Can't Get You Out Of My Head

T-minus four hours until my application to AFTRS is due. Fuck me, I'm tired.

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I HATE MY 500 WORD CREATIVE WRITING PIECE, IT SUCKS AND I SUCK AND OMG I HOPE IT DOESN'T ALL COME DOWN TO THAT OH LORD PLEASE NO.

Below: I'll copy and paste my several attempts at writing a story. First off, the complete original story I had written before.

1. Life After Death

                Was I a cruel man? Did I commit too much sin without confession?

                I stayed the same. I had the same skin and I had the same cells. My mind remained unchanged and so, like my old self, I accepted the circumstances I had crashed straight into. My old life was over. I was violently ripped out of reality and pushed into this world of quiet, unmoving oblivion. And it was nice.

                The sand was cool under the freshly set sky and like every other evening, I sat against a multitude of dusty blue that spread from the slow-motion waves that crashed in an even, forsaken tempo, in time with the rest of the world, across and empty sky that loomed above my faded head and down to the hilltops behind me, lined with silver – a skyline made up of nothingness.

                I lived a good life. I did well in school, I studied further for four years in Pharmacy. I met a nice boy who went on to marry me. I never saw death as a real possibility, or rather, a soon one – something that could take all that away so quickly. And yet, I always believed and understood that everything was temporary and that nothing gold could stay. Everything here was surreal as ever but I ended up getting used to surreal because it was the same time, time and time again. It was an orchestra of silence submerged in cool blue, day in and day out.

                And that was why the slightest change in temperature became the signifier of strangeness. I was warmer than usual. The breeze was… warm. And within a second, the quiet was pierced by the crack and shatter of a street light that nearly scared me half to death. And alas, the last eerie sound that broke the silence:

    “I don’t know why I keep coming back,” echoed across the plains.

                My pupils dilated and my heart quickened. Suddenly I was feeling emotions I hadn’t felt in so long that they became nostalgic even. It was Mark. It was him, such a familiar voice. He sounded just like he used to, just more hollow and tired than before.

                What was happening? I screamed out into the void that was my afterlife.

                “MARK!” a long cry filled with desperation.

                Where did it come from? Where did it go?

                And as if travelling with the howling wind on a broken wire, his voice came back, interrupted and static.

                “I’m so sorry, my dear, but I’m letting you --. The doctors say you’re not improving and ---------- you so much but it’s like you ----, nothing gold --- stay. Goodbye, my love. I ---- you and I’ll see you on the other -----“

                His last words filled the empty air and one by one, street lights shattered and the waves settled and slowed further to a halt. And so, I stood in the presence of a hushed and darkened world. I gathered all the information I could and came upon a theory with the following conclusions:

1.      The afterlife was not what it seemed,
2.       I was only just beginning to understand what true loneliness meant,
3.      I had never been so cold before,
4.     This was the end – an instinctive conclusion and,
5.       I took my life for granted.

SCRAPPED, completed but wasn't good enough, a little dumb

2. Some Crazy Shit (unofficial title lol)

In my eight fresh years of work, I had never seen a case as peculiar as Emily Marswick’s. She was a woman of English descent and was suffering stress caused by a past trauma that involved three fatalities and one injured sole survivor. I had seen this many times before, yes, that was true. And yes, the case was textbook – she was acutely aware at all times of her surroundings but never quite ready for the occasional slamming of a door or knock of the wind. And yet, she had caught my eye and not through any means of lust or anything of the like (I was a professional man and I held my work above everything) but rather, it was because she was a poet and I do love a good spot of poetry.

