2010 #3: The Escape

When I was 17 I used to write larger stories, too, silly little fantasies.

The Escape 

Foreword: This piece is actually a passage taken from a novel I’ve been attempting to write for many years – an extract that I found particularly beautiful in terms of language, the way it flows, and in terms of the imagery evoked through the use of words throughout.

--

At one point in Lucas’ life, he too had thought he had seen Sierra’s radiant visage. But her image, for Lucas, did not fill him with alarm, as it had with Ryan, but instead filled him with curiosity. And as it turned out, this visage – that at once, became less of a thought, and more of an experience - would be one of the last earthly things he would ever see.

He was out on patrol one night, on the edge of a country torn to shreds by a war, in a land forsaken by all other governments. He wore what soldiers would have worn in his time, covered from his head to his toes in a form of dress that was almost invisible to the naked eye. Camouflage, it seemed, although Lucas was sure that in the swamp he found himself him, you could hardly see figures in front of your eyes through the mist floating off the water, let alone spy anyone in camouflage. And as he trekked through the grime of one such swampy region, he saw her, as much as he could have – should have – missed her.

Often Lucas found himself crawling around through the sludge and the wet of the swampy forest regions he monitored, repeating a hopeful mantra in his mind, over and over, that he would not be just another statistic.

Another name crossed off of a list; another number. Another soldiers’ life thrown away due to a blow brought about by war. Whether it happened on the field of battle from a blade piercing the chest, or from a gun, a man shot down from afar by enemies sneaking through the solemn woods, such a death proved only a nuisance to Lucas’ superiors. Lucas promised himself that even if he were to be gassed to death, captured and tortured, or bled out from the throat like a pig dangling by an iron hook in a slaughterhouse, he would not be – he refused to be – just another death.

He had promised his mother this, on the day that he went away to war, and had prayed for the same on top of his fathers’ grave. His younger sister, her husband, and all of their children, wept for him on the day he went away, and continued to shed tears in the hope of his survival, and Lucas would not forget nor dismiss the tears they had shed for him. His mother, however, did not cry nor speak when Lucas told her – she simply stared at him through old and near-catatonic eyes, almost knowing of the perils he would face, until he was forced to look away, for what now has been a very long time. Every day and every night he prayed, to whatever god there was that all things pray to, that some poor bastard did not run screaming into his cabin, explosives strapped to his chest. He prayed for the concept of ‘rations’ to disappear, and for all the soldiers to be fed to full and blissful contentment. 

Some nights he prayed for all of the friends and fellow soldiers that had been captured or killed, to be returned to him, alive and healthy. He often remembered their smiling faces, some faces grinning days or even hours before being blown to pieces, or worse, captured and taken as prisoners of war.

He found war a cruel and sickening process – but at the same time, he felt it to be completely necessary, if any country were to ever find a level of peace for long. Like any other healthy soldier, he harbored a secret pacifism, a desire to spread peace - but too often, he thought, people must fight so that others can live at peace. It was the unfortunate and ever-lingering truth. So there he was, trekking through mud that sank him to his knees, murmuring to himself the wish not to have holes shot through his chest or legs, nor for him to be captured and taken prisoner, like so many of his comrades before him. The trees around him seemed to reach out to him, wanting to wrap and tangle around his legs and arms, and trap him there – but Lucas fought on, tearing and hacking at the branches and vines obstructing his path, and often constricting him. He could not see the sky, or any way out of this thick forest, his vision obscured by plant life, and often he felt that he would slip, fall and drown, in the swampy muck and grime he seemed to be wading through constantly. He could not hear any enemy approaching, for his ears were deafened by the noises of the wild creatures no doubt completely surrounding him. This was his day-to-day life away at war, and as much as he knew from previous experience that he would soon find an exit from the hellish maze surrounding him - stretching, tangled and twisted up, and often beneath, him - the escape seemed to never come. So he fought on, praying again to whatever god there was that all things pray to, that he would find sunlight, and leave the trapping vines and ominous swamp-like depths behind him.

As he trekked, he thought that he saw things in the forest, like many other soldiers had before him. Grotesque shapes that, once examined, turn out to be nothing but the contorted fake figures made by vines and swamp trees, and every subtle noise near him, thought to be the whispers of enemy soldiers and spies, turned out to be nothing more than the croaks and chirps of frogs and birds in the forests and swamps. Around him, there was nothing but complete mystery and death, and the fear that once consumed him was now numbed after days and days of fatigue and exhaustion, and Lucas was so used to the far-off sounds of gunfire, and so used to diving in any dizzying direction after hearing the horrifying cry of a fellow man not even feet away being blasted by the explosion caused by a grenade, that he no longer felt anxiety. He did not wish for death, but he was completely and utterly ready for the day when it would approach, scythe raised and the tail of his black cloak whipping in the air behind him. Still, he prayed for its visit to be delayed, by an hour, a day, or even a mere minute, so that he could find a way to try and escape.

Somewhere in the numbness he thought he heard a noise – a noise not quite as loud as the hacking of his machete that he used to tear the vines in front of him from his way. It was hardly even a noise, he felt, for a noise is a sound that probably was not meant to disturb someone such as Lucas, but does so by accident. This slight sound was completely and utterly with intention, for no soldier in a place such as this would be so idiotic and thoughtless as to forcefully pry his way towards, or away from, someone as armed and as dangerous as Lucas. He would do it with secrecy and sneak, if the fool possessed any logic whatsoever, creeping all the way back to wherever he came from, being sure at all times that Lucas did not follow.

The sounds he heard were footsteps, and he swore he heard whispers, and if Lucas did not know better of the world, he would have thought the whispers were coming from the trees themselves. Once he had heard them, he followed them - traced them, trying to see through the hanging trees to locate whatever fool the noises were coming from. Steady as a knife-thrower in a circus troupe aiming a blade at an apple atop the head of their partner, knowing full well the consequences should their blade fly a little lower than the apple, Lucas crept to find the source of the sounds. As soon as he had picked up his own pace, however, he heard the footsteps becoming louder, and more rushed – it became clear that whoever this fool of a man was, he was alerted to Lucas’ presence, and had taken off in a run. At that, Lucas tore after him, abandoning his poise, breaking through the hanging vines with his own body, and darting through the thick swamp, the foul muck splashing around up to his waistline.

His ears were focused on the mystery man, who was at a run now, and he found himself getting closer and closer to the source of the noises until it seemed that he was right behind him, wherever this man was, so close in the forest. He felt himself breaking through the shapes in front of him, feeling this man’s presence before him, nearly upon this escaping soldier.

That was when Lucas heard her voice.

