that comes to my house does not come every night. But it comes most nights: we know it by the wounds on the cat, and the pain I see in those leonine eyes.’

I love this story because I love the idea of cats as ‘protectors’ or ‘angels’. I also happen to be a lover of cats, so this story pulls at my heart strings.

It’s written in an autobiographical style to give it a realistic feel. It reveals some of the author’s idiosyncrasies, including collecting unusual toys, such as see-in-the-dark binoculars, which, if written by anyone else, might seem far-fetched.

The mystery of why the Devil is singling out this household is never revealed, neither is anything else regarding the Devil. The story is purely homage to a great creature. Because of this the plot is not resolved at the end. But that just adds to the tension of the story. It makes for a great ‘edge of your seat’ ending, the last paragraph – amazing.

There is no dialogue in this piece. It’s the author’s thoughts and story-telling alone which move the story.

IN VERMIS VERITAS by Poppy Z. Brite

Short Story Review: IN VERMIS VERITAS by Poppy Z. Brite

This story is fantastic as it puts so many images into your mind with the words/phrases used. The author starts with a quote from Francis Bacon. This introduces you to the topic and hooks you straight away. It will either put you off from the start, or invite you to read more.

I love this story, but as with most of this authors stuff, I am a huge fan. I work in Forensic Science, in a mortuary, so I can clearly appreciate the descriptions used.

In Vermis Veritas is, essentially, a short look into the world of a maggot in a slaughterhouse. It was written as an introduction to a graphic novel, Registry of Death by Matthew Coyle and Peter Lamb, in which all the characters are worms or larvae. Have you ever read/written a story where the characters are worms or larvae? I imagine it would be an incredibly difficult task. Poppy Z. Brite pulls it off beautifully.

Phrases like, ‘connoisseur of mortality’, ‘spongy purple of drowned meat, translucent rose of fresh viscera, the seething indigo of rot’, and, ‘The glistening whorls are dissolving, coming unglued, breaking down into their chemical components,’ rouse incredible images, and capture these moments perfectly. 

The story starts with the introduction into the world of a maggot devouring flesh, describes how the maggot saves its energy for the ‘sweetest meat’. It talks about reducing a carcass to the bone, and revealing qualities of the deceased. The maggot lives thousands of lives, memorises thousands of tomes, constructs and destroys dynasties. It has ‘been a foetus in a womb and a guru in a cave’. It tells us the way people die; for sport, love, or, for fun, and finally, it concludes with the harsh reality (punchline) that it is better to be a maggot in a slaughterhouse than a man. It is a complete life to death story.

This story seems perfect for sensory description but I cannot find any instances where it is used, which is a shame, although the story does not need them to work.

At not even 500 words, this story would be hard to discard unread. It’s so easy to read. You don’t have to know who Francis Bacon is because the quote is used as an introduction to the topic – a maggot talking about the many lives it has lived through the many bodies it has devoured.

I imagine an older audience for this piece as it talks about decomposing flesh and liquefying organs, or perhaps readers into horror. I recommend it to anyone who wants a visually provocative piece. 

World, meet the Taraketh.

The Taraketh is a genetically designed being.

From his neck down he has biomechanoid blue and silver scales/body armour – part machine, part flesh. These are powerful enough to protect him from most ailments though pliable enough to twist and contort at his need.

He was created on Inquest – a massive research facility on a small, otherwise inhabitable, planet. Taraketh, though he doesn’t remember his past, was a prototype. He was engineered by the most powerful scientists in the Universe, to be used as an indestructible weapon of war. An infiltration saw the facility razed in a vicious battle, Taraketh escaped and found his way out onto the planet where no one else could survive. He wandered seemingly aimless for weeks until he discovered his Prowler.

Like him, the Prowler was designed to perfection. The small ‘living’ ship was engineered from the same biomechanoid material as Taraketh. They are two halves of the same being. It is controlled by Taraketh’s will, and when he is in the Prowler, their link is unbreakable; they are one.

Taraketh doesn’t have an understanding of traditional human values like pleasure, achievement, conformity, tradition, or benevolence. He values life over death, freedom over capture, and survival at all costs. He doesn’t understand human emotion. All Taraketh lives for is freedom from the Sentinels (government), and Shade (leader of the Skintraders: the bad guys), who have been tracking him. The destruction of the Skintraders motivates his life.