She started writing two months after the unfortunate incident. Her wrist slowly ceased to ache and she seemed, as many would have described, unnervingly calm. Dr Peters, my mentor and my father, had put Ms Marswick solely in my care, as if a project for my very coming of age, as a doctor and his son. I started procedures by simply observing the patient but observing proved to be of little fruit and so I took to speaking directly to her, asking questions about who she used to be and how she felt about her new self. Her replies were sheltered and most likely untrue. Eventually, I coerced her into showing me her poetry. She was clearly unsure at first but like any good doctor, I cloaked myself in a guise, that of a saviour or such. It was often said by my father that delusion was a very powerful medicine for the mess itself. Her words and her verses were the most intricately beautiful things I had ever seen. I was caught in a spell by her artistic attempts at normalcy. She never spoke a word about the accident in her writings, just about what was. All her poetry was filled with beloved memories of her old home, her life as little Emily Marswick – a pocket of sunshine wrapped within baby teeth and pigtails.

SCRAPPED

3. Fire On Water rip-off

There was a quiet hum that hovered over the night and it seemed like only the moon and I could hear it. I was never quite the type for specifics, I let life cradle me in its arms, never knowing where I was floating in this great, big sea. The waves of my life were slow-crashing, gentle pushes against the shore. I’m a slow-moving creature. I always have been. But she wasn’t quite like that at all. She was fire on water. She had the reddest curls you had ever seen and she went out just as quickly as she came in because her waters were rougher than mine ever were. She lived her life dancing through stormy weather and as soon as she came into contact with a boy like me, as soon as I took her hand, I had been swept in by the current and lost at sea. She took the very hum of the night and played it like strings on a cello. My life had changed tempo and I had never been so unfamiliarly happy. I was consumed by a blazing sun and it was beautiful.

Eventually we fell apart.

The first night we met was a flurry of hands and booze. Daylight had proven to be more violent than I had wanted and I entered the evening battered by the strains of work and practically everything else that I took upon my shoulders. It was a Friday night and I guess I just fell victim to the shared belief that Friday Nights were always forgiving. I attended Andy’s 30^th which wasn’t my intention when given the invitation the week before but I convinced myself to go and talk to new people. I met a nice girl who studied accounting and grew up in Oakland but my mind must’ve floated out of my body and into the stars at one point because I barely remember anything else we talked about. It was unlike me. Eventually, everybody at the party had paired up and I stood by the pool clutching onto my beer not quite sure what to do. I finally decided that I’d leave. My confidence wasn’t anywhere near peaking and I started to feel as if my deodorant wasn’t enough to cover up the dread that washed over me day in and day out.

And yet, right as I turned to leave, she said, “

SCRAPPED, couldn't think of an interesting end to lead to.

4. Fire On Water rip-off second edition

My father was a broken man. You could see it in the way his eyes dragged the rest of his face down. He was a gentle but tired, old man. He was naturally a slow-moving creature. The waves of his life were slow-crashing, soft against the shore. My mother grew up in rougher seas and so, she had a knack for dancing through stormy weather. She was fierce, fire on water. She never went into the specifics but essentially, she had married my father because she fell in love with his rock-steadiness and ease. She found his side of life soothing. But eventually, he was caught in her current and seasick. He loved her very much as well but my mother grew to crave bigger waves again and my father’s resistive nature took him back to shore, away from my mother. They left each other half a year ago and my father became and has remained a broken man.

I took him to New Orleans on a long train ride as an attempt at cheering him up or getting him closer to moving on. There was a florist’s convention happening there and I thought it’d be nice if he met people with common interests. He often tried to pass his hobbies and interests onto me but I guess the green thumb wasn’t as genetic as he had hoped. But I always appreciated the flowers he grew in our yard. They were gorgeous year in and year out.

SCRAPPED

5. Fire On Water rip-off third edition

In my twenty-six years of growing and living and loving and losing, I had never felt as afraid as I had until today. She was fire on water. I knew that from the start. Her temper was as red as her curls and she had very red curls. But I grew to love her fighting and fire because her love was just as powerful and just as passionate. But daylight proved to be more violent than I thought it could get and I was afraid. I was afraid that things were no longer going to be the same.

