A Sudden Delight

G'day again, everyone. I hope things are as tip top with you all as they are with me. In fact, things are super tip top, now that word is starting to spread about Aberrant. Anyway, today I will tell you why I wrote the thirty-fourth story in the collection, entitled, Tonga Discovers. This story is based upon a real event that happened to me when I was homeless in inner city Melbourne, specifically North Melbourne, in a homeless refuge. I had one night snuck into the kitchen area of a Salvation Army homeless hostel, and was very surprised, and eventually delighted, to see a chicken Maryland, with veges and gravy, all heaped invitingly on a plate, innocently waiting for someone, in the area where the Salvos staff hand out the meals. I looked at the meal for about thirty seconds, wondering if I could really be so lucky. Then I ravenously ate the whole thing. I left the plate on one of the tables, and left the kitchen area, wondering if I had done wrong.
     The next day or so I overheard some other homeless men in the shelter talking about some bastard who had stole a resident's dinner, one that had been specifically put aside for him, and for which he had duly paid. I said nothing, and this is the very first time I have told anyone of that theft. Ah well, forgive me, I was semi-starved at the time, and living like a semi-wild animal.
     Anyway, I do not regret stealing that other resident's dinner. It was a brief ray of light in a world that was otherwise shrouded in the growing gloom of untreated paranoid schizophrenia. I do though hope the Salvos replaced the poor guy's meal. I really do.

A Case of Telepathy

Well, everyone, the autumn here in Sydney is starting to cool off, and I for one am looking forward to the cold weather of winter. For the moment though, let me tell you why I wrote the thirty-third story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, A Happy Bachelorhood. For those of you who have been following me here on this blog, A Happy Bachelorhood is yet another tale involving my one true love, Elizabeth Bell. But the point of the tale was to show something very weird in my, still continuing, chasing of her.
    Basically, around twenty years ago, I was in the locked ward of Rozelle Psychiatric Hospital, and I had just awoken in the early morning, not long before the nurses came round to wake us. I had awoken with a start, having dreamed I was with Elizabeth, and I awoke with an address in my head, 12 Milthorpe Avenue, Strathfield (about twenty minutes by train from the Sydney CBD.) When I awoke I was absolutely convinced that I had finally found Elizabeth, after parting from here so stressfully. There was another patient awake also, in the bed across from mine, and I told him about the dream, but not the address I had received.. Shortly after telling him the dream he said,
     '12 Milthorpe Avenue.' I did not confirm that this was the address I had received in my dream, fearing that doing so would lead to telepathy in the homo sapien species.
     Anyway, when I was eventually discharged from the hospital, I caught a taxi to 12 Milthorpe Avenue, Strathfield. No such address. Nothing even remotely like it. So how then did my fellow patient receive this Milthorpe address, without being told? Not only that, it was impossible for anyone to tell him such in any form as the address did not exist. Except in my fevered imagination.
     To this day I am still chasing Elizabeth, and Facebook Messenger helps. As to how that fellow patient read my mind, who knows?

Curing Writer's Block

G'day again, everyone, from a Sydney sweltering in an unusually warm autumn. It's still so warm that I sometimes still get around in my shorts, which I usually never do at this time of year. Our thirty-second story from Aberrant Selected is also unusual. It is entitled Likewise Hearing. This tale is completely the result of writer's block. Let me explain.
     When this story was written I was at the start of an episode of writer's block, quickly deciding to check the Wikipedia entry for information on the condition. I did so, and the article suggested one just keep writing, even if it's automatic writing, or doggerel. The important thing is to continue physically writing and then the creative juices should flow again eventually.
     So, taking this advice, I took a quote from a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel, The Marble Faun, and used this as a prompt: it caused an action, then a reaction, then another action, another reaction, etc. Within the hour I had a complete short story comprehensively outlined, and all beginning from a quote that I used as a prompt. I then wrote out the story using the outline as a guide.
     The method described above is now my go to cure for writer's block. I have had the block one other time after this initial episode, and my method of dealing with it, using a copyright free quote as a prompt, was completely successful. If only life were so manageable.

Like a Moth

Well, everyone, the Sydney autumn is proving changeable, but is still warmer than usual. Although, thank God, the evenings are nice and cool. And speaking of cool, the story under discussion today has some very hip and cool characters, set in bