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Week seven- Fairy tale poem

CINDERSMELLA

She was born,

that's how it began,

on a summers day,

underneath a fan,

now enough with the rhyming,

or rhyme should I say

because here is a story

about a number of days.

Truth be told

both sisters, twins they were, had botox

some say that's why they were 'ugly'

Cindersmella, being as snobby as she was,

would always comment how their 'beauty'

was non-existent, because

it had been saved for the youngest,

hence apparently more precious of the children.

Her.

While they shared the same mother,

they hated each other,

Cindersmella thought herself so high,

The twins would always reply

“Go away” you we don't care!

You are oh so much to bare.

The 'real deal' so it was titled

Happening on a May night,

all was going as per usual,

until suddenly the mailman delivered

at nine o'clock

this the girls thought

must be important,

yes indeed it was important.

It was an invite to only the most

exciting,

devine,

sought after

event of the year.

The annual Crystal ball they read.

They stopped reading and started screaming instead.

They realised that one of them the prince had to choose,

Who would win? Who would loose?

Cindersmella being pretentious and unjust

went straight to her room upstairs and paced her floor,

scheming a plan to rip her sisters' hearts out,

only to place them in the front row,

at the wedding ceremony she knew she would be the bride of.

The prince, her groom.

Days, weeks, months race by,

yet the prince never contacted

the waiting girls.

Cindersmella blamed her sisters for plotting a plan.

To prevent her from a happy ending with her dream man

The girls fought,

and swore.

Until their mum could take no more.

She forbid them from the ball,

And that was the final call.

Shaheena Anvar

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Week six. Exercise four- 'I love how'

I LOVE HOW

I love how I have a love for hating.

I love how I hate when I should love.

I love how when I sleep at night, but really I hate not being awake.

I love how my hatred escapes me

I love how it leaves me wanting more

I love how I want to hate

I love how hate wants me

I love how it grabs at my skin

I love how it pulls me down

I love how it reeks of nothing

I love how the nothing attracts me

I love how I have a love for hating

I love how I have no regrets.

I love how I rebel against others

I love how I hate when really, I should love.

Shaheena Anvar

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Week six. Exercise two- Quotidian Haikus

Shaheena Anvar

The bristles, they poke

They lather my teeth with paste

Spit the white paste out.

The hot liquid runs

Spouting out of the nozzle

Cleansing my body

I pull on my pants

My shirt goes over my head

Ready to go out

Glimpse in the distance

The sound on the tracks echoes

I’m on platform five.

The doors stare at me

Invite me but I decline

I have no money.

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Week five. Exercise two- Interior monologue

Shaheena Anvar

Should he leave?

Should he stay?

Juanez was hungry. No, that's his stomach playing a trick. Never mind he told himself, get back to reality mi amigo.

There's a lot more of an opportunity if he is to go down to Lima or any other part of Peru. Anywhere but here , anywhere but here. It may not be that bad to stay here in the mountains, but he had to think of what he wanted to do with it his life. Juanez knew that he would miss his mother, even if they did not always get along. But there were other reasons why leaving the highlands would be distressing for the average 25 year old male. Juanez wanted to confront these issues, yet had no one to talk to that would be reasonable with him. Therefore he was stuck listening to his own thoughts, which he thought was sad and sometimes wondered if he was making any sense at all. The first step to this decision was to find a way to work around his 'difference'. Difference meaning his Quechan heritage. For centuries, the Quechan people had not had the same status as others and not much had changed Juanez reminded himself. Oh how it is hard Juanez.

Decisions,

decisions; they are the filling in the pie of life he thought rubbing his weary eyes. Not a very yummy filling, the kind you would detest to eat for dessert. Decisions are not my middle name he stated. It was quite an unnecessary statement he later concluded. He felt so deranged. So alone. He couldn't leave the mountains. How could anyone leave this beauty he questioned. For the first time in his life, he was confident of the knew the answer to his thoughts.

No one.

No one could ever leave these mountains.

[unswcreativewriting-blog-blog]

Week four Exercise- private act.

Shaheena Anvar

You walk up the street only to find yourself sweating from all gapes in your body. Is it that obvious you think? Of course it is you answer, barely giving yourself enough time to ponder. Who sweats after walking for five minutes on a 23 degree Celsius day? You do, you sweat after walking for five minutes on a 23 degree Celsius day.

As you come to a halt at the first and only set of lights, you start thinking about what lies ahead, on the other side of the road to the left. What secrets do they keep? You stare at into the eyes of the red light man. Does he even have eyes you think. Or, does his identity just stop at red light man. Is he just one of the many colours of this technology ridden world? What would he look like if he was a real man? What would his name be? Where would he live? Where would he work? Who would he grow to be? All these questions flood your mind. Funny that you think- ‘flood your mind’- more like flood your body. You see you were still sweating. Maybe you weren’t cut out for this kind of job. Maybe gardening or teaching preschoolers how to paint was more your thing. Too bad now though, you had signed up for this and you had to go through with it, like it or not.

The main road seems to go on forever, that you start to wonder if you will ever be able to cross it. Although you must admit, having thoughts about the imaginary world of the red light man, is quite entertaining. But then you think; is it entertaining? Or is it helping you escape the harsh reality that you now lies ahead? You settle with the former. It calms you down.

Beep, beep, beep. The sudden change to the green light man and the rapidness of the  beeping tampers with your mind. It’s as though the pedestrian light is hurrying you along, laughing at you because it knows your nervous and don’t want to go through with it. You hate the green light man, you conclude. He’s mean. The red light man was much nicer.

As you walk along the footpath, you contemplate how to approach this. Well you’ve already contemplated enough as it is, but you want to make sure this plan of destruction goes well.

You start thinking about what you went through with the girls at home. You forget bits and it scares you. This isn’t a good sign, but there’s no turning back now. Anyway there was never an option to turn back. You come to the front of the building. It doesn’t look as friendly as it did when you worked here…which was yesterday. Now that you’re five days out from officially becoming an external member of the company, you look at the building with fear, as though it’s the building’s fault that you were made redundant, and the company you had helped build was not under someone else’s control.

You slowly walk up the stairs that lead to the intimidating front automatic doors, only to realise that by carrying yourself slowly, you are only drawing attention by making yourself look suspicious. You speed up a bit, not enough though to make it look like you’re about to race and beat Usain Bolt at his own game, but enough to blend in with the other lucky workers. You enter the building and look around. Everything seems to be the way it was when you worked here…which was yesterday. You keep your head down and head towards the end of the lobby, elevator the doors open and you are swallowed by the already packed space. You dart your eyes to the right to ensure that level 8 has been pressed. It has. Someone else will be getting off with you. You sigh with relief. Hopefully this means no one will notice you.

Ding.

“You are now on level 8”- the automated woman’s voice speaks. It’s good to hear a familiar voice again, even if it is automated, you think.

You weave between people, excusing yourself on the way until you are two feet flat on level 8’s floor. You turn left and walk towards what was your office when you worked here…which was yesterday.

The sweat on your body seems to have stuck to your skin, probably thanks to the airconditioner, but your mind has turned to other more important things now. It must turn to more important things. You are about to break into an office to read extremely confidential files, and you’re mind wants to focus on sweat and air conditioners? You want to slap yourself silly, but that probably wouldn’t look normal in a professional office environment.

You get to the office doors, and place your hand in your pocket to retrieve the key card which you so bravely stole yesterday as the new bosses were in a meeting, just as they are now. You swipe the key card and hear the familiar success noise. It brings a tear to your eye, which you blink to get out. Your eyes are your main sense from now. That and your hearing. You enter the office and close the door behind you and with the familiar click, you know that you are now in enemy’s territory. Ready for destruction.

You take a second to take in whatever you can of the now foreign office room. Nearly everything has been changed. But so soon? You find it weird that only after a day; the new boss would have changed everything around. You don’t know whether to be offended or not…was your style of the office just not good enough? Why had everything been changed and so soon? You decide it doesn’t matter and head straight for the desk.

You open the top draw and poke your nose through what seems to be basic stationary items. You take a pen. Just for the sake of it.

Next, you open the second draw. This draw seems to be a little more interesting. There is a pile of manila folders, about six of them, each labelled with a different code. You take the top one and open it, a bunch of receipts fall out. They seem to be from various cafes, all dating this morning. Wow, how much coffee do these people drink you ask yourself. Only a day in and already spending company money, you continue.

The other manila folders seem to be empty. Perhaps tomorrow, the second will be filled with receipts and the next day, the third folder and so on. You laugh at your own little joke, although it’s not actually funny you conclude.

The third draw is locked. This frustrates you. You decide that since you’re here, there is no point ignoring it. It must be locked for a reason. You never had it locked when you worked here…which was yesterday. You decide to go on a treasure hunt around the office. The treasure being the key, you assure yourself.

 You stand stiff as if the captain of a boat, steering to a destination whilst at the same time, keeping an eye out for any obstacles on the way. You start to wonder where the key would be kept. You're so desperate to find the key that you even resort to being immature and asking yourself “IF I were a key, where would I be?.” You realise this is a stupid idea. No in fact you already knew it was as stupid idea, but now you confirm that belief and conform back to reality to find that key. Your treasure hunt begins as you pace around the room, being careful not to misplace anything otherwise someone will notice. There is a small box on the brown wooden table sitting next to the window. It looks like a trinket box. It has a brownish-orange tinge to it and is round on the top evolving into a rougher squarish look on the bottom.