She was the love of my life. I knew that from the start as well. She made flowers grow in every part of me – under my ribs, behind my ears and on the tips of my eyelashes. She made the sun warm again and the rain cleansing. She made me feel unsure about how I even lived my life before I had met her. Really, before I did meet her, I was a slow-moving creature. The waves of my life were slow-crashing, gentle pushes against the shore. I was content with just floating through life but in the middle of it all, there came stormy weather and I was swept out to sea and I found myself cradled in the arms of rough waters, holding onto her for dear life. She was the most beautiful storm I had ever seen. (What is this, a fking nicholas sparks book/taylor swift song?)

Eventually, life had dealt her a cruel hand and she was known for a short while to be the sole survivor of an unfortunate accident by Trilson’s beach.

SCRAPPED

5. Final Story, submitted for the fking application, smh, The Caretaker

I was born into a respectful family in an inescapable trade. I was taught from the moment I could walk how to take on the family business. My father was a silent man but he took the job very seriously. He spent my whole childhood teaching exactly what his father taught him and what his father’s mother taught him and so on. My job was simple. I was to take those unfortunate to have lived and ceased thereafter to a place they always knew they would end up but avoided at all costs. And I was at the ripe age of sixteen when my father decided I was ready for work. Within my many years of training and preparation beforehand though, my father had pounded three golden rules into my head:

1. Only speak the Last Words Oath and nothing else to the patient,
2. Be forgiving, cruelty is not part of the trade, and,
3. Nobody cheats death. It is final and it is sacred.

My first patient was a mortal by the name of Emily Brunswick.

“You’ll step into the lower plains and find yourself exactly where you need to be. Just follow your sixth sense you’ll know exactly which mortal she’ll be. Just one touch and she’ll be yours to deliver. I love you, be safe.” He kissed me on the head and urged me to leave, handing me a large parcel. “You’ll need this to make sure the patient is comfortable when she passes between realms.”

I leapt between our world and theirs and just like I was told, I was in the Brunswick’s dimly lit living room. A quiet hum formed a small aubade over the dawning city and with the start of the new day, Emily Brunswick was to meet her demise. My sixth sense, a fruit bared from the family tree, lead me to a room at the end of the hall with the door wide open. I took a deep breath and entered, nervous about the whole ordeal. At the end of the room stood Mrs Brunswick with her back towards me, surprisingly awake at such an early hour. The room was just as dark as the rest of the apartment but it was also a lot colder. Silent and invisible to the mortal eye, I wisped my way across, a wretched mist over shadows. Standing behind her, I reached out for the back of the neck, ready to take her as my first patient and yet, right before I even touched the hairs on her neck – an unexpected sound, the coo of a young child.

“Go back to sleep, Emily. We have a big day tomorrow. Mummy’s going to take you out for a stroll, how about that?” Mrs Brunswick whispered.

My heart had stopped right then and right there. I quickly moved aside as she turned to leave the room. It couldn’t be. I leaned over to look inside the crib and of course, there she was – young Emily Brunswick, just barely aware of her surroundings. Was this a lesson in itself? Was this a test? The second rule ran through my head, ‘Be forgiving’. Was this a choice I had to make? Was I even allowed to be forgiving? The third rule was clear as ever, though. Nobody cheats death. I looked through my father’s parcel for answers and there it was, plain as ever. I unfolded an old, black pram. I knew what I had to do and within that night, I knew just how unbearably cruel being a caretaker was and I learnt exactly why my father was such a quiet man. He was such a quiet man.


PUBLISHED AND REGRETTED

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The enddddddd, that was it. Scary? Spooky? You can tell I have a thing for the afterlife, hey? First Gravity and then this and that. Anyways, I'm okay with The Caretaker, but really, I left this task all to the last minute and ofc, I paid the price. Dangarang. Oh well, I really hope I get in.

Although, consider this: I do make it into AFTRS, I graduate and then what? I keep writing, I try for tv shows, do I move to America? Where do I get the money to move to the states? Do I even? I don't want to have a career in Australia, tbh. But what if nobody wants me? What if I'm not special, what if all the writers who are better than me (and there are so damn many) take up all the space? I'll be a man with a useless degree? Wtf am I gonna do with an arts degree? Gatdamn. The future is such a scary thing. Oh boy, I feel sick.

Bye, hope you enjoyed my shit.