Collaboration stories

Mother

"Two will do grab your keys find your peace if you will allow, make a single sound - out with it."

I never knew how much of an impact Mum would have on me. She died when I was 33, a woman born of English culture but survived a journey here to Australia. It's been over ten years since she's been gone and I can't even remember much of her. I do imagine how she could see me now, what she'd say or how she'd react to certain things in my life. Would she react to my two failed marriages in shame or would she be happy? I was able to do something, twice, that she wasn't able to do once.

It's been peaceful.

But the sense of peace recedes as I fish the keys out from the box and open up the door to her old house. Renters have been in it for years and I've had no reason to go back. There is a new doormat and the front door creaks even more than it used to but it still feels all too familiar. It still feels like her house. I need the money but after weeks with the real estate's number in my phone, I still can't bring myself to call. The kitchen is smaller than I remember and smells damp, not of hot bread and buttery pastry like it used to. I wonder when the oven was last used. I wonder if my mother would think I'm being silly, holding on to these four walls.

But I can't help it. The residing memories are too strong. They flood back to me, images that I hadn't seen in years. I find myself sitting down, back against the wall that my children had drawn and painted on, to the dismay of my mother. I cry, just for a minute, releasing emotions I had bottled up. I pick myself up and press on.

I pass a painting, one of a ship sailing across the Indian Ocean to a strange new land. It was the only thing my mother brought with her from England. I suppose it gave her courage for the journey here. I stopped at the painting for a while. Mum was always courageous, she always endured and pulled through. But I never understood that until she left. Her humility was insurmountable there was nothing she took credit for she seemed to be so quiet in her achievements. With that attitude came such impact it was very special to see the impact she had on others without her knowing it. 

In her final years the distance grew between us. I felt like she never understood either of my marriages Irene was jealous I had what she may have always wanted. I walk through to the lounge room and see the armchair, like a tomb I am paying my respects to. Her house the temple. I walk over to it and place one hand on the worn fabric. Suddenly I remember this is where she once sat and told me whatever I did she would always be proud of me.

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Hatred

"Do you find yourself limited in views, was there a time in your life you felt limited."

Have you ever met someone you hate? For some unknown reason, the tone of their voice sounds like a crowbar in a woodchip per to you? Something about them just twists your guts the wrong way. The way they eat makes you want to throw up, their laughter ringing across the room sounds like a witches cackle. Maybe in another lifetime, you were enemies. That was the only conclusion you could come up with. You've never spoke to them, you've never even made eye contact but you just hate them. It has to be the only explanation. I know it's irrational to feel like this but there must be some bigger reason. That's all I could see. I was blinded by my hate. If they did something good I would dismiss it as a cover for whatever evil operation they were cooking up. And then the worst happens, you talk to them and realise they're not that bad. And it makes you think that maybe you're the one who is bad, brimming with hate and spilling it on strangers. Maybe they hated you and they were right. Or maybe worse, they liked you until they got to see you up close and saw the hate seeping from your pores. 

Was the hate there all along? Who did you inherit it from? So this person. They're just living their life, they gave you lunch that one time with no second thought and you thought. You thought they were buttering you up because the group assignment was coming up and you're the best in the class. You thought the most evil. I said myself, its of a fairy-tale 

120, twists in between cheeks! I grappled with this notion for a season.

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500-word response

It's interesting looking at these two pieces of works. In my class we did the Japanese storytelling genre called Renga, a collaborative poetry where it's written by more than one author, obviously, both of mine were fictional stories which is interesting because I began my first piece about my nana from the perspective of my mum, thus obviously it was non-fiction. I don't know if I like this style of writing? Maybe if there was a set in stone plot? Especially considering I began this piece as non-fiction (creative) if it was fiction I might feel more comfortable but it reminds me of the Fold Over Stories I did a lot as a kid. 

The most thematic change I see in the first one is obviously the genre, the intended genre ended once I handed it over to someone else. The piece feels more fleshed out, considering we spent 7 minutes each there was a lot more to think of when it comes to the story, the narrator, etc. Whereas, in the second piece, we were to only to write for 2 minutes so in this piece there's no real story, or character, or anything else. There doesn't feel like a thematic change? But I believe it's because I didn't start it with an intended genre, my only creative input was the prompt I had. I guess the only thematic change I can see in the piece is how things go a bit too fast, we didn't have a lot of time to read the last piece and your time eats up so by the time you're finished you haven't written a story at all. 

I think the changes influence my view are quite interesting. Like I said, I don't like the first piece because I was intending to write it as a personal piece of from my mum's perspective about her life and her mum. I think it's the idea that someone is writing about someone I know and it feels weird? If I'm going to be a writer I should be used to it, but I just, I really don't know how to feel about it. Regarding the second piece, I don't know if there are any influences of my thoughts alter my overall theme? I don't know where people were going with it, I don't know where the story is going, but I know it's not the fault of everyone in my class, it's just what we were asked to do during this experiment. 

I feel like the flow of writing kind of ruined it for me as well. So stopping and trying to write another story while your mind was at another story that you might enjoy more. I was writing the start of the story for Josh's piece and I was like "why is this person asking about this other person's sexual history?" And then the alarm goes off, so it kind of stunts your want. The interruption makes me weirdly upset? I think it makes me upset because it just ruins this feeling of calmness and the idea that we only have 2 minutes to write a piece makes stuff very frequently. The fast pace of the situations makes me scared to write, I feel like I have to push everything out in a small spout.