Women’s Rugby: Levelling the Playing Field

The lightning pace, the strength and stamina of the athletes, the skills involved in handling and kicking an inherently unruly and unpredictable ball, the short game time and swift turnaround allowing for multiple teams to compete in a single competition, and the creative costumes and carnival atmosphere in the stands, all make rugby sevens a highly entertaining sport.

The seven-player game dates back to the 1880s in Melrose, Scotland but it took until 1973 for the first officially sanctioned international sevens competition to be held, at Murrayfield in Edinburgh. Shortly after, in 1976, the Hong Kong tournament was initiated, then the Rugby World Cup Sevens was first contested in 1993 and the annual Rugby Sevens World Series in 1999. The women’s sevens game also slowly gained popularity and recognition through the years, being included at the Hong Kong tournament from 1997. The inaugural Women’s Rugby World Cup Sevens was held in 2009, and in 2012 they joined the Sevens World Series. Both men and women competed when sevens was introduced to the Olympics in Rio in 2016, and the women joined the men for the first time at the Commonwealth Games this month on the Gold Coast, Australia.

While women’s presence at these competitions is excellent progress, they are still often seen as the second string to the men’s matches, as dictated by the usual format of the tournament. In the case of the Sevens World Series, the women’s teams do not compete in all the locations where the men’s contests are held. When the women do share a venue with the men, they are generally scheduled to play all their games on the first two days of the event, with the men’s matches played afterwards, being seen as the prestigious headliner matches. A similar format was used at the 2016 Rio Olympics. However, there are signs that this could be changing and Australia are leading the way. At the Sevens World Series event in Sydney this January, the men’s and women’s games were interspersed throughout the weekend, at each stage of the competition, with the women’s and men’s finals being played consecutively on the final evening. This format was replicated last weekend during the Commonwealth Games on the Gold Coast. This makes a lot of sense practically in terms of giving players longer rests between matches, but also is a great boost in exposure for the women’s games, allowing a larger audience to appreciate that the level of skill with which the women play the game, and the excitement and entertainment value, is equal to that of the men’s game. It can only be hoped that the other series venues see the value of this format and follow suit. Unfortunately, this year the New Zealand Rugby Union, who prides itself as the spiritual home of all things rugby, neglected to even hold a women’s sevens competition at the Hamilton Sevens World Series event, citing funding limitations. This was a very disappointing decision and one which NZ rugby superstar and try scoring genius Portia Woodman was quick to condemn. 

The Australian Rugby Union are also currently leading the way in support for the women’s XVs game. While other unions, including England, are moving their funding away from the longer game and into sevens, Australia are looking to increase the exposure of women’s XVs. As well as voicing its interest in hosting the 2021 Women’s World Cup, they have established a new domestic competition, the Super W. This coming weekend sees the final of the inaugural Super W, in which five teams representing five states have played in this round robin tournament which has been broadcast by Fox Sport. While there are still ongoing issues surrounding players’ pay for this competition, the ARU, under its new CEO Raelene Castle, is determined that players should all be supported, with access to elite level training and sports science. Meanwhile, other developments are being made in terms of player salaries, with a collective bargaining agreement being reached with the ARU guaranteeing pay parity for sevens players and payment for the women’s national XV squad for the first time. A deal has also been struck in New Zealand for the national squad, the Black Ferns, with 30 women players being offered a base salary and contracts including a maternity policy. Black Fern Kendra Cocksedge, who also performs a development role for Canterbury Rugby, highlighted the importance of the deal in encouraging girls to take up the game and see a viable future in sports.

Interest in women’s rugby is increasing and will continue to do so with further exposure to wider audiences around the world. There has been an increase of 150% since 2013 in the number of girls and women playing the game and globally 25% of all players are now women. Meanwhile, those already playing at the highest level are beginning to receive recognition for their skills and hard work. The Black Ferns, winners of the Women’s World Cup for the 5th time last year, were awarded the 2017 rugby team of the year award, the first women’s team ever to receive the title. While the playing field may not yet be totally level, things are certainly moving in the right direction for women’s rugby and it has an exciting future ahead.