Taraketh’s mannerisms are animalistic. Though very intelligent, he is awkward in conversation, and often naïve to basic human interaction. His foibles include his inability to think things through before rushing into dangerous situations. He doesn’t consider the risk in a situation – it is life or death, fight or flight. He has never thought about anyone but himself, and he’s never had to think about protecting others, or the consequences of his actions.

He has spent his life in crisis; he knows no other way. He is always on the run, or in the midst of battle. Unwillingly, he finds solace in a rogue pair of human outlaws. Taraketh finds himself in situations he’s never been in before, struggling with the human emotion component. He sees emotion as weakness, dismissing them as childish, and often shuns his human allies because of it. His character development comes with one of these allies, Rain, who is weaker, and often reacts with strong emotions. He sees the consequences of his actions and behaviour through Rain’s reactions/emotions, and through this exchange, he learns to become more ‘human’.

Taraketh hates talking. His voice is androgynous, almost electronic and he struggles to speak as if language is hard for him, though this is mostly due to his animalistic intuition where words mean much less than behaviours. He finds human language infuriating, time consuming and wasteful. He prefers using his behaviour, body language and actions to communicate.

He loves being with his Prowler. He loves the connection and peace of being in sync with another being, and he can’t understand how others fly ships without this. Taraketh treats his Prowler like a lover, sharing a language only the two understand, and others look upon in confusion. It’s where he feels most at peace. He loves his life and freedom.

AMERICA by Poppy Z. Brite

Short Story Review: AMERICA by Poppy Z. Brite

‘America’ is a short snippet into the world of musicians, Ghost and Steve, as they road-trip through the desert on the way to a gig. Travelling through this featureless landscape at night, Ghost unconsciously starts singing a song Steve hates (the conflict). As a distraction Steve decides to tell the story of the ‘Man-Headed Cat’.

Tension gradually increases towards the punchline and as readers we feel this in the reactions of Ghost. Like him, we are hearing the story for the first time. Steve’s long pause at the end leaves Ghost to ask essentially, ‘and then what?’ which leads to the comic relief/punchline.

The characters are completely believable. Ghost (who could come across as, ‘a true thing of ectoplasm’) is strengthened through his innocent reactions to Steve’s story. You can see that the pair, as opposite as they are, are completely comfortable with one another. They have been friends for thirteen years, and their habitual relationship shows.

The author describes the setting perfectly without slowing the narrative. At the start we are caught up in the long journey. ‘Glittering black ribbon into nowhere’ perfectly sums up the scene of driving through a dark desert with little to look at. We are taken into the car with the characters, primarily through Steve’s eyes as he is most unfamiliar with the stretching landscape. We get to know the two men and get a brief look into their life.

The plot is an urban legend being told as two companions drive down an endless desert at night, the perfect setting to imagine such a tale into existence. The plot of the story within the story is resolved at the end, but Steve and Ghost’s journey has not ended, leaving more opportunities for other stories.

This story was essentially written for fans of the book ‘Lost Souls’ so we could be kept informed of what Steve and Ghost were up to. Its structure as a complete short story means it can be read by anyone, young adult and up (because of the cursing).

Short Story Writing

We were tasked to re-write the following short story, A Story from 19th Century Japan, author unknown. It had to be from Tanzan's point of view, after a significant amount of time had passed, and new information had emerged.

A Story from 19th Century Japan

Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was falling. As they came around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross at an intersection.

"Come on, girl," said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.

Ekido did not speak until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he could no longer restrain himself. "We monks don't go near females," he told Tanzan, "especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?"

"I left the girl there," said Tanzan. "Are you still carrying her?"

My Re-Write, as told from Tanzan:

I wish I could recall it now; the smell of the mud as it crawled its way into our socks; the rain as it twisted rivulets down the path Ekido and I had travelled. To feel the sodden cowl swathed heavily over my shivering body would be a blessing over the creeping dread that filled me now. What I wouldn’t give to experience that evening over, to walk that journey with my friend again. I would turn back, just the once, to see clearly what we hadn’t.

The girl was lovely in the midst of the pouring rain. Her helplessness played flawlessly, perfectly executed in silk kimono and sash purity, untouched by the buffeting elements – ethereal with foresight. I remember the impact her allure had on me, the flush of warmth, soothing as it rolled through me, like melting into a hot bath.