It looks a bit like a minature treasure box. Something to put treasure in, not a key. A key is not that precious you think. But then again...this key, the one you are looking for holds many answers. IT is precious you decide. Better than that, it is treasure. You hold the box in your hands, surprised at how comfortably it sits, even though your hands are drowned in sweat. You look for some way of opening it. You find a tiny hatchet on the back of the box and seek a way to pull it open. You then realise there is a little pin that seems to be holding the hatchet and the wood of the box together. You pull the pin as hard as you can, twisting it as you go. Gradually it becomes more loose, until it jumps out of your hands and falls to the ground, leaving behind an open hatchet to this mini treasure box. You peer inside and see nothing, however before you give disappointment a chance to flood yourself, you feel inside with your index finger. You're almost done, until you feel the inside of the top and there is cold metal running smoothly against your fingers. Your happiness wastes no time in killing your disappointment. You grab for the metal, finding where it ends, feeling the rough edge of  the key. A key has never seemed so beautiful you think to yourself. Your reminiscing thoughts are distracted by your own realising of the time, which you swear seems to be passing hundred times faster than usual. You then take a second to remind yourself that it is in fact your nervousness that makes time seem to go at a faster pace than the norm.

You finally get the key out of the box. However, before you can even begin to commence a celebration in your head, you hear voices outside the office door. Your body feels like liquid as you realise that you have paused your auditory senses, and had your visual senses on double alert. Your mind had been so focussed on the discovery of the key that you forgot all else. You curse at yourself for being so careless. There's no time to think of a punishment because you're about to get caught. You look at the door, then look around the room, any time now someone is about to walk through, or even worse, several people might just make an appearance. You're eyes frantically search the room, listing any and every possible hiding spot. Your eyes, fed up and tired, rest and it is now too late to do anything else. The doorknob turns. You, out of pure fright, drop the key that has been suffocating in your hand.

It falls to the ground.

The door opens.

You freeze.

He freezes.

You're both frozen.

The key is in the middle of the two of you.

You both stare at each other.

Your eyes seem fierce

His eyes seem fiercer.

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Wednesday 4-5pm Shaheena Anvar. Week 3, Exercise 3: First Person Narrator

It is absolutely atrocious, the way society views people nowadays. As though everyone is being judged based on some sort of criteria. Criteria that has us cringing just to look at them. It is just atrocious the way we see such people. Just because they cover themselves, does not make them different. It just makes them look different from the outside, but on the inside they are normal. Right? They are just normal human beings, like you, like me…

It sickens me to even think about how Westerners view Middle Eastern people nowadays. It is as though we think they are a different species. Like they are from a planet foreign to Earth. There is so much prejudice in Western society and it seems to be only getting worse. I feel as though I need to do something that will protect these people. When I say ‘these people’, I mean Middle Eastern people. Although I don’t mean it as a label as such…I mean it as a…oh man here I go again. I can never seem to agree with myself when talking about such issues. Not that Middle Eastern people are issues… far out what is wrong with me?

Okay let me start fresh. I am a person of knowledge, not ignorance. I am not one of those bastards who seems to believe everything she absorbs from the news is objective. I know better. I am a better woman. It started when I was working with a media firm in 2005. It was my first proper job as a journalist. I remember on the Monday of my third week, I walked into the office to hear the usual gossip about who’s getting what promotion, and which other media firm is gaining more popularity until a familiar voice caught my hear. It was the head news reporter Logan, talking about one of that day’s top stories. A bunch of youths had been bashed by another group in Sydney’s CBD. This, I thought, was something that surely wouldn’t be any different to the other bashings that were regularly coming in through our researchers. However, as I moved closer to the table which had managed to almost magnetically attract me through their conversation, I realised there was more to the story than just youths being physical. There was a sort of tone in Logan’s voice that I had not heard before. I was so indulged in listening to their conversation, that I didn’t realised I was nearly sitting on top of Logan as he talked away. He turned to me and smiled.

“Ahh Leila!” he exclaimed, “so nice of you to join us! Please take a seat. Let us trap you under our wrath of today”

“Your wrath of today?” I queried and could only imagine the look on my face must have been of total and utter confusion.

“I tell you what Leila, these Middle Eastern folks, they don’t know who they’re messing with. I mean who do they think they are coming here and thinking they have the right to put as much as one finger on our kids?” Logan replied with a smirk being slowly drawn on his already wrinkled face.