17th April 2018

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Short Story: An Ear of Grain Reaped in Silence

She checks the mirror again. No-one’s following. Her fingers drum on the steering wheel as she waits for the suspended light to click over from red to green. She takes a right turn, then a left. Parallel now to the main artery, on a narrower street lined with 1920s stone apartment buildings. Here there are fewer behemoth malls with their attendant fields of parking, or used-car lots with fluttering flags, or drive-through liquor stores. Fewer brightly lit eateries with plastic furniture, plastic cutlery and plastic conveyor-line service. Fewer hanger-like hypermarkets with eternal aisles of frozen goods, day-glo packaging and geometrically stacked tins of fruit. There are fewer people here. Fewer cars. Fewer cameras. Yet still she checks her mirror again after crossing each intersecting road; assessing the traffic behind her and checking her precious cargo on the back seat. Her cellphone left behind on the bedside table, her other car charging in the garage, Eddy motors on in her rusty old Ford. Untracked.

 

The leg has been hanging there for 270 days. It has lost almost one third of its initial weight but inside its blanket of muslin it has been absorbing, maturing, ageing, waiting.

A beast was selected for its broad, straight back, its curvaceous buttocks and thighs. It was granted a final meal then gently led from the paddock to the wooden shed where a rope was loosely, discretely looped around a hock. A single, sudden expert bolt to the brain brought oblivion. The pulley overhead squealed as the rope tightened and the load was hoisted aloft. A swift, scooping motion with a sharp, double-bladed knife skilfully severed the main pathways to the heart. For several minutes its sanguineous sacrifice flowed while the long-dead creature twitched, final cortical disturbances triggering lifeless muscles. The drained brute was lowered into a tub of tepid water where scourers repeatedly scraped and abraded its skin until the flesh concealed below was exposed. Back overhead, and a delicate, skilled hand and knife slid inside, unzipping the carcass, allowing the entrails to spill and fall off. Meanwhile, fortifying organs were carefully stored for future use. The remaining shell was hosed clean and taken to a chilled room where it hung overnight, solitary in the darkness.

Cleavers, hammers and saws; rendered into its constituent parts. A rear leg, severed from the pelvis, was placed into a box. Gentle hands pressed on the arteries, drawing away any persistent blood, before massaging seasonings into the flesh. Inundated with curing salts, then pressed under a heavy concrete slab, where two weeks of pressure and sodium chloride drew out any moisture which remained. The plump, pink limb transformed into a shrunken, mummified stump, ready now to begin its long wait.

Eddy drives towards the city’s outskirts, senses still tingling, hyper aware of her surroundings. Cautious and ever observant. She passes industrial complexes; mazes of shiny piping and anonymous, unbranded silos. High overhead chimneys belch fumes, and she rolls up her window as the acrid smell catches in her throat. She glances anxiously in the mirror at the rear seat. A little further, where the road is now fringed by soaring concrete walls topped with savage razor wire and indiscrete cameras. Pointing inwards, they do not concern Eddy. All that rises above the barriers is a cloud of dust and, even in the closed car, the unmistakable stench of digestive waste. Eddy knows that merely a few metres away, doomed beasts wallow ankle-deep in their own mess, thousands in a grassless wasteland. Further still and the direct heat from the dipping afternoon sun forces her to roll down the window again. Now the landscape has begun to green, but not verdant; monotone. Stretching on, minute after minute, row after row on either side of the road, an endless rippling ocean of corn. Mile after mile without variation. Until, eventually, on the distant horizon, trees. She is getting close.

They have trafficked with gods and been sacrificed to them. They have been revered, feared, demonised, mythologised, castigated and domesticated.

Amalthea, mother of Zeus, was a goat nymph who fed her divine son on a diet of her milk and honey. Later, the creature was honoured at the Festival of Dionysus, where the skills of the scribe producing the supreme “he-goat song”, a tragōidia, were rewarded with a live animal. In more northerly climes, the sacred honour of drawing Thor’s chariot was bestowed upon hircine helpers. In both hemispheres, celestial systems of astrology have reserved a place for caprine beasts. Cultures separated by thousands of miles and years have revered these creatures as symbols of fruitfulness, and bones in Neolithic, Ancient Greek, Hebrew and Egyptian graves bare testament to their sacrificial past. It was such service in pagan fertility ceremonies that captured the attention of Christians though. And the Greek Satyrs, mischievous woodland men-goats with permanent erections and a lascivious reputation for lustful rutting, drew the Church’s ire. Hence, the cloven-hoofed, bearded, be-horned incarnation of the devil was born. Meanwhile, it was the Hebrew faith which provided the parable of lots cast between two of the beasts; one to be ceremonially sacrificed, the other cast out into the desert bearing the sins of humankind: a scapegoat.