He ground to a complete and utter halt. The swampy waters he had forcefully interrupted restored to their meditative state. The mist that cloaked his eyes and left him unable to see slowly began to lift, as though answering to the strange voices’ call. The voice whispered to Lucas from somewhere different than the way the footsteps had been coming from – in fact, the opposite direction entirely.

“Are you trying to find me, sir?” The being vocalized, forming words, and Lucas knew it was human then – or something near to it. Lucas was shocked at the sudden disturbance. He flailed his arms in the muck, hacking at the soaked shrubs surrounding him with his machete, gasping in fear while reaching blindly for the voices source.

“That’s funny, really…” It almost giggled then, without fear or loathing. “It’s almost convenient…”

Lucas turned around and around, spinning like a dancer, looking in every direction for the source of this mysterious voice. The being seemed to see him – to see him through all of the trees and the growth that he couldn’t see through himself.

“Because, Lucas…” He heard the vines and the trees start to part, and suddenly, all the wildlife around him went completely silent. All that he could hear was the movement of the trees, their rustling that the wind caused, and with that no footsteps at all. “I have been looking for you…”

Before his very eyes, the creepers dangling from the swamp roof parted completely to form an archway, the mist blanketing the bog disappearing completely, almost being repelled by the arch of vines. And through the archway; moving like the wind itself with the grace of a fine breeze; came a girl - a girl with long silver hair, and with eyes sleepy and aged. Her eyes seemed to have seen so much and too many difficult years, yet she possessed a pale face that seemed eternally youthful, so much so that Ryan felt the concept of her being elderly impossible. She had eyes that were ancient, yet possessed the face and the body of a young woman.

“I have been looking for you for a very long time, Lucas.”

The woman spoke, and Lucas pulled back in awe. The voice was soft, lulling and soothing, and almost willed Lucas into a relaxed daze. He could not fear her, regardless of the supernatural intensity of her entrance. He gazed upon her, paying no notice to the robe she wore, and the silver cape that covered most of her, almost sheathing her from the world and the eyes of all human life. He did not even pay notice to the fact that the grimy waters were unmoving at her feet, perfectly still as though she could pass through solid objects like air, and the creepers that had parted to form a mysterious archway had sunk back down into their original dangling forms.

“My name is Sierra, and I must tell you something important, Lucas. You need not speak, only listen to what I have to say. There is a pestilence coming, to take this world, and all those who breathe within it. It will not come now, but in many years, and you must help us rid the world of it, cleanse all those affected by it. The plague is not an infection, in that it does not spread from person to person – but a sway, an authority, and an influence. This plague is the oldest thing to trouble man, and without you, it may be the last thing, too.”

“Woman...” Lucas began, stuttering slightly in awe and disbelief. “You better explain to me exactly what you’re doing here – and exactly what you are, or else…” He pulled out a rifle, and pointed the firing end at Sierra’s face. He was not frightened by Sierra, but was not taking any precautions. She could have been the spy – or perhaps the invention – of the enemy force he fought against. “I’m going to shoot you. You’re not supposed to be here – hell, no normal person is supposed to be here. Tell me why you’re here, or I’ll fire, I swear to God.”

Sierra smiled something gentle then. “Why, I’ve come to take you, Lucas.”

Lucas was not a killer, nor a murderer, or any other word to describe what a man becomes when he intentionally takes the life of another human being– he was simply acting out his duties as a soldier in a war. He would not have ever imagined performing the act of shooting a person, especially a woman, under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances.

Lucas aligned the rifle between Sierra’s eyes, closed his own, before pulling the trigger, and letting the gun he held call out to the bayou. When he opened his eyes, however, Sierra was not where she had once stood.

He heard the threatening whine of shells flying at unseen enemies from a place not too far away, and the loud cracks and explosions that followed their cries, before realizing that the real enemy – the men with the real guns that could kill him, not the strange woman adrift in the bog – were closing in on him.

“That will do you no good, Lucas.” A voice whispered from behind him, “Not if you want to live.” The voice was irritated now.

Lucas flipped around, and found himself face-to-face with Sierra.

“You… What on earth…” He murmured, his eyes wide and frozen with fear. “How did you get around me so fast?”

Sierra suddenly grabbed Lucas’ arm at an alarming speed, her limbs moving swifter than the shots fired around them – and at once, Lucas was filled with a spine-chilling cold. It flowed from the spot Sierra had touched him, coursing all through his body, distracting his thoughts until he had no more drifting through his head. Lucas realized then that he felt dizzy, and Sierra had to hold him up with support if he were to continue standing. He looked deep into her age-old eyes, feeling faint, his vision slightly blurred. He only had time to think of his family – and his mother. Sierra’s eyes reminded him of her mothers’ – wise, as if she had seen many a terrible thing. He suddenly felt calmed. 

Sierra knelt down to meet his face, then reached behind his left ear with her head. “You will understand in time, Lucas.”

Lucas, despite his promise to his mother, and the sacred promise he made to himself, never emerged from the quagmire he waded within. In fact, despite the calls of his fellow troopers for days on end, and the seeking searchlights of his comrades searching for him throughout the bog, he was never seen again.

2010 #2: Blind Juliet.

When I was 17 I used to write little stories, too.

Blind Juliet.

            Where are you, Susan?

            I’m pondering all the possible beginnings that could have led me to this place. It’s freezing here, the rain pounding hard against the farmhouse roof from outside. The sound is muffled due to the hay it was constructed from, and I wonder how many horrors would await me dare I choose to exit into the outside world. I am at a loss. That world is not for me. The world I stumbled into..

            Susan, my darling, if only you could see me now, at the time where I crave your company the most. The warmth of your flesh upon my flesh would give me enough reason to not only stay in this horrid place, but to remain here for a long time.  Therein lies my pain – you are not here. I don’t know where you are. My company and I, we lost you, lost you to the outside world, although I wouldn’t call it a world. I’d call it a hell. Now, I’m alone here, in this hell. Devon is most likely dead by now, and Rita, if anything, the troublesome woman that she is, would be fighting for her life against the violent denizens that we had never thought would threaten us.

            The township seemed so kind to us, and caring to one another, yet never would I have imagined that they would turn on us the way that they did. One short moment of realization, and the plates on top of which these men had served good food and satisfying nourishment were used to bombard us. I could still feel the cut upon my head where the plate with the remnants of lamb had been thrown and made contact, a means to sate us turned to what would hurt us horribly, and if the knife I used to slice portions of the lamb away from the stock corpse had pierced any deeper into my arm by the rough and burly man to my side at the dinner table, in that brick house full of welcoming men, the arm would probably have lost function, if I had not instead bled to death.

