E-mail Subscription

Receive an e-mail notification of new posts on this site:

Bagman's Gazette - Punctuation is Optional

Bullamakanka is a bent and twisted old man who does not have a cat. He does have five goannas though and a possum who lives in the wall. None of them help with the writing, the lazy buggers.

Hi. I know I should post more often, and I hope those that come here find something of interest.

At the moment I have a job. I am writing the one hundred year history of Shepparton High School. I put in a tender for the job. At the interview I said that I would write the human history of the school. First draft by July this year.

A word of warning, if you should ever consider such a job, be sure it’s what you really want to do.

Consider the parameters of this job.

100 years of history starting in 1909.

Maximum of 250 pages.

Basically two and a bit pages per year. Several thousand people attended the school during the last hundred years. Almost everyone from the period from 1909 to 1940 has “passed away” as they say, or, tend to be a bit vague, confused, senile.

250 pages is not enough. What to include, leave out? I really have no idea. There is just so much to tell, so many people with stories, shit, the sports alone would take up a couple thousand pages.

Then there is the question of history itself. History is what really happened, what the people got up to. Should one only write what the powers that be want to hear, or, do you write the truth?

Little things that come out of interviews, like the story of the young female student that was making a start in free enterprise by introducing the male students to sex education on a pay per lesson approach in the packing boxes of the fruit cannery which backed onto the sports field. And this was the forties too.

Would the school council really want the truth in this case? Perhaps not.

The other side is gathering the information, I mean, in this case there is a guy who resembles Sanity Clause walking around the town, stopping people in the street and asking if they attended the high school. (And everybody knows there is no such thing as a sanity clause, thank you Chico Marx)

John Cleese may be the minister for funny walks, but, I’d have to be the minister for funny looks.

The other day I went to a reunion in Melbourne and interviewed some fifteen sweet old ladies who attended the school in the fifties. When I got back to Bendigo the car had a flat battery and when I finally got home I found that the microphone had suffered premature death and there was nothing on any of the recordings.

So, you want to be a writer?

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Writing, Editing

Email this Post to a Friend

Da,Wayne

February 5th 2008 05:03

The Beginning

It all started when Da'Wayne was born. His mother looked down at the
small bundle the nurse had put in her arms and said `Oh dear! Don't worry
my little man I am sure you will become important one day.'

As Da'Wayne grew up he dreamed of greatness. When he got his first
job he just knew that he was on the path to fame and riches. Standing at the
sink, up to his elbows in dish water, scrubbing pots and pans he would plan
his future. He could see it all...

...He steps out of his Hummer ready for work. He is the
best known trouble shooter for BP Solar. Today's job is a cinch. The worlds largest
solar installation has gone off line and Da'Wayne must find the problem before
the
President's ice cream melts. He opens the back door of his vehicle and puts on
the Solar Power Technicians tool belt, the one that was guaranteed to be just
like the one used by all the top notch tradesmen, slips on the special Solar
Power Gloves and grabs his Wattsup Meter. Walking over to the nearest rack of
panels, he plugs in his metre and... A slap to the head and the angry voice of
his employer saying `Wake up ya dopy bastard, you're fired.'

A New Beginning

As Da'Wayne pushed his broom along he just knew that he was on the
right track for promotion. It was only a matter of time...

...Da'Wayne was proud that his country had called on him for this job. After all he was the best dozer driver anywhere. The army was relying on his skills to get this road through the desert. He would not let them down. Riding the bucking beast
across the trackless waste was just his cup of tea. He was right on schedule,
it had been rough though. He wasted at least an hour when he had to stop and
rebuild the head on the engine with nothing more than a bit of wire and his
trusty Leatherman all purpose tool. He made up the lost time by driving all night
despite the sand storm.

At last, he could see his destination in the distance. Just twelve
more hours and he could rest for ten minutes before he started on the air
strip. He set his square jaw and with a glint in his steel blue eyes he rammed
the throttle full on and... With a slap to the back of his head, the boss
said. `Asleep again you fuzz brained drongo. You're fired.'

Another New Beginning

First day on the job and already Da'Wayne had his own plunger. As he
was plunging away at a blocked toilet he was thinking that the could do
anything. After all if you get your own plunger on the first day you must be
slated for bigger and better things. Yessirie, you don't often get a chance to
learn hydraulics from the ground up every day. Why I bet that
I...

Da'Wayne climbed into his Dodge Ram and set out for an emergency
job in the desert. The call had just come in as he was about to leave for his
vacation. He wanted to say no but the call was from the Governor himself.
`There was nothing for it, the states cactus plucker was broken. Two of the
workers were trapped under a thousand tons of prickly pear. It seems that
there was no pilot operated check valve. Heads would roll,' the Governor said.
At the scene of the catastrophe Da'Wayne grabbed his hydraulic tool
belt (the one that Abercrombie and Fitch guaranteed to be just
like the one used by all the top notch tradesmen) from the back of his truck
and calmly assessed the carnage. `Why lookee there', he said to no one in
particular, `Who would have thought... ' Alas when the boss showed up it was
too late, for Da'Wayne had fallen head first into the toilet and drowned.