For 10 millennia, a provider to millions around the globe: warm clothing, bone tools, fuel for fires, hair for calligraphy brushes, sustenance as meat and milk. And now, a bundle wrapped in cloth, stored in a warm kitchen, reaches the end of its journey from raw milk, left to curdle, drained and pressed on its way to its soft, fragrant final destination.

The narrow twisting road has an easy familiarity, each bend and turn measured by repetition. The flanking trees comforting in their concealment, each recognisable despite their apparent uniformity. The impenetrable undergrowth and towering canopy cooling. The contentment of a destination almost reached. The succour of a road travelled many times since her first visit. Since Eddy’s life morphed into one of stealth and suspicion. At one time, she had been a foot soldier, helping fight many winning frays: a proposed reduction in government subsidies to corn and soy farmers overturned; the prohibition of antibiotic use in concentrated animal feeding lots rescinded; a farmer successfully sued for saving seeds, risking contaminating the company’s patented GM grains developed to increase yields; a co-operative of producers successfully restrained from making farm-gate and outdoor market sales which were in breach of new health and safety regulations; record damages paid to a meat processing firm by a local newspaper who broke the food libel laws by publishing a photograph taken inside one of its plants. Although a soldier in their battles, she had never been fully conscious of the war that was being waged. And then everything had changed.

A fruit of love, growing millennia ago in the lush warmth of Tenochtitlan. Its skin a seductive, shining scarlet and its hidden internal cavities containing moisture and the possibility of new life. A symbol of desire and fertility presented to newlywed couples.

Then 600 years ago, its seeds were ripped from their native home and transplanted over the ocean by covetous conquistadors; the seeds, but not the name. It became an apple: of love, of gold, of paradise. To mystics who believed in its power to aid lupine transformation, it became a peach; lycopersicum, the wolf peach. And just as it was revered by many, elsewhere it was feared. Encumbered by its superficial similarity to the mythical, biblical fruits of temptation, the apple and the pomegranate, it was seen as a powerful threat to moral values. And while actually innocuous, its familial ties to the mandrake and deadly nightshade relegated it for many years to an ornamental position, with pleasure taken in its yellow five-pointed corollas and crimson orbs, but not in its taste. Then came the cases of wealthy casualties, unable to resist the lure of the luscious berry, falling victim to its acidic juices forming a deadly elixir when combined with the lead contained in their tableware. Meanwhile, those without the means for pewter plates survived unscathed.

Over the years though, acceptance grew and this creeping vine fruit finally assumed its rightful place: nestled in salads, chopped onto bread, atop pizzas, in sauces, in soups, in hangover cures, in tin cans, glass jars and bottles. And, with the fullness of time, the Aztecs’ “plump fruit with a navel” had regained its true name, tomatl.

A veil was lifted on a hidden underworld: obscured, preventable outbreaks of food poisoning; epidemic levels of childhood diabetes; sickening animal cruelty; exploitation of undocumented workers; lobbyists in positions of legislative power creating toothless regulatory agencies; the crushing of all competition and suppression of all investigation. A pastoral fantasy masking a toxic, self-serving production line. And Eddy, a blind enabler. At first there had been a sliver of doubt, then a nagging suspicion, until some gentle probing brought her into contact with the exposers of secrets; mainly farmers unable to match the legal might of the wealthy corporations and unwilling to be beholden to those who display little concern for the beasts, workers, suppliers or consumers they hold sway over. The war for complete control would wear on regardless but now, confronted with that normally buried, Eddy could play no further part. A recent divorce and a newly discovered respect for the custody courts prompted the establishment of her own family law practice. And now business is healthy, and demanding, but she still undertakes the fraught, draining journey two, sometimes three, times a week. The journey to this isolated, unsealed road through the forest, hours from the city. She briefly checks her mirror once more before pulling over. Out of the car, she approaches an unremarkable tree on the edge of the tangled undergrowth. Hidden behind the trunk is a lever which operates a simple pulley. A blockade of bushes and ferns lifts just high enough for a car to pass under, then lowers, and once again the entrance is concealed.