“I’m sorry Middle Eastern folks?” I asked, still confused as to where the conversation was going.

“Don’t tell me they’ve put you under a spell and now you’re one of them!” laughed Belinda, Logan’s co-host.

The table erupted with laughter, the most noticeable being Logan’s deep yet, thunderous outburst.

“Bloody oath, that was a good one. Wish you hadn’t said it though Bel, now I don’t know if I can contain myself on air when I’m reading out the story” Logan replied after finally calming himself down from laughing.

Logan’s next remark, made me realise my face was paused on ‘confusion’.

“What, so you don’t agree with us Leila? You can’t possibly like these people, with their veils and long gowns. It’s just un-Australian.”

“No, I mean yes that true…I guess” Why of why did I say that? I was going against all the values my parents had taught me. All the values I had taught myself. I decided I needed to probe into the conversation deeper, after all I had only joined it mid-way.

“So what do Middle Eastern people have to do with the youth bashing?” I asked, the hesitance in my voice being louder.

“They got into a fight with that gang of Caucasian youths who call themselves ‘the boys’. You know the one who always sit on the steps outside the Hall Centre, just waiting for trouble? The kids that spit on you if you even just look at them?” Logan replied.

I knew exactly the group he was talking about. They had been causing trouble for the past 5 months, stealing from passers-by, vandalising buildings and harassing the homeless. This was the first I had heard of something physical though.

“Did they get bashed by this group who you say were all Of Middle Eastern descent?” I asked, getting more and more interested.

“Yeh, thing is, it was actually the ‘the boys’ who started the fight, they started racially abusing the youths, until one got up and threw a punch from behind. You should see the footage, it was all caught on CCTV. Pretty funny if you ask me.”

Okay now I was confused. How could it be that the Caucasian gang started the fight, but Logan was making it seem as though the Middle Eastern youths had done all the damage and were the ones to blame?

My questioning continued.

“I’m confused Logan. Earlier in the conversation, you spoke of how these Middle Easterners think they can touch the others in society, but from what you’ve just told me, it seems the Caucasian bunch are the ones to blame. Why then, did you make the impression to me that the Mid-Eastern youths were to blame?”

His next reply annoyed me.

“Because they are to blame.”

“How? You even said you have the evidence on tape, therefore we can all see who started the brawl.”

His next reply angered me.

“Yes that’s right. But we’re the media. We make the rules. We don’t just read the news, we make it. We’re only going to show the footage, that shows one of the Mid-Easterners hitting one of our guys-”

“I’m sorry OUR guys?”- I just had to interrupt. What the hell did he mean by OUR? We didn’t own anybody. From what I knew, multiculturalism was one thing that made and makes Australia the nation it is.

“OUR guys meaning ‘the boys’. I don’t understand what is so confusing Leila. Let me break it down for you. The Mid-Easterners hit our boys, therefore we no like them anymore. They bad people. We good people. Big difference.” Logan said, his mockery at English grammar, proving popular amongst his colleagues as they all crackled with laughter.

I however was far from laughing.

“This is ridiculous Logan, you cannot possibly expect people to believe you when you read out the news. What are you even going to say- ‘Good afternoon, today’s top story- a gang of Middle Eastern youths have been charged with physically assaulting an innocent bunch of youths in Sydney this morning, in what could be called a racist act?’”

“Ummmmmm…yep!”

The table erupted with laughter once again.

“But that’s a lie! You’re making the Middle Easterners look like the offenders! Society deserves to know the truth.”

“Calm down Leila, a lie isn’t a lie, if the truth hurts. Far out you have so much to learn. What did they teach you at university? Nothing?” Logan said through laughter, and with that, I found myself running to my office, and slamming the door behind me, so hard that the room shook.

________

That afternoon, as the clock ticked to 5:00pm, I unwillingly turned my TV on to see Logan and Belinda’s stupid live telecast. As much as I didn’t want to turn the TV on, I had to, as it was part of my job. Part of the new job, which I was regretting ever applying for.

The usual opening soundtrack played, and then it was Show time. There was no way Logan would o through with it. It was a lie and unethical. He was a professional man and he would act like one right?

Good evening, and welcome ladies and gentlemen to the 5:00 news, I’m Logan Hemsy and I’m Belinda Riflo. Today’s top story - a gang of Middle Eastern youths have been charged with physically assaulting an innocent bunch of youths in Sydney this morning, in what could be called a racist act-

And with that I was up, this time walking out of the office, knowing that I would not be returning.

And that ladies and gentlemen, was not a lie, it was the truth. I Leila was walking out of the office, because I am a good woman and I am certainly not a woman of ignorance.

Shaheena Anvar

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Tutor: Tamryn Bennett