I’d left her there in the soaking rain, but Ekido hadn’t. He’d tried to warn me. He hadn’t been fooled by the pretence of innocence. He’d seen the demonic shadow hidden in the girl. 

I felt it, days later.

It started as a niggling irritation in the back of my mind; frustrations towards brothers, nerves snapping over small mistakes. I found my spiritual path maddening, wanting instead a life of indulgence. Ekido recognised it. He whispered stories of the man-eater, Manushya-Rakshasi, a demonic spirit who could possess and commit evil deeds through men. He stood by me while others distanced themselves. Trying to explain the absurd, he’d been ridiculed and we’d both been driven out.

Through isolation and insanity, the demon rejoiced. And as the blood of my friend coagulated in the pouring rain, the twisted blackness in my brain found corporeal form, its feminine likeness far from lovely. The kimono she wore – once silky and flawless – hung limp and filthy with blood and mud. The Rakshasi stared me down finally freed from its spiritual curse.

Avoiding Direct Exposure

or: I am the way I am and sometimes that really sucks!

The deeper I think, the deeper I seem to sink

AFI The Last Kiss

My body is scarred from my shoulders to my fingertips. Under my clothes, over my chest, my stomach and my legs, all support a tracery of scars inflicted through deliberate self-harm. None of them have been life-threatening, and none of them have required emergency medical care. Of that, I have become an expert.

And it’s not all random slashes, there’s ‘art’ too: the word FAG is scarred onto the back of my right hand. It was branded at four o’clock one morning with a candle and a wire coat hanger. I traced the Slipknot ‘S’ meticulously onto my calf with a razorblade when I was sixteen; the alchemical symbol for Sulphur (or ‘Leviathan Cross’) soon followed, by skin removal; I have a pentagram, and seemingly endless song lyrics scored into my flesh. Amid the chaos, a word stands out, a word that’s repeated again and again. This word: hate. Why (and, who?) do I hate so bad?

Self-harm was a way to release my emotional pain and stress. It was the only way I could feel in control. It made me feel alive, feel something, not just numb. Although I don’t self-harm anymore, I still feel this ‘numbness’[1].

If you could see under my shirt, you’d see other scars too: surgical scars that helped salvage my life. I have two identical scars curving from my armpits to my sternum – double bilateral mastectomy with chest reconstruction; and, a horizontal 20cm scar underneath my belly, just above my pubic line – total hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy.

My favourite tool for self-harm was a razorblade, and I have been a cutter since I was twelve years old, but now I wonder if it was a consequence of my latent gender dysphoria?

You want them to see you

like they see any other girl

They just see a faggot

They hold their breath

not to catch the sick

AGAINST ME! Transgender Dysphoria Blues[2]

Ten years ago I had a completely different life. I was bordering my 21st birthday, working with the elderly in an aged care hostel, and, at the beginning of what would become a five year relationship of relative heteronormativity. I was also a girl.

I was carrying around a secret that I’m sure rings familiar with any closeted kid. I was male on the inside. It was a feeling I hadn’t come to accept, or believe could be fact. My ‘closet’ was an identity I had been taught, not one that was true. The hormones were wrong, my body was wrong; it had bits I couldn’t associate with, it did things that terrified and disgusted me.

Coming out was a challenge. I have always been shy. I don’t often speak up, even if I have something worthwhile to contribute, so, to come forward to the people in my life with something so personal, was a terrifying prospect. When you come out as transgender, it immediately cultivates all sorts of unwanted and personal intrusions: Is it a sexual thing? Does it mean you’re gay, or straight? Do you like boys or girls now? Are you pre-op or post-op? What have you got ‘downstairs’? And my favourite response: If you don’t have a penis, you’ll never be a real guy.

I shouldn’t have worried. My family have always been supportive, my sisters – amazing. I don’t often give people a chance to be anything else, if they want me in their life, they will respect my choices. Strangers are harder. Historically gays have been persecuted by just as much misunderstanding and judgment as the transgender community, but a lot of trans people feel ostracised in queer safe spaces, as if we don’t belong. A lot of the discrimination I have had has come directly from the gay community: My choosing to be male didn’t make it so because I would never have a penis.

It was never a choice. I did not one day decide to be a boy. One day I simply allowed my true self to come into being. I would never choose to become a second class citizen (in the eyes of many); to open myself to discrimination and hate, possible abandonment and rejection from family and friends; to jeopardise my job security; to lose the right to marry; or, risk ever finding a partner who could accept me… None of this is anything I would willingly choose. It was the next step of my existence, and it was always going to happen…

---

[1] I have since been diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety.

[2] Transgender Dysphoria Blues is the sixth studio album from Against Me! (one of my favourite bands). It was released on January 21, 2014 following the coming out of Laura Jane Grace (founder, lead singer, songwriter and guitarist) in May 2012. The album deals with gender dysphoria.

Poetry, garkain-style.

Caution, Puerile Übermensch!

Towards the back, blinking

eyes glow purple.

Scarred matte-black scuffs

tattoo a futuristic script.

Masquerading cat-hair – kitsch.

Phizog with endless possibility

devouring words as diktat.

Beep. Click. Bugs. Breadcrumbs.

Black lights bright underneath.

Individual. Alien.

So, I wrote my very first speech too...

Riddle me this:

I am me, and only one, trying hard to get things done.

But, open up the space to many, and time there is; more than plenty.

Coincidentally the answer to this riddle just happens to be why we’re all gathered here today?

 Teamwork!

The slogans, we’ve heard them all:

None of us is as smart as all of us.

Sticks in a bundle are unbreakable.

A boat doesn’t go forward if each one is rowing their own way.

And, a personal favourite:

When he took the time to help the man up the mountain, lo, he scaled it himself.

There has to be some truth to these corny cringe-worthy clichés, because building a team involves more than just putting the ‘right people’ together.

We are here today.

We are all the ‘right people’.

We have the experience, the qualifications, the talent… but what is missing is an equal commitment in working together for the good of [Our Company]; for [our department], for each other, for our clients and the individuals and families we help.

This is what teams do.

This is what we will do, from now on.

Teamwork is important. It promotes productivity, strengthens bonds between employees and builds self-esteem.

It harbors trust, openness and self-disclosure, support, respect, individual responsibility and accountability.

Bad team members are easy to spot.

They are manipulative, they are gossips, they complain about everything and everyone. These bad teammates play the ‘blame game’ and look for reasons to exclude people. Simply, they lack empathy.

Sounds like a schoolyard doesn’t it?

But us (our team), as adults and teammates, need to weed this behaviour from of our mortuary.

We need to master the skills of clear and effective communication; of expressing feelings in an open, non-threatening way, of listening carefully, and sensing how others feel based on non-verbal communication.

We need to be able to initiate conversations if we sense tensions brewing, and reflect on interactions of the group while encouraging the same.

Sounds easy, yeah?

We need to build positive relationships with one another.

We need to promote ourselves because we do great work!

We need to take responsibility for our own actions, good or bad, and we need to right any mistakes.

Ask questions!

Know when to listen.

Use words like ‘us’ and ‘we’, not ‘I’ and ‘me’.

We don’t need to like each other. It would be nice, but a harmonious relationship is not essential for great teamwork.

What matters is the professional behaviour we use.

Unspoken assumptions and issues can be very destructive to productive group functioning.

We have a great teamwork simile displayed in nature:

Geese flying in their unmistakeable ‘V’ formation have a 71 percent greater flying range than a bird on its own. This is due to the uplift created as they flap their wings.

If a bird falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to do it alone. And if a goose gets sick or falls out of formation, two other birds follow it down to lend help and protection.

Like geese, we share a common direction: our [department].

We can get where we are going faster and easier on the thrust of one another.

We will stay in formation with teammates who are headed the same way.

And we will stand together… until the end, as a team.

Gévaudan Rhymes

Gévaudan Rhymes is a fantasy/horror television series (1 hour episodes) similar to Being Human, American Horror Story etc. This pilot episode will revolve around the blossoming friendships of our three main characters, and debunking werewolf fiction from fact. It is aimed at an older teen/young adult audience and will be based more on werewolf legend than pure fantasy.

The main setting of series one is at university where our characters are studying anthropology, but this will only be the setting that unites the characters; the lessons will not feature unless they have direct relevance to an episode.