            I heard a noise, and that noise I thought to be the footsteps of angry men, readying to charge into the makeshift den I have crafted for myself, their pitchforks spearing into the sky, their sharpened machetes pointed at me, almost as though they direct the spirit of Death itself to fall upon me. If that were the noise, I would be nothing – yet it is naught but a mere scratching, caused by what could have been an animal. If that is how far my paranoia has stretched my sanity, then said sanity should surely snap in due time, the air knife-thin with tension. Usually I would take comfort in the rains, but I cursed them for not allowing me to hear any strangers choosing to enter from the outside world. Instead I took solace in the comforts I have made for myself, in the form of the bales of hay I had untangled from their shapely and compact for, scattered about the floor and crafted into a nest for me to nestle within, in my seemingly futile attempts to hide myself away, a temporary escape from Hell.

            I catch a scent like rotting meat, and I prayed it was naught but the smell of decayed livestock, or just the scent wafting from beneath my bandaged arms and legs. I had been there so long that I could near lose notice of the scent. I couldn’t see a thing – nothing over ten inches from my nose – but for the light that pierced the wall of the barn in columns every time lightning chose to strike, allowing me for a moment the chance to examine my surroundings. Each time, I prayed nothing had changed nor moved. Similarly, Susan, we shared a night like this, long ago. I remember your face as it would illuminate before my eyes with every clap of the sky; blushing and shy, taken aback by my presence on top of you. Your body was weak within my arms, although not due to any form of malnourishment, but quivering with the love I pray you felt for me. Your one blue eye gazed upon me with cute curiosity, whereas the other, one green, looked at me knowingly. At the time, it seemed, we were an unstoppable force, and despite the contempt your father felt for me and my presence in your home, nothing would distract from our blossoming romance – you cared little for his antics, and almost in acceptance of this it seemed at dinner there was always a place set for me, so long as I told you prior that I was coming around, which you insisted was his doing and not your own. How far it feels I have come from that serenity into this catastrophe. It is a shame, too, that your father insisted he come along when we all chose to venture to this place, together. A father bears a love for his daughter that forever remains unrivalled, but I fear that no love in this world could stop the horrible people living in this village from doing worse than what they could do to me to your father.

            At a grim hour such as this I am reminded of the day I met you. Lost to my own world, I made an adventure into the world outside, in order to find some kind of peace within myself that would grant clarity to my gloomed-over mind. Somewhere between setting foot into new countries and journeying home a new man, I stumbled upon you. Transfixed, I followed you to your home villa, and watched from a distance as you suddenly appeared from the door of your second storey balcony, facing the front of your house. You wore a flowing white dress, loose and wavering like a nightgown, and when you came to rest your weary arms upon a ledge – how I wished I could carry you then – with your deep brown hair hanging over the edge like a curtain, I felt myself move forward until I was so obviously within your sight that you would have been a fool not to notice me, and when our eyes met with the most pure of knowing glances, I found myself devoted to your every movement, following you with my eyes – never speaking. Surely enough, we never spoke that night, not until the morning. Not even while you were in my arms.

            When we awoke, tousle-haired nude messes that we were, you seemed so insistent of me making my leave of your place that I bore no thought to the fact that you might have another lover, or even a child to which the sight of my naked form would have screamed in appall. Needless to say, I bode you farewell, but it would not have been for long, and my heart remained cold and steely in your absence until you returned to warm it. And needless to say again, I climbed your balcony every night, the love stung Romeo that I was, yearning with each insistent gallop to your home to cradle your warm body. It wasn’t enough that you stole into my mind with your luminous beautify, but by then you had captured my heart, too. Had you not caught my eye that day then I may have died a lonely man a long time ago. Instead, it seems, I will die a lonely man within this cruel and strange abyss, your deep and calming blue and green eyes lost to all but my memory.

One eye was blue like sapphires, the other green as emeralds.

            There was a crackling, something that sounded like a cough, and I was pulled from my feverish hallucinations of your eyes in an instant, despite the fact that from across the room I swore that with every clap of lightning I could detect your eyes from somewhere in front of me. No eyes of any color comparable could glint like yours do in the light. I was up in a heartbeat, and still I felt as though I could see you staring back at me from across the room. I felt a movement beside me, and my senses were alight even more – something fell, and collapsed beside me, and I was too afraid to move for fear it might attack. It didn’t. It was still, like stone, beside me. I’ve brought about death, I thought to myself. If I hadn’t moved in reaction, I would have gone unnoticed, but instead I vied to jump to attention at the smallest crackle of sound. I sat in my sorrows for a moment, until the next thunderclap illuminated the entity to my right.

            I stifled a cry. A pockmarked corpse, naked and battered by all kinds of pain bringing devices imaginable, had fallen from its hideaway above me. Its eyes were sewn shut, and it was almost as though children had scrawled faces of merriment beside the places on its body where it had been violently pierced. This could not be the corpse of a human, but a disfigured mutant – a terrifying distortion, a Dali. Once I had seen it, the image of it imprinted itself on my mind, and I felt the need to vomit as my head spun to the point where I was forced to get up and run across the room in shock. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. This man must have been beaten to death by a thousand clubs, all the while being stabbed in every soft bit of flesh upon his body by knives – his manhood itself beaten to a pulp. Dry blood coated his chest, and I was almost afraid to believe my luck, that I should take shelter beneath the corpse of a mutilated human being. It was with that fierce movement I so thoughtlessly partook in that the barn-house door burst open with light.

            The sudden blaze of light and sound left me in shock for a few moments, as I fell to the floor, almost landing upon the corpse spread out in a star not an inch from me. When I regained my sight and hearing, I was confronted with a flame, a blazing torch burning inches away from my face. The two intruders, whoever they were, attempted to identify me, waving the torches they carried around the room and near to me, eyes piercing mine… scanning me. When I saw the faces of those that had invaded my temporary space, however, I was filled with confusion. I realized they were scanning me with recognition – searching my eyes with disbelief. A gasp escaped my mouth as I discovered something that filled me with hope; I recognized their dirtied features.

            The woman of the two dropped her possessions with a yelp and leapt into my arms – Rita, with her feline features and cat-like eyes, had survived.

            “Brad…” She whimpered, her voice muffled as she pressed herself against my chest, “I... I can’t believe it. You’re actually alive.”

            “I kind of can’t believe it either.” I murmured, holding her close to me. With that, she was reduced to a bundle of sobs, gripping me so tightly that I stifled a gasp.

            The second male figure brought the flame he carried close to his face to reveal himself – Devon, it seemed, was alive too.

            “It’s good to see you’re still kickin’.” He grunted with a half-smile. He approached me and hit me hard on the back so roughly that it hurt – an action of endearment when it came from Devon. They were wet, bloodied and their faces were smeared with dirt. Both of them looked exhausted and unwell.

            “Good to see you too, buddy.” I returned his smile, releasing a teary Rita from my grasp. “How’s everything outside?”

            “Dreadful,” Rita replied, returning to her usual fierce and foxy demeanor and tone of voice. “We’ve killed ten of those things already. They’re reasonably intelligent, but can be moved quite easily. It feels like they’re everywhere.”

            “What do we know about them?” I asked.

            “They’re fast. They move in packs, and speak in tongues I’ve never heard of… like some twisted form of Spanish…” Rita spoke again, “They’re well organized, their tribes are reasonably cultures – which means, at least they live in houses and know how to cook.” Se explained. “Having said that, they haven’t quite grasped the concept of long-range weaponry, which means instead they take to slashing and stabbing at us with knives.” Bitterly, her face twisted into a scowl.

            “There’s something wrong with them, though…” Devon spoke up. Rita and I turned, and found he was standing by the door exiting the farmhouse, looking out into the rain. “I hit one of them – straight in the kneecap, with a mallet I stole from one of their homes. He saw me leaving the building after hiding away when they were still a pack. His kneecap shattered, and he fell straight to the ground… except he got up again and again, crying out from the pain. It was like the pain didn’t matter to him at all, so he kept coming, lunging at me from the ground he crawled upon.”

            Rita stared at him for a while, processing what he had just said, before sinking to her knees and sighing deeply. “They have to be human. They just have to be. They look it, they speak a language that I’m sure we could come to understand – and they’re warm like we are.”

            “Still,” Devon replied, “It was as though that man, if I had let him lie, would have kept coming at me until his end and final breath.”

            With that revelation, another figure burst through the open door., slamming it shut as they did. The rain from outside went from muffled to deathly in force, sweeping the ground outside in torrents, drowning everything it crashed down upon. We stood to attention, Rita and Devon raising their torches above their heads, ready to strike with flame and club alike. When I looked upon the intruder’s wet face and hair, clothes torn to shreds and dangling threads,  I was again filled with the sweet sigh of relief. The figure that had charged through was no beast, no assailant, but Susan’s father. I looked him over several times, and was relieved to see that he was uninjured – however judging from what fear I could read from his eyes, he had clearly seen things in his time outside that we dared not ask him about.

            “You… all of you…” His eyes darted across the room, lingering on each of us, “Where is my daughter?” He saw something behind me that caused his jaw to drop, and charged through me with force, coming down to crouch beneath the corpse by my feet. Realizing it was not Susan, he stood up and sighed. “It’s not her… I’m so glad.” I stepped forward and placed my hand upon his shoulder. He moved into me, eyes shut, mouth uttering a near-inaudible prayer of thanks.

            “She’s not here, Ralph. We don’t know where she is.”

            “They took her. I saw them take her. It feels like so long ago now, but I know she’s out there somewhere. I’ve looked everywhere, scoped every building and hovel in this godforsaken place, and this is the last…. There’s nothing.”

            I winced upon hearing this. “… I understand.” I replied. I felt myself give way at the knees slightly, and a sinking feeling descended upon me. Susan was nowhere to be found, so judging from that, she must be somewhere else – with them.

            “We have to leave.” Ralph said in a panic. “We can’t stay here. They’re everywhere. I tried to outrun them, I did, but they were everywhere. You don’t understand how horrible they are… I’ve never seen anything like this… The things they do, they’re unimaginable horrors – unspeakable abominations.”

            Rita mumbled something unintelligible, and then slowly began to cry. Devon reached forward to hold her – then, like a child echoing her mothers’ ways, Devon began to cry, too. Ralph, at long last, sank to his knees, reduced to a mess without his child. He wailed – slow, high-pitched cries to the farmhouse ceiling above us, louder than the rain pounding from outside. It was with these heartbreaking sounds that I heard something more horrid than any collapse of a corpse, any thunderclap or rending of flesh. I heard the sounds of one hundred footsteps, stampeding towards us. I saw the door open with light once more, saw bodies fill the room, pouring in from outside. One hundred torches gathered around us, surrounding us in a circle, and I knew we were dead then.

            They were all around us, their narrowed eyes speaking of a long-blossomed hate. They ceased the cries of my friends, and the room was filled with silence, but for the ever-present rain still yearning to strike us, as the others were too. Baring at us, they flayed their torches like swords, scalding Rita, and clubbing Devon across the head, flames licking at his scalp. One of them kicked Ralph across the face, and I saw blood fall from his nose onto the muddy ground.

            In the warm bright light I looked again to the wall across the room, where I had sworn I had caught a glimpse of your warm view. Scanning the wall, I hoped to find an inch of hope that you were still here, with me, in this room, protecting me, watching over me. What I saw when I scanned that wall, was a pair of eyeballs, loosened from their sockets by delicate fingers, inserted into hollows cut out from the wood. I felt a growing numbness fill me from the inside, radiating out, penetrating every inch of my being.

            One eye was blue like sapphires, the other green as emeralds.

2010 #1: A Collection of Poems

When I was 17 I wanted to study Creative Writing at RMIT. To get in required folio submission and an interview. The folio submission required sending in up to 4 pieces of creative writing at 3,000 words each.

Whoops, no... that's... that's not right at all. The folio submission required sending in up to 4 pieces of creative writing at 3,000 words in total. I sent in 4 pieces at 3,000 words each.

Needless to say, I didn't get in. Heartbreaking, really.

I still have the pieces I submitted, though. I'm posting them here for the purpose of reminiscence. Especially since back then I was a blissed out teen and wrote every day, whereas these days I'm a burned out alcoholic 20-year-old with the cognitive functionality of a preteen with autism. 

There is a forth piece (or, in terms of chronology, a different first piece) but I'm hesitant to post it as the contents are far, far too personal. It is a piece of my life - a fragment of a memoir. Autobiographical. Then again, if you do see it here, it will be numbered under #4, and I guess I gained the confidence to post it after all.

Let's begin.

-

When I was 17 I used to write poems on leather-faced moleskines. 

I. Before

A change in the wind, I felt it like fire

What all-consuming tempest does make my bones brittle and weak; knees bashed with cold.

My hair is suddenly messy now.

The fire and wind does cauterize my old wounds

Piteous, perhaps, but such an inspiration.

This frenzied breeze does sting at first, however gentle on my arms and face. I like this.

The hope this one torrent brings is controversial, as I have been lectured many a time, and seen with bloody cruelty and unmistakable vision, most correct

How blazing fires do burn out to become razed and blackened pyres.

My hope anew, I ride this wind; to any port but for one where company is unfriendly

I pray you; press against my sails;

Do kick up again.

I start a new incision along an old and faded line; with uncertainty, pierce the seas along a choppy old way that time has never feigned to forget.

You seem to take to my presence on the ocean

Although my destined shores are too far for you to carry me, you stay.