Buried, in the darkness, underground. Slowly gaining strength, nourished by minerals leeched from fertile soil, nurtured by the empowering moisture from above. Anchors thrust down deeper while tentacles explore skywards in search of the restorative, photosynthetic
power of the sun and air. Ever upwards until strong enough to produce a head of encased berries: bran, endosperm and germ. Crunchy packets of energy on fragile browning stems, ready for harvest.

Guillotined blades of grass, bound into bundles, stacked to dry before being brutally beaten. The freed heads then tossed between baskets until the passing breeze carried away all the feathery husks to expose the kernels enclosed inside. These crushed between two stones and ground to dust. The pulverised grains then combined with a single-cell fungus. An alchemic process activated by warm water; starch molecules broken down into sugars, metabolised and converted into carbon dioxide. The result; a bubbling, expanding, elastic putty. Pounded and rested, pounded and rested, ever swelling. And finally engorged, spilling over the edges of tins, fresh and steaming from the oven.

A process ever overseen by the watchful eye of Demeter: the goddess of the harvest who separates the grain from the chaff; a goddess honoured for her gift of fertility, and celebrated in an agrarian cult and festival of women; a goddess whose grief for a daughter taken whilst gathering flowers was capable of causing drought and famine; a goddess whose mourning and determination led Zeus himself to intervene; a goddess whose abducted girl was returned to her by deceitful Hades, but only periodically. A life lived in two worlds. Bountiful reunions followed by months of arid anxiety. The seasons and their harvests evermore dictated by a handful of pomegranate seeds and a mother’s love.

The car bumps along the rough, confined track hewn through the dense forest, headlights searching the way. And then Eddy re-emerges from the gloomy tunnel into low evening sunlight, morsels of dust caught suspended in the air. In the centre of the large grassy clearing stands a grand timber barn and several smaller outhouses. Around this focal point radiate wedge-shaped paddocks, some containing pigs, or chickens, or goats, the stacked boxes of beehives, others with ordered vegetables gardens, crawling vines or orchards with heavily laden trees. Eddy pulls up behind the large structure and lifts Dionne from her booster seat in the back of the car. Taking the girl’s hand, they start walking towards the barn when Dionne spots Terry in the berry patch. The young girl releases her mother and runs to the elderly man who greets her with a quick hug before she too begins delicately, expertly placing blueberries in the hand-woven basket that lies between them. Eddy watches for a while, her daughter instantly absorbed in the task, before continuing around to the front of the barn. Here, the overhanging roof creates a shaded veranda, and a long table is flanked by two wooden benches. Others have already laid a plaid tablecloth, plates, cutlery and glasses, and are flitting between the various outhouses and internal rooms within the barn. Eddy is greeted warmly and then joins them in ferrying goods to the table. Clear glass jugs brimming with creamy milk. Bottles of raspberry wine, stored since last year’s harvest. Small lidded clay pots holding sticky golden nectar. A dish of steaming boiled potatoes, dotted with parsley, butter beginning to dissolve down into their midsts. Sliced sausages, as black as coal, and a whole chicken, its golden skin crispy and crackling. A wheel of quiche filled with fluffy eggs and recently-picked capsicums and eggplant. A large bowl abundant with leafy greens and nutty avocado, topped with the scarlet, golden, and maroon orbs of heirloom tomatoes. On a wooden board rest three uncut loaves of fresh wheat bread, the smell drifting the length of the table. Beside them, a crumbly block of goat’s cheese and delicate tissue paper slices of cured ham. Others begin to gather from their various tasks, joining together in lively conversation, basking in the nurturing companionship, savouring the abundance their combined efforts have yielded. Terry and Dionne arrive hand-in-hand and the girl adds her basket of berries to the bounty before sitting next to her mother at the table; joining together in appreciation for all they have.

January 2017

Flash Fiction: Dust to Dust

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(Western History Collection, University of Oklahoma)

It infiltrates everywhere. Coating windowsills and forming precipitous piles against skirting boards, present in every corner. Tightly-sealed drawers are thrown open to reveal lightly-coated cutlery and tablecloths and t-shirts and hairbrushes. Books, untouched for years on crammed shelves, are opened to release sooty cascades from their spines. Each morsel of food, a beach picnic of old; every attempt to wash, a gritty exfoliation. Rubber seals around window frames and under doors are redundant, as it flows through keyholes, drifts through air vents, presses up between floorboards and rains from the cornices; a powdery invasion.