The narration is a study of human nature, with everyone having some side of their personality they are ashamed of, and want to hide from society. At the start, this is shown with Kal (werewolf) and, gender nonconformist, Blue. Throughout the series this flaw will be evident in everyone who features; including Tuesday and her ego, somewhat more sinister than the werewolves.

Kal is an introverted, socially awkward guy, displayed by stuttering, mumbling, limited eye contact, and at times, rambling. There is a subdued attraction he has towards Blue. He shows empathy towards the werewolf/killer. He thinks he understands him, as does Blue. This is their first instance of attraction.

Blue is sceptical, and almost asexual because of his gender dysphoria, but mutually curious towards Kal. Blue is very quiet and distrusting of new people and his personality grows with the developing story.

Tuesday is confident, bordering arrogant, vain, and you wonder why she is hanging out with these misfits. She can’t have Kal, so he’s all she wants, but she also wants to belittle him for refusing her. She is flirty, judgemental and jealous.

Dialogue in this section is mainly the characters learning about themselves and each other. I think I succeeded with showing the characters personalities, but not enough with Blue. Blue’s personality is too big to fit into a small section as he has many facets yet to explore. At the moment everyone is being overridden by Tuesday, who is the more outspoken one of the group.

GÉVAUDAN RHYMES © 2014

Episode 1: As the Wolfsbane Blooms

 START EXCERPT:

2.  EXT. UNIVERSITY GROUNDS. DAY                         

Androgynous BLUE sits against a River Red gum, as TUESDAY approaches, dropping the Advertiser beside him.

TUESDAY

Did you see this?

BLUE

(picking up the paper)

Local Werewolf Killer Strikes Again! A werewolf, seriously? What next, Dracula Rises?

He throws the paper back down and picks up the remainder of his lunch.

TUESDAY

(sitting down)

You know all the killings have occurred on a full moon—

BLUE

Coincidence.

TUESDAY

—And, all the victims have said to be mauled by something “resembling a large canine”.

Tuesday air quotes with long, slender fingers, topped with beautifully maintained hot pink nails. She raises her eyebrows, encouraging belief.

BLUE

You’ve been doing your research, I see.

TUESDAY

Alas, no. Subject’s taken. I just find it incredibly interesting that Kal would be following that train of thought. Did you hear, he’s proposing this guy is an actual werewolf, not just replicating the killings in a “wolfish” manner?

Tuesday swoons, collapsing down across Blue’s lap.

TUESDAY (CONT’D)

I think it’s sexy; the ultimate expression of power over another person.

BLUE

By eating them? I’m sure.

Blue yawns, his sight shifting to a young morose guy, KAL, wandering in their direction, oblivious to the attention.

Tuesday rises, and growls, noticing her prey.

TUESDAY

Gosh, that boy is awfully tasty.

Blue giggles and only then does Kal’s attention shift to the couple. He attempts a half smile which does nothing to lighten his brooding demeanour. He’s looking at Blue as he approaches – his grey eyes sheen unnaturally silver, like an animal caught in headlights.

BLUE

(rising to his feet)

Hey Kal.

Kal nods in response, shifting his gaze to his shoes.

KAL

Hi Blue.

TUESDAY

We were just talking about cannibalism…

(standing)

And speaking of, Kal, how’s your thesis coming along?

KAL

C-Cannibalism?

TUESDAY

I heard your character description of that murderer suggested something more mythological, say, a werewolf?

KAL

Werewolves cease being human once they’ve changed, so cannibalism is hardly fitting.

TUESDAY

Ahh, but you don’t doubt he may indeed be a werewolf?

KAL

This guy is real. He struck again last night, as you saw.

He nods towards the discarded paper.

TUESDAY

(grinning)

So it’s a ‘him’?

KAL

My character profiling suggests it’s a man, yes.

Kal is speaking to Tuesday, but his grey eyes flick over to Blue. He too is studying Kal curiously. Catching one another out, they both grin awkwardly.

TUESDAY

You know, Vore is a completely valid fetish. Perhaps this guy wanted to step it up from imaginary role playing.

KAL

(back at Tuesday)

V-Vore?

TUESDAY

It’s a sexual fetish where a person fantasizes about eating people, or watching people being eaten… I studied sexual fetishes first year. I can hardly believe that you’re not including this as a possibility though.