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Tales

Email this Post to a Friend

The Purple Envelope

February 5th 2008 04:26

While we are on the subject of writing exercises Handed a piece of paper with the words "Purple Envelope" in the class for short stories. Again twenty minutes for a story.

Yeah, it sounds silly and the chances of a master piece are slim. But, as a workout for your imagination it does what it is meant to do.

Give it a try with the words "Purple Envelope" You have twenty minutes.

The Purple Envelope

As I stood there watching as Sara walked down the isle on the arm
of her father I knew I had made the best decision of my life. Her father gave
me her hand and stood to one side as we faced the preacher. I have been
assured that I made all the correct responses, even getting the ``I do'' out
on the first attempt. There was the reception, the telegrams and speeches and
all the rest. But for all the pomp and carry on, of that our wedding day, the
only clear memory I have is of my new brides face and the joy of life shining
in her eyes.

We spent the next two weeks at a ski lodge in Idaho doing what
newlyweds do. We even went out in the snow a couple of times.

The only down side was that when we got home it appeared that we
had had a break in. As far as we could tell nothing was taken but it was still
bad feeling to know that someone had been in our home.

In the next five years we had five children. At this time we
bought a larger house. As I was dismantling the bed for the move to our new
home I found a purple envelope stapled to the under side of it. I pulled the
staples out and opened the envelope. Inside was a silver disk about
seventy-five mm across. It was a master piece of the engravers art. In the
center was a hexagram of intricate design with superb detail. Around the
outside of the hexagram was engraved ``To my friend, may you prosper''.

Old man Bercht, one of the best engravers that ever lived, had died the year before. His daughter, Sara, had won gold
for the marathon at two consecutive Olympics. I carefully replaced the silver
disk in the purple envelope and put it in my pocket. In the end we bought a
new bed for the new house and while I was putting it together I stapled the
purple envelope to the underside. We had four more children. We prospered.

Was it cheating? I don't know.

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Writing, Editing

Email this Post to a Friend

Do I Know You

February 3rd 2008 11:44

When I finally decided that I should actually learn something about the craft of writing and signed up for the Professional Writing and Editing course, little did I know what insanity awaited me.

For one thing I thought we would be taught. Silly me. What I actually found was that I was expected to teach myself.

Does this sound anything like sane? Well, sane or not it was true. Writers can't teach you anything about writing.

The trick is, that they guide you down the paths of your mind, help you open doors to creativity you had no idea you had.

At times they shove you into the darkness where you find that you are the light.

One of the dirtiest tricks is they tell you to write a story about a subject. You get twenty minutes to write it.

So, subject; "What would you say to your self, if you, at eighty years of age, could travel back to today."

The trick to this situation is just to write, not think. Anyway, for what it's worth, this is what I wrote:

But, before you read what I wrote, do the exercise yourself. And it has to be a story and you have twenty minutes.

There I am. Sitting on that bench over there near the Turkish Takeaway. God did I ever look like that scruffy sod.

As I sit down next to myself I, well he really, looks up. A startled look flashes across his face. Then a look of relief settles there.

I can't help myself. `Seen a ghost kid?'

`Ah... No. Just thought I knew you. Do I know you?'

`Do you want to?'

`Huh?'

`I said do you want to? Know me that is.'

With a look bordering on panic he says. `I think I do already. I just can't remember where.'

`Yeah, well it will come to you.' The thought of "In about thirty years'' crosses my mind. I press on. `Doing your shopping?'

`No. Just had lunch. Got a class in half an hour.'

`Bit old to be a student aren't you? You would have to be at least fifty three.'

`What? Ah, yes... No. That is I'm not to old to be a student and how did you know I'm fifty three?'

`Just a guess. What are you doing in school?'

`Writing, creative writing really'

`Good for you. I'm a writer myself. Quite successful really.'

`Was it hard? I mean being successful.'

`Yes and no. It did take work but then I've never had so much fun either.'

He stands and looks at me as if he is hearing echoes and says.`I've got to go or I'll be late.' As he starts to walk away he turns and asks. `Is there a secret to success? Something I should know?'

`Enjoy what you're doing'

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Writing, Editing

Email this Post to a Friend

Beginnings

January 21st 2008 04:30

‘Mr Inigo Charles Jones’.
‘That’s right’.
‘I am your late grandfathers solicitor and pursuant to his wishes I am to deliver this letter to you by hand’.