I thought, ‘To commune with wind is futile,’

But this breeze whispers to I and itself, ‘Never die’.

II. After

The black bird hovers around my window now.

It speaks the truth; bats the lids of its eyes

Although I wish it would stop.

Like a kite it gently glides, trying with subtle beats of its wings to catch my eye, but I still see it regardless.

The kids, they touch each other, not knowing what’s real and what’s not.

I wonder if they ever will.

What I have seen, like my grey feathered friend,

Should inspire them to keep their hands firmly placed on the table in front of them.

For myself, in chastity, I depart my own requirements, laid like food left to someone else’s similarly starving stomach.

For myself, I think little, although a selfish masterpiece I’ve started.

A white dove I’ve begun to paint in my fevered daydreams.

The reality of my subject, however, is one of black eyes and black feathers, a testament to death - a lonely murder.

You cannot draw a dove that is not a dove at all; hopelessness invades.

My black-feathered friend will fly away soon.

But whether or not it is to a place or a person willing to paint it bright?

The port I’ve reached is full of fools, and the wind dies.

III. Now

You are no more a friend than the transient wind that finds warm comfort blowing through the open doors of self-degrading idiots

Than the wide ocean; to kick up the sails of those who need you most.

You are no more a change, a changer; a fiery new beginning; than that pathetic gust that does kick up the skirts of pretty girls, only to cease again and again.

That portrait I painted; I find is nothing resembling a dove when I reach sobriety.

The guilt I feel is so great, for throwing you—

What a dove or a great Arctic wind you could have been.

But I follow your lead; I fly away.

I set sail on a new wind, that when it whispers ‘Never die’, it follows its own advice.

—Into the fire to burn to ashen cinders.

The scent of smoldering paint and dying brush strokes does tickle my nostrils; it stings my eyes.

The incision I’ve made before is simply another lost hope.

The most promising and beautiful of paintings, if caught in a fire, will always choose to die for fear of not escaping its hot licks; resignation.

You are no more a lover than one who merrily sleeps with other men; cheats themselves.

No more a wind of change than one that feigns promise and then dies.

No more a dove that chooses to flock to the dead like a raven, and slips in and out of black ink like my brush.

What could have been; a waste of paint.

Do not come again, dear wind, unless it is with intent to carry me onwards -

When it is not the wide ocean you fear;

When you choose not to take up company with fools;

Until then I start a new canvas.

The incision heals; my sails are up again; I wait for the next big wind.

Love and loss

What love could do with love lost,

Return it unto love and let love share lusts most lusciously.

For love cannot share lust with a simple like,

But it parries and dodges the blows of a most tempestuous lust, for fear of love lost in lament.

So love loves love and finds faux-love in lust

But it cannot love lust.

For once mere lust is discovered in place of a once-thought love

Then love is left in loss.

Lust may be shared between love,

But love cannot love lust.

For lust feigning love is a lie.

Free

I knew a man who once told me

That my heart was free

Free

To roam the plains of Kenya

To prowl the deserts of Egypt

To laze in Parisian laneways of many an archaic design

To seek a sensual touch from gorgeous Swedes

To lament a boring life in Barcelona

To parry the precise pokes of fencers in fancy France

To write of beauty in most ravishing Rome

To be lost in Spanish serenades

To find lust in Greece and seek the beauty of Santorini

He said my heart was free

Until I found my way, and a place to stay

Until I found it in my heart

To be

And with all the grace and sorrow of a willow tree

He swayed on the shore and he waited for me.

The Lady of Shalott

Even the Lady of Shalott did sleep

While her boat did crawl and creep

Along the river which feigned the sea

To Sir Lancelot and keep

Her heart damp and cold

Dreaming of wealth she would never know

Her sir waiting by the shore in snow

But her creaky boat moves far too slow

Clutching straws of sanity she lies

She sees the sky through dried-up eyes

Patiently she rests for long

Serenades passing sailors with her song

And when all is but with fear

When a bore is her despair

She feels her death drawing near

Cloaked with long departed hope

Riding on the wind, it comes with horses’ trot

Tousles the unwashed hair of restless Sir Lancelot

To the doomed drifting maiden upon the rickety barge

It does not take her long to realize that Death itself is at large

A lonesome boat does crawl and creep

Remembers weighty presence with a creak

Along a journeyed frozen river it finds Sir Lancelot and keep

Within, forever, in embrace of fallen leaves

Damp with saddened skies and incessant snowing

With no sleepy song to match a young man’s longing

Lady Shalott does sleep

For one bitter purpose of this prose

And only death itself would know

Is that she would linger cold and lone

Until her dammed blood would turn to stone

Over and over, the cycle flows

When it will stop, burning pages let us know

For poor Lady Shallot lives and dies

Every time you read these lines

Meeting

Him:

I met you at the bar, and you smiled.

Was it the stark contrast between you and I that caused you to grin?

More than male and female - my pale white complexion to your warm olive skin

Skin I'd like to touch

Her:

Your bright blue eyes hover over me, and I almost feel contested

So much so that I can do nought but allow the smirk to break my face in half

The pairing would be scrutinized

A sin to my own kind

Blossoms

Him:

Your sisters treat our unity like blasphemy

And I cannot help but smile

When you tease them, "Sexual chemistry,

The most important connection you've denied."

I feel blessed that you allow me into your life and the sturdy walls of your family.

Your world is rife with music, dance, and passion - culture.

Yet you remain my finest muse

For my simple life with simple pleasures

Her:

The air is clouded with ambiguity

Escapism I've found

From a scandalous life of bloody affairs

You are my angel of change

I cannot dance upon tables as you do without fear of embarrassing my elders

For ostracism is a thing I know all too well

This isolation and comfort I find with you calms me

And I fear not the opinion of those with whom I share my flesh

Realizations

Him:

In your joyousness I suddenly detect sorrow

Although in jest you profess it's merely that monthly time again

But still you feign to hide that

Aching disruption at your side

Family initially found most amusing I find now amazing

I cannot begin to fathom why your family sticks so close, so protective and watchful over you

A most untouchable connection

I could never hope to unglue

Her:

I feel the sharp sting of regret

Detachment, I've discovered

Denying years of fruitful passion

Is no key to loving another

Baring my heart, my all, I take you to my home

The lies all washed away to reveal the reality of my identity, a surface most scarred and armoured with anguish

I open the door, lead you in, and rest my hand upon my guilt's shoulder

I gaze into your eyes as she once gazed within mine

Acceptance

Him:

A wraith, I think at first,

Yet 'tis only a woman in what looks to be a black shroud

Intimidated I feel, although her fragility is evident in her age

Until I see - her warm olive skin is not unlike yours

Her smile speaks ancient messages of cruel sacrifice, bludgeoning her innocence

I can feel her breathing on the air, a pulsating inferno of loss - yet love

She reaches forward, through her veil, her frail and veined hands outstretched, her eyes old, rampant with sad memory

And she gives me her heart.