KAL

I—I guess I never thought of it like that— I don’t think it’s a sexual thing. I think he’s struggling with something inside himself that he has no control over, like, fighting a society that says it’s wrong to be who he is. It’s, well, I think I know what that would be like, if I was him, if… um, if you know what I mean…

BLUE

The wolf part is irrelevant.

KAL

(smiling at Blue)

Exactly.

Tuesday watches the two carefully, her eyes narrow.

TUESDAY

You want to join us for lunch?

KAL

N-No, I can’t. I have a lot of work to get through. I have a stack of texts by my bed I haven’t looked at yet.

TUESDAY

(elbows him playfully)

I’d like to see that!

KAL

(to Tuesday)

Yeah. Okay, see you.

(to Blue)

Bye Blue.

Blue waves briefly at him and smiles. Kal wanders off as awkwardly as he had approached. Tuesday sighs and looks at Blue.

TUESDAY

Damn. Must be gay.

BLUE

(raising his eyebrows)

A guy who doesn’t find you the 'be all and end all' certainly must be gay. Jeez Tuesday, for someone who studies human beings for a living, you really have no idea do you?

He snatches his bag up and moves off.

END EXCERPT.

HAPLESS JORGE AND THE MILK INCIDENT

08.04.2014

No milk. Staring into the empty cavity of my fridge, barren contents stare back, mocking me. An overturned jug of cream with its monochromatic bloodstain, laughed aloud, pitying my predicament more than its own lingering death. Fat, green, gherkin fingers jiggled in their juices, the gag not lost inside the sealed jar, nor on the box of pizza; the few surviving slices of a drunken Saturday night, crisp on the outside and curling through the middle.

I slammed the door, shutting out the mockery. Of course this was the sort of morning with no milk because it was exactly the sort of morning I needed the damn milk. I needed it like I needed breath; cool, delicious thickness soothing a night of too much cigar smoke and straight whiskey, pacification of the lingering hallucinations still stabbing the edges of my sanity.

I sank onto the kitchen counter; cold, gripping skin with prickly goose bumps. The shock welcoming and real, so very real, unlike muffled giggles exuding from the refrigerator. The milk had run off. I couldn’t be bothered going out to collect more. Not now, I was too involved here.

Punching on the kettle, I glared, challenging, as the red light flickered before stabilising. I grabbed a mug; brown stain of coffee thick around the inside. A quick splash of water would rectify. Rusty, blood smelling syrup spewed from pipes. Walls around me rattled. I gagged, growling at the faucet. Slapping the spout away, I slammed mug on bench. Coffee stain and rust-rinse be damned! I fished for a spoon in the drawer, to be answered only by forks and knives; steel reflecting misery and self-loathing. Not a spoon in sight.

‘Damn you milk!’ I cursed the heavens. The kettle hissed a response, steam rushing the spout, refusing to disconnect the boil. Of course! I flicked it off, half expecting resistance, or electric shock. I snatched up the jar of coffee. Spoon be damned too! I erupted into hysterical laughter, as I unscrewed the lid and poured black gold straight into the cup. Granules disintegrated in rusty muck at the bottom, expanding to thick brown puddles. More granules gushed over the rim, pursuing freedom. Sugar joined coffee; a pair that complemented best when hot and milky, measured precisely, one spoon and two. Not today. Boiled water liquidised ingredients, uniting lost loves, entwining dissolved succulence forever. Forever for them was not long at all.

I hauled the fridge door open. A gasp cut short as occupants beheld my wrath: top lip curled, nose turned up exposing a murderous canine, eyes narrowed and readying for revenge. I cackled maniacally, gathering the cream. Rogue globules jumped free but entrapped remnants were too late. Thick blobs plopped unwittingly into black coffee, melting in pools of curdled liquid. Black and white mingled into the perfect salvation of a morning near ruined.

Retrieving a knife, I stirred the coffee. No longer lamenting absconded milk, but praising my problem solving brilliance. Basking in the genius of me, I guzzled my masterpiece, caffeine slamming my senses with electric buzz, hurling my brain from the veil of hangover and delirium. A moment of surprise for a new development… Gummy chunks of chewy coffee rolled over my tongue before acrid taste became horrendously clear. Misfortune backed by a burst of amusement from within the fridge. Hilarious.