‘One look inside the suitcase and I shut it real quick. Going to the door I had a look up and down the street. Nobody there.
I stepped out to the car and grabbed my white stick and dark glasses. Going back inside the laundry I set about the stage management. Two minutes later and I am as blind as I was three years ago before surgery.
After twenty years or so I can put it on like a suit. I have a load in the washer and one in the dryer and a pile of clothes on the table. As I stood there behind my dark glasses, my white stick leaning against the table, I slowly and methodically felt my way through the clothes. Folding them with the precise and practiced motions of the blind, my eyes never leaving the door.
A short man sauntered by on the other side of the street giving the laundromat a good look. I fumble with the clothes a bit for effect. A minute later the same man appears at the door of the laundry. He stuck his head in the door and asked if I had the time. I said, 'sure', and lifted the bezel on my watch to feel the hands and told him it was about ten past six never taking my eyes off him.
Short, dark, and needing a shave. He looked so much like a B grade movie gangster I nearly laughed. He said thanks, picked up the case and walked off up the street.
I went to the door and called after him. ‘Excuse me sir. Could you show me to the door of the milk bar on your way.’ He agreed and came back. I put my hand on his shoulder and we proceeded up the street with me on the street side of him.
God people are so gullible.
As we passed the end of the lane way, that I knew like the back of my hand, I gave him a shove into the dark opening, the weight of the case helping to throw him off balance, and pulled the sword from my stick. Running him through I picked up the case and hurried to the other end of the lane way and back to my car. Dropping the case and my white stick on the floor in the back seat of my car I went back to folding my clothes.
Twenty minutes later I’m folding the last load hot out of the dryer when a cop car flies past with lights and siren. As it screeches to a halt just down the road another one stops just out side the laundromat. One of those eager young cops comes into the laundry, you know the type, short military haircut and a brusk manner. First question out of his mouth is, ‘What are you doing here?’ Honest that’s just what he said.
I looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Getting a hair cut.’ The look on his face was one of the best comic moments in my life. He tried again. ‘There has been a murder in the lane down the street. How long have you been here?’
‘Well, three loads of laundry. About an hour give or take ten minutes.’
‘Have you seen anyone in the street in that time?’
‘No. But then I read while the machines are running.’
He then took my name, address and phone number and left the laundry.
I finished folding my things, put them the bag and dropped it on top of the other stuff in the back of my car. Any way, to cut a long story short, I posted the money to my mothers address in San Diego. That gave me a month to arrange a trip back to California. I got there a week before the package showed up. I spent a couple of weeks there then hired a car and drove to Mexico where I got a boat to Rio.
One day I got home to find this guy pointing a gun at me. I asked him, ‘How did you find me after these three years?’
‘It wouldn’t have happened except that the guy you killed was the Dons idiot nephew. His sister wouldn’t let him forget it. Let’s go.’
Well he had the gun so I had no choice. On the way out I stopped to pick up my cane. He grabbed it from my grasp and checked to see if it had a sword in it before giving it back. I leaned heavily on my cane as we made our way down to his car. He took me down to the docks where he had a boat waiting. He kept his gun on me and told me to get aboard then motioned me into the cabin which he locked.
As I sat in the cabin thinking that it had to come to an end sometime the engines started. Well it had been a good life. Three million dollars goes a long way in South America. After about forty minutes the engines were cut and I could hear my captor making his arrangements for my demise. Chain rattled across the deck. A large thump, presumably the weight, reverberated through the deck. The key rattled in the door. As the door opened I pointed my stick. My captor dropped with a 44 Magnum through the chest. People are so gullible. J.T. Jones

‘And this letter is from my Grandfather?’
‘That is correct Mr. Jones.’
‘You know, my parents told me he was dead.’
‘I have no knowledge as to that Mr. Jones. I was your grandfathers solicitor. I did not know your parents. You are the sole heir to his estate.’
‘Estate? This letter?’
‘Oh no Mr. Jones, there is also sixty million dollars and the villa in Rio. It seems that your grandfather made some wise investments.’

This story gave me a character who will feature in a novel that is just about half done. This story? Well, lets face it, it's not that great is it.

I wrote this years ago. Everybody starts someplace.

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Tales

Email this Post to a Friend

Back again

January 10th 2008 00:51

Back again.

First I would say a bit about Orble. I received an email from Orble asking if I required help with anything as I had not posted for awhile

[ Click here to read more ]

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Writing, Editing

Email this Post to a Friend

Ardent Moon

November 21st 2007 07:07

Ardent Moon mp3

Vote

Comments (2)

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Poetry

Email this Post to a Friend

Can't Bury the Tales, The Drover's Tale

November 17th 2007 20:25

He found himself, scarce knowing where, nor, even why,
A pilgrim upon a road of red dust near the town of Gundagai
It was a long road for the drovers quest

[ Click here to read more ]

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Tales

Email this Post to a Friend

The Sea

November 13th 2007 07:50

Writing poetry has been described as various things. From, ‘A gateway to the heart/soul to manic depression’.

Me, I’m a reluctant poet, probably because poetry is driven by life’s experiences. Not all are sweet and light. There are the dark, the things that eat at your soul, defile your inner being. And yet, these things from the darkest pits can inspire love poems

[ Click here to read more ]

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Poetry

Email this Post to a Friend