Outside, there is the perpetual battle against the grimy mounds that accumulate on the front porch, a daily struggle against absolute entombment. It’s easier now though. No longer the clamber up the rickety ladder, the mask narrowing vision and amplifying deafening asthmatic breaths, to sweep clear the roof panels. Not since distant, perpetual fires weakened the sun to a hazy, tepid shimmer.

Time is now marked in weeks. The hazardous journey to town along roads marked only by inactive pylons, the tyres sinking in fine powder, leaving behind a stilted wake. Waiting silently: the charging of the truck and the sole battery tasked with preserving life; the dwindling pages of tickets exchanged for plastic bottles of murky water and metallic vacuum packs. Waiting passively in a line that diminishes week by week.

Rushing home now, ahead of the approaching storm. A whirlwind of particles eddies across wooden floors as the door is slammed shut against the growing gusts. From the sofa in the front room, wrapped in grimy blankets, listening to the gale screech through the eaves, watching as the minuscule grains impatiently coat the glass. The drifts rising higher and higher until the dust blocks out all remaining light.

 

April 2017

Flash Fiction: Beware the Sellers of Snake Oil

The painted cart rolls into town. A cloud of dust, kicked up by weary horses, and the jangling of tiny bells herald its arrival. Pulling up in front of the stone fountain, brightly-dressed men emerge. The curious townsfolk gather. Drums beat and tambourines jangle. Sparkling hoops tumble through the air, fiery blasts are shot towards rapt observers, objects disappear into velvet cloths only to reappear in a townsman’s grimy pocket, a hard-jawed wooden doll yells bawdy tales at entranced listeners. But these are distractions, a mere prelude to the main act.

A thunderous bang, and from a cloud of smoke he emerges; the weaver of great yarns. His breathless listeners are inextricably reeled in by the wonders of the wide unseen world, death-defying adventures and terrifying tales of mortal plagues bringing about excruciatingly slow deaths. The crowd impelled to the verge of hysteria. “But fear not,” he reassures them, producing a cloudy green bottle from the depths of his patchwork cloak. He presents tidings of wondrous protections and miraculous cures. A voice in the crowd rears up, confirming that, yes, he himself had been returned from the very doors of death by this man’s marvellous medicine. The mob clamours for this extraordinary elixir.

A foolish, unconvinced man in the crowd holds back.
“Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you want to be protected? We certainly don’t want to be infected by you.” He succumbs, parting with hard-earned coins.

In the morning, amidst the hangover of faded euphoria and clearing heads, the townsfolk look to each other with sinking realisation. A mob approaches the square seeking the colourful, flamboyant, mountebank; the charlatan who exploited their fears while bombastically claiming only he held the cure. But, as quickly and suddenly as the travelling show arrived, it has gone.

Jan 2017

Women’s Rugby World Cup: Refreshing Refereeing

 

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worldrugby.com

The women’s Rugby World Cup in Ireland came to a thrilling climax this weekend with New Zealand’s Black Ferns XV reclaiming the title from holders England. The competition was an entertaining sporting display by highly-skilled, well-trained, committed amateur athletes, juggling the commitments of daily life while training for sport at the highest representative level. For the nations still developing women’s rugby, it was an opportunity to have quality game time with the top tier teams and a chance to raise the sport’s profile. Hopefully the rugby associations of all the nations involved will provide their full support to the women’s fifteen-a-side game, with development schemes which encourage women and girls to play. This is particularly important at a time when there is a danger of fifteens being neglected in favour of the sevens format, due to its inclusion in the Olympics and its perceived marketability. Hopefully too, more television networks and sponsors will recognise the value of the long game, lending financial assistance to clubs and players, and helping attract interest and viewers. But with any injection of support, and raised financial stakes, come changes in expectations, transforming aspects of the sport. One of the positive features of the current women’s amateur game that I hope can be preserved is the refereeing seen throughout this latest World Cup.