Mother And Child

You’re like the child in that little book

Unknowing of all the time it took

Screaming, crying, wanting more

To lift you from that sterile floor

Looking into your mothers’ eyes

The fruit of all her sacrifice

They gave it all to give you life

Yet then it’s as though you yearn to die

Still like the child in that little book

Barely aware of how it makes your mother look

When you thrash out, crying, wanting more

For her to lift you from that unclean floor

Looking into your mothers’ eyes

To wail and yelp, to spill forth lies

What candy sweet she gave you not

You swear, t’would set your heart aloft

You are the child in that little book

Near-knowing of all the time it took

To relent to give, though you want more

To pry you from your bedroom door

How light you must have felt back then

When she dressed you in your first nice shirt

You prayed like hell she’d understand

The space you need, rather than take your hand

You were the child in that little book

Never learning of all the time it took

To pull you from your crafted cave

To suffer the fists, the claws, the tears, the shame

Your eyes murky hollows, a frail mess

Yet still she raised you from the abyss

She gave it all to give you life

Yet woe, alas, you yearn to die

Ethnic Parent

Pauses, blank stares and uncertain glances

I cannot speak to those I know, only strangers now

You look at me like I'm a floundering fish

I see it in your eyes - my money is no good here

Great sacrifice I made for my children

Replaced war ravaged lands with urban opportunity

But what the so-called community ensured was a lifetime of scorn

My treasures fight on their own for the right to belong

Short words

Elegantly floating with disregard

Solemnity in loss is a man’s best reward

For striking fervor into the heart of one

Whose utmost care departed, victoriously numb

Long words are words with the same meaning

As those that are short

Concise, elegant, no surrealism to vex their audiences

With blindly plucked chords

With stretched phrases all we do is fill pages

Without them we feel as though not all has been explained

If only more people knew

What the tiniest of words could do

Here's looking at you.

The first time I died, I felt barely anything at all.

It was like water flowing over me, like I had just fallen into a deep green pool. I felt the rush, the weightlessness, and the plugging in my ears as they filled with cool water, as a liquid swept all around me, consuming me entirely. I never opened my eyes, not once, because I was worried that whatever was swimming around me would burn them. Then I began to drift, a slow decline, downwards - floating, drifting in slow motion, deep into an abyss. I let the abyss take me whole.

When I opened my eyes at last, I was in a hospital bed. There was no-one around me. Not until later, when my family and a few of my friends came around to make sure that I was okay. I had been involved in a bus crash, they said. The driver had had a heart attack at the wheel while winding around a curve on a forested mountain, and I was one of very few people to survive the cataclysm he had unwittingly brought upon us. Down, down, down we fell, down the mountain face, hapless commuters, rolling passengers to an ill fate. Up, down, left, right. As the bus tumbled, bones snapped and brains rattled, shrieks and final whispers. Many died, but I survived.

So they all seemed to believe.

My mother once told me that death, for most, is moving on. A reprieve from a tragic life wrought by constant never ending pain and suffering. For a life in itself is forever plagued by agony, and the reality was that though we may try to weld our broken bones, when one snaps, another will surely break in due time. And so the cycle goes, on, and on, and on.

But not for us, she promised me. Not for us, the enlightened ones. Yes, our life was certainly pained, she said, and it is this I would come to understand in due time. I never truly understood the meaning behind her words, and for so long I could not. For I had very many mother-figures in my time that the message was almost lost to me. Lost to the chilled mist of memory, fading away into the distance. I never understood - until at last, the bus came tumbling down the side of that godforsaken mountain.

Our lives, she said, were different than others. For we were the ones who carried on.

She taught me not to hate myself for all the things I'd done. Not to feel regret or guilt for causing pain to others throughout the course of my life. She taught me to value my life, to revel in how otherworldly the world is - how beautiful and blissful all the facets of the earth can be, in all its infinite strangeness. Like nothing else in the universe. She taught me to love every single grain of sand on the beach, to love every single blade of grass on the ground - for it would love us until the end of time.

Mother taught me that, unlike others, we could see the world for what it truly was: beautiful. Strange and beautiful.

When she said 'world', though; what she meant... what she truly, honestly meant... was life.

If only they could all see it, I thought so often. If only every single person knew how valuable their lives were. How tragic and cyclical and sparkling and romantic and comedic and thematic and philosophical and pointless in the most infinitely meaningful way their lives were.

For you are only blessed with only one - and you should spend your body, your form, your shape and your mind, experiencing the wildest of journeys, and the most sensual of pleasures. Succumb to the flowery decadence of eroticism. Cry full-formed tears at the loss of a job, or the death of a family member - or the parting of a tender lover.

Use your long, slender fingers to grasp the bow of a violin, and run it delicately along the needle-thin strings, letting the strings vibrate at the touch of the bows' fibres, chirping sweet notes into the rattled air. Let the sound echo out a soft requiem. Whichever way you choose to spend your life; take in every minuscule moment. For it exists for you, and only for you, to do with it what you wish, in all its glory and its beauty.

That is what I have done since I first died. I have travelled the land and stared up at the stars, remembering always what my mother told me. I have brushed my hair with fine-toothed combs just to feel its sensual scratch upon my scalp. I have climbed mighty mountains, scaled high cliff faces and traversed dry and expansive deserts. I have taken many lovers, beautiful both for their minds and for their bodies.

For your form is the only one you truly have, and you should let it see the wonders of the world. If only your hesitant mind were not such a resistant nuisance. This body, this form, these lips, these long locks of hair, these athletic legs, this chiselled physique, these eyes that spill colour like a vibrant flower. These are all a part of you - and still you all choose to waste them.

You waste your bodies, and your hearts, plundering nothing but the food from your fridge. You seek synthetic lovers through the internet, and embrace pixels with an electrified touch. You live lives of convenience rather than charity; discretion rather than danger - and that is a crime to all those who truly lack the capacity to seek adventure, or to chase dreams.

It is for these reason that we do what we do, and I have my mother to thank for ridding me of my inherent guilt at what many might deem these atrocities. But they are not atrocities - they are blessings. Truly, these actions of mine are blessings rather than curses - and I think not for the thoughts of the people for whom I grant these blessings, for I know that I am showing them wonders of the world.

On this day, I am out in the world. I'm walking down the side of an immensely busy street in the cold morning air. My bones are fragile and weak, as my many journeys throughout my time in this body have aged them terribly. Hobbling along with a walking cane, I notice a man on the other side of the road, with a face as irate and wrought with fury, as any one of the thoughtless souls wasting their lives wandering to and from their day to day activities like mindless ants in a frenzied hive.

He will be the one, I think to myself. I will show him all the wonders of the world.

He doesn't know that I'm looking at him, unfortunately, and I can sense already the confusion that will soon devour him once I have completed my task. I take several steps onto the road in front of me, and wait for the largest vehicle to casually rush on by.

Mother once told me long ago that the key to how we live is in the execution, she said. What I failed to understand is the double meaning she applied.

Death, for most, is moving on - and though you may weld your broken bones time and time again, you will never truly understand the honest to god tragedy that is your existence until you finally succeed in wasting it all away. My family, however, see death differently to yours.

We carry on around you, fluttering about in the crowds like any other mindless ant, collecting and working and functioning like anybody else that you can see with your own two eyes. We move, we dance, we fuck, we love, we play and we laugh like anybody else. But we are not you. Nor are we who our smiling faces say we are. We are not you - we are greater. We are living.

It took dying for the first time to show me that.

I see it - a long bus, driven by a man so large and round he is practically a circle. I take the chance; stepping out onto the sidewalk, I fix my gaze upon the man across the road, who still staggered along the sidewalk as though with every step he spilled another woe to the concrete ground before him.

Here's looking at you, friend. The one I will show the wonders of the world.

There is a screeching of tyres, and a combined cacophony of horns and screams from all around the crowded street. The sound of metal colliding with metal and the screeching of tyres fills the air, as I feel my body being flung violently across the street.

What feels like water flows over me, as though I had just fallen into a deep green pool. I felt the rush, the weightlessness, and the plugging in my ears as they filled with cool water, as a liquid swept all around me, consuming me entirely. I never opened my eyes, not once, because I was worried that whatever was swimming around me would burn them. Then I began to drift, a slow decline, downwards - floating, drifting in slow motion, deep into an abyss. I let the abyss take me whole.

I come to, at long last.

I'm standing on a concrete ground, looking out before me onto what appears to be a road. There seems to have been an accident. I look deeper, and see a man sprawled out onto the concrete, metres away from the bloodied bumper of a motor vehicle. A bus that had just hit an elderly man.

Then, like a knife through a cloudy veil, it all comes back to me in a flicker of a second.

I drop the briefcase I'm holding in my hand. Reaching into my pockets, I pull out what appears to be a lighter - a jet lighter, the silvery kind that reflects like a mirror. Looking into my reflection, I note my features.

I have bright green eyes. Looking deep into the vibrant colours in my eyes, I hear a sound in the back of my mind... I hear screaming. The sound of a man, screaming and screaming until his throat is hoarse.

The first time I died, I felt barely anything at all. The second, however, felt like being reborn.

Coming Out: My (Entirely Unconventional) Story.

Greetings, children. It's been a while since I wrote anything substantial, so I thought I'd give the intellectual in me (buried very deeply in me) a crack at the keyboard, to see if I, so wracked by excessive alcohol intake in these days of late, could even muster so much as a paragraph that makes any kind of sense. Today we're going to indulge in the finer details of my coming out story. If this, or any aspect of the homosexual lifestyle bothers you, I'd like to invite you to suck my massive metaphorical cock, because I'm not going to censor myself just because you can't handle the idea of two infatuated gays having it off in a gay bar. Also, this is my blog. So, like, shove off, and find some opposite-sex partner to have heterosexual sex with. Or something.

For all of you who, to this day, are blithely unaware of my sexuality - a fact I would consider absolutely remarkable, especially when one considers I parade around the city streets in floral print jeans - I am a raging homosexual. It only takes five minutes looking at this blog to figure that out, and even less time - nay, a mere glance - upon encountering me in person.

Signature homo attire. See: Flowers, a "rainbow" of colour.

More importantly: I am entirely out of the closet.

This means that I am open about my sexuality, and that my friends and family have been made aware that I am, as my almost ingeniously subversive and tolerant father often puts it in late-night screaming matches, "a fucking fairy".

This also means that by societal expectations alone I am more likely, by that mere openly expressed facet of my being, to reference you -women- as "honey" or "darling" in initial conversation, and also far more likely to vivaciously re-enact scenes from various Lady GaGa or Nicki Minaj music videos at gay clubs, whilst no doubt frocked up in pink singlets and sequinned disco shorts. Often with accompanied muscled and quiff-toting back-up dancers grinding up on my "rockin' bod" with the fervor of a pack of cracked-out nymphomaniacs.

Here's a newsflash to all those who would share those expectations: I would never be caught dead in sequinned disco shorts nor pink singlets. I would never indulge in any form of Beyonce booty-pop or any GaGa "Little Monster" dance routine, and I would only ever call you "honey" or "darling" with an effeminate twang if I knew that the mere notion of a gay guy calling you "honey" would cause you to erupt in a fit of overjoyed giggles. Because at the end of the day, you hags love that shit, and everyone loves to stereotype.

Why is that, I wonder? Is it the make-up that I don't wear? Is it the ear-melting pop music that I don't oft indulge in? Is it the outrageous rainbow banner-filled sociopolitical advocacy that I'm not often involved in? Is it the amyl that I'm not viciously snorting before enduring three more bliss-filled hours of hardcore anal penetration? (I bolded that part just to make you cringe). Or is it just the fact that gays these days are far too easily stereotyped? Am I forever destined to be asked by strangers I've just met if I prefer Will to Grace? The L Word to Queer As Folk? All just because I revealed to a new pal that I'm a boy who likes boys?

Diane Fuss once wrote; 'to be out [of the closet] is really to be in – inside the realm of the visible, the speakable, the culturally intelligible’. Which is true: to be out of the closet is to be subject to all of the assumptions and indoctrinated stereotypes raised throughout the years in reference to homosexuals. To be categorised and compartmentalised by inadvertently narrow-minded heterofolk. 

Either way, dear sightless lumpers: your cultural expectations make me a little nauseous, and while I can turn on the princess within at the drop of a hat, I'm not the flamboyant homo you think I am. Except on Saturday nights after one too many espresso martinis at The Bottom End. Stereotype away, dear friends and acquaintances: I'll only parody my fellow flippant homosexuals to appease your desire for a Sassy Gay Friend, all the while chuckling to myself at the fact that these stereotypes will always be so bloody prevalent.

So, like Fuss attempted to summate; what does it mean to 'come out'? And how did it happen to me?

Because I'm such a resourceful intellectual, I went to Wikipedia to help me define what 'coming out' actually is, because the sociopolitical logistics of the shtick I haven't properly defined in my head:

"Coming out (of the closet) is a figure of speech for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people's disclosure of their sexual orientation and/or gender identity."

For all of you who aren't aware, coming out is kind of a big deal. It is an attempt to come to terms with ones sexuality and gender identity in a world rife with homophobia and heterosexism. It is a liberating process of self-affirmation and regaining self-esteem, allowing yourself to embrace who you are, and to recover from the struggles of developing your sexuality and gender identity in adolescence. It is a challenge for any and all people faced with the trial of coming out, and the effects of coming out can be, and are not limited to, heterosexism and homophobic violence. That is, recently-out gays can be subjected to everything from getting bashed by your dad for telling him you're a homo, to what one pack of VICE writers pointed out; being tied up at the wrists and hurled into a river. Because wouldn't you believe it, some people aren't too fond of the gays. Especially Ugandans. Actually, gays: stay away from Uganda. At least for a while.

"Oh my god!" - generally expressed with an effeminate tone.

Most people would assume that the first-world 'coming out' experience consists of a sit-down dinner with the family, and a teary-eyed confession from a boy (or girl) at the table donning a Celine Dion t-shirt and a rainbow brooch pinned to their neckline. The family aren't sure how to feel, and either embrace their child, accepting him (or her) for who they are regardless of their sexual preference - or alternatively boot him (or her) out of the house faster than he (or she) can say, "But I still love me some AFL football on occasion, and not just because it involves a group of sweaty barely-clothed men brutishly rolling over each other trying to grab a big leathery ball". 

However, some coming out experiences aren't all that typical. Mine was one of those. The not-so-generic, and not-so-"I'm bringing a boy home for dinner. By the way, I'm fucking him, and I hope that's cool with you." - In fact, it was one of those experiences I've had throughout my life which have led me to believe that everything in my life is fucking hilarious, in a really twisted way. 

I was fifteen. I was seeing a guy whose name was Michael (a pseudonym), three years my senior, and I didn't mind him at all. So much so that I had him over a few times. A few times just to chat. And, you know. Other stuff. Generally outside of my house, though, because not being out of the closet and living with a family of three made discretely fooling around a little difficult.

At this point in my life I had told most of my school friends that I was gay. It wasn't a huge deal to them - at that point, pretty much everyone was going through "a bisexual phase" - and I was a fifteen year old who wore my faggotry like a goddamn badge in the schoolyard; every time someone asked me "So, you're a fag, yeah?" - I'd respond with, "Yeah, and? What the fuck are you going to do about it?" - Which led them to shut the fuck up, and ultimately to respect that I did not give one single iota of a fuck about their opinions on my sexuality. What I hadn't done, though - and what this blog focuses on - is come out to my parents.

Being fifteen, I was all about the, err... physical elements of exploring my closeted self. Actually, that doesn't really do it justice. I was a whore. A big ol' nancy boy whore. So one day - a forty-two degree summer day, might I add - I had Michael over for a swim in the pool. Because that's what whores do; parade around barely clothed in large expanses of water and take turns ogling each others' dripping bods. I'd like to remind you again that I was fifteen. You probably broke the law a li'l bit picturing that just now.

Anyway: We had finished splashing around and recovering from the searing heat, and had taken inside. Kicking back in the lounge room watching some show that I don't remember, whilst glancing over at one another every now and again... that's when the adolescent hormones started to kick in. It wasn't the forty two degree heat that had me slightly flustered by that point, so we decided it was best we rectify this awkward situation as swiftly as possible. The leather couches in the lounge room weren't going to cut it, however - especially since my Dad was walking around quite casually throughout the rest of the house, not having a clue what was going on - so we decided to go outside to remedy the situation. Back into the searing heat.

We got around the side of the house, where there were a bunch of old chairs and we were concealed by trees and scrub - and basically got down to business. Insert your wildest sexual fantasy here. Or just some real faggy shit. 

About halfway through, Michael looks up, sees something out of the corner of his eye, and then mutters "Oh, shit."

Me: "What?"

Michael: "I swear I just saw someone."

I froze. "... Don't even say that."

He starts laughing. "I'm not even joking."

"Fuck."

I was freaked out by that point. We decided to get up and escape to elsewhere on the off chance that someone had walked past and noticed us. We attempted to escape out the front gate of the house - but Dad conveniently walked outside, and asked us if Michael wanted a lift home. We said yes.

The car ride was incredibly strange, and none of us really spoke to each other. We ditched Michael in Box Hill, and Dad and I returned home. Dad and I re-entered the house, and I immediately went to my bedroom to chill out after whatever had just happened. About an hour or so later, Dad called me into the kitchen.

He sort of just stood there, and looked at me. Not being sure what to do, I simply said, "What's up?" -

The flavoursome ice creams for a hot summer day!

He turned around, and picked up an object. Returning to face me, I saw that the object was an empty box of Cornettos. Chocolate Cornettos. The flavoursome ice-creams fit for a hot summer day.

He started speaking. "I went outside earlier to throw these out..." - I froze inside, my stomach doing somersaults in the meantime.

That was the point when I realised that Michael and I had gotten down to business... right next to the family bins.

Dad sighs. "So, um... do you have anything you want to tell me?"

I sigh also, and look at him with a sort of bemused defeat. "I don't think anything else needs to be said."
Mother came home later on, and after speaking with Dad, began quizzing me on my sexuality. "But are you sure? Are you sure it's not just a phase? Are you sure you're not bisexual? But you've liked girls before, haven't you?" - Standard, vanilla, run-of-the-mill denial, but it passed as swiftly as it arrived.

Later on, though, Mum and Dad let me invite some close friends over, and we all had a huge dip in the backyard pool. What could have been a real mental breakdown - possibly ending with me being hurled into a river whilst bound at the wrists - turned into a night of celebration and acceptance. Entirely unconventional, but a fantastic result all the same, and I managed to save myself the tedium of fabricating a meticulously crafted meal for the family before coming out with a supremely important confession.

Mother also got incredibly drunk that night, and after commenting that one of my close friends lacked any breast tissue whatsoever whilst she was rocking badonkers, she confided in me that she didn't care who I wanted to have sex with - as long as I picked a better location next time. Good stuff.

That's how I went from hiding behind both fringe and lounge room doors in the pursuit of happiness, to sashaying about the city streets in floral-print jeans, deflecting homophobic abuse and crushing the egos of heterosexist fuckwits with the exhale of my cigarette.

But really, as much as it turned out to be quite liberating, albeit an excruciatingly embarrassing experience and a shock that would have killed Father dear had he been ten years older... it could have gone better from the very beginning.

Essentially, Dad went outside that day with the intention of dropping off an empty Cornetto box in the bins out the back - but instead stumbled upon his fifteen year old son sucking some dick.

Try getting a Hallmark card for that.

... And that's how I came out of the closet. Goodbye!