During this tournament, the on-field referees placed limited dependence on the video referees (TMOs), confidently relying on the assistance of their touch judges, and only asking for video confirmation in the most difficult of calls. There was a liberal application of penalty tries for goal-line infringements, and a sensible application of ‘benefit of the doubt’: an attacking maul marauding half a metre across the goal line before piling onto the ball should be awarded as a try even if the referee, or cameras, cannot ACTUALLY see the grounding. Contrast this with Saturday’s Bledisloe Cup match where an All Black’s try was granted by the referee on the ground only to be disallowed after the TMO interceded as there was no footage which showed a clear grounding of the ball. The referees and touch judges in the women’s competition also seemed to place a greater focus on one of the key fundamentals of the game, the forward pass. Too often this is let slide by touch judges and referees in the men’s game in order to keep the play flowing, perceiving that this is what the crowd wants.

Video referees undoubtedly have an important role in rugby, particularly in terms of safety. They have the ability to pick up dangerous tackles and foul play, often off-the-ball where incidents may escape the attention of the on-field officials. However the current situation in the professional game now sees TMOs intervening in the action on the field and making calls on sequences of play and tries without being requested for assistance by the match referee. This is resulting in long hold-ups but, more seriously, an undermining of the authority of the on-field referee. Team captains now regularly try to pressure the referee to send a decision to the TMO when they are unhappy with the on-field decision.

Undoubtedly, the financial investment in the professional game has put pressure on the sport to keep supporters happy, and the use of the TMO is a means by which to make the game seem fair. Viewers, all with their own opinions and analysis about every aspect of play, make a heavy investment through tickets, merchandise and betting, and are viewed as customers who must be kept satisfied. However, the frame-by-frame replay of portions of play take time and give an unrealistic view of what occurred. The grounding of a try which looks perfectly fine in real time may show a hand slipping from the ball in the final fraction of a second. What is the point of such pedantic distinctions? And while this situation all came about from a fear of the on-field referees making mistakes and receiving criticism, viewers regularly disagree with TMOs’ decisions too. For the future of the sport, professional rugby needs to look to the current amateur game where the balance of control remains very much in the on-field referees’ hands, with the TMO focussing on player safety and lending assistance with match decisions only when requested by the referee. And this also requires an acceptance by audiences, as well as coaches and players, that the authority of the referee is absolute, and the ultimate decisions they make are final, whether they are correct or made in error.

27th August 2017

WATCH: Top 5: Insane tries from finals day at WRWC 2017

Flash Competition: Persistence

The journal The Molotov Cocktail recently held a competition entitled Flash Rage, soliciting submissions of less than 1000 words, inspired by the spirit of protest. Although my entry did not make it into the top ten, it was included in their ‘Close but no cigar’ list. My story, below, is called Persistence


Persistence

January 1908

The bitter metal digs into my waist; cold, even through my woollen jacket, my blouse, petticoat and corset. Unrelenting. Bound; here at the seat of power, calling out to those in control. Solid in our cause, singing in unison. Undeterred.

“Our voice, our vote.”

With the shrill scream of whistles and the thud of weighty feet, the uniforms arrive. Bolt-cutters in hand, the chains snap as they are severed. My boots scrape on the kerbstones as we’re dragged into the road, unsilenced.

“Votes for Women.”

The bitter metal digs into my wrists. He spits in my ear.

“Ain’t gonna ‘appen luvvy.”

October 1910

The bile-green walls close in on me. Encased behind impenetrable doors and frosty barred windows. Antiseptic odours fused with faeces. Tormented cries echo down to me along sterile corridors, and my brain screams in reply. They have told me this is for my own good. They don’t want me to cause myself harm. Who knows what I might do in my next, hysterical attack.

I would like to go to the park though, to go for a walk, see trees. In truth, I would like to go home. I would like to see husband, my family. But I have been made to understand that that is not going to happen.

July 1922

Skinny little legs protruding from shorts. A bulky satchel bowing him over like a man five times his age. It is brimming with knowledge: formulas and dates and capital cities, explorers and discoveries, stories and ideas and truth. Overflowing with opportunity.

Our mother hands him a metal lunchbox, then prods him out the door. I watch him as he trudges reluctantly up the path, looks back forlornly, then disappears along the lane.

“Why can’t I go too?” I whine.

“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s just not possible, not for you.”

March 1977

Grandma’s gift is scrunched in my clammy little palm. So many choices, such an important decision. I stare down at the banknote, then back at the plastic children on the dais ahead. A confusing array under hot lights: floral dresses, lace-trimmed socks, pretty ribbons, caps, sporty shorts, checked shirts, tidy little suits with waistcoats. Mum nudges me.

“What do you want to get?”

I point to a blue t-shirt, baggy and emblazoned with a team logo. Mum smiles but shakes her head.

“No, not that one my love. That’s not for you.”

June 1993

The doctor beams ecstatically, having delivered the “glorious news.” My heart racing, skin cold, hollowness consuming me.

“What happens if I don’t want it?” I mumble.

His face blanches, the stupid grin transforming into a sneer.

“Well, if that’s the case,” he sighs deeply “we can look into adoption.”

“And termination?”, my voice barely audible.

“Elsewhere that may be possible, but that is most definitely not an option for you here.” His cold eyes penetrating. “Absolutely not going to happen.”

February 2012

“Take the offer,” she urges.

An offer of anonymity; for him. A slap on the wrist and affirmation that it was merely a momentary lapse in judgement. An alcohol-induced slip up. But I want justice. I want everyone to see the bruises on my body, the dirt in my hair, to taste the bile of fear with his hands on my throat, to feel the burn as he shoves inside. I want him to share my humiliation, my suffering. I want people to judge him, just like they judge me now. The lawyer shakes her head.

“I must advise you, a victory in court, a custodial sentence, those are highly unlikely to happen.”

August 2014

A whirling maelstrom of ideas and opinions perpetually circling the globe. Idealistically, naively, I had added my voice. A critical analysis of a game, a questioning of the status quo; pounced upon by self-appointed gatekeepers protecting their exclusive domain. A coordinated defence mounted; a multi-fronted attack. Weaponised sharing, multiplying exponentially.

“What do you know about it bitch? Get back to the kitchen!”

“You and your opinions can fuck off and die!”

“Don’t block me snowflake. Get off the Internet if you can’t take it. Stop being a victim.”

“Think we’re going to take advice from a cunt? Never going to happen!”

November 2016
I can withstand the criticism, the whispered innuendo, the outright attacks, the blatant lies. Because I know I’m right. I have worked a lifetime dedicated to the craft. I am qualified, experienced, professional. I have proven myself capable at every turn. I have fought and won endless battles and I deserve this opportunity.

And my competition? A slapdash novice, unversed in complexity and subtlety. A foul-mouthed bullying abuser; a proven incompetent who has bluffed and wheedled and golfed his way upwards. It should be a cinch. It should be mine.

January 2017

In the bitingly cold air, our breath condenses in a haze, hovering overhead. We are a sea of pink wooly hats rolling unrelentingly into the distance, stretching on towards the seat of power. We have communicated, coordinated, united and now gathered in our thousands, tens of thousands. We raise a rallying cry, our voices united in our demand for control; control of our own opinions, our own choices, our own education, our own careers, our own participation, our own appearance, our own bodies. Undeterred, unsilenced, we march onwards.

We have been warned.

We have been given explanations.

Nevertheless, we persist.

Jacqueline MacDonald, March 2017

Brain Training: Micro Flash

Writing flash fiction, generally tales of under 1000 words, is a great exercise to force yourself to be succinct and make every word count in storytelling.  There are also plenty of opportunities out there to hone these skills further with micro flash writing.  Whether you do it to develop writing dexterity or just to keep your brain in tune, it’s a fun exercise and my personal favourite is the New Zealand Book Council‘s (@nzbookcouncil) Rāmere Shorts (#Rāmereshorts). Every Friday, on Twitter, the challenge is laid: six randomly chosen words which must be included in a short tale within the 140-chararacter limit of a tweet. That generally amounts to around 15 to 20 words, with flexibility granted around word form, grammatical accuracy and punctuation.  The challenge is also given a competitive edge with a winner selected at the end of the working day, the prize being purely the honour. Each week, working within such tight boundaries, a surprisingly varied ranges of entrants surface, including the topical, lyrical, comical and emotional.

Give it a go with some past Rāmere Shorts challenges:

bully, robotic, glitter, pandemic, wax, dizzy.

mask, winter, careless, prayer, insane, homewards.

blender, mask, moonwalk, gobsmacked, duck, blink.

Here are some of my own efforts.

And my own personal favourite:

 

3rd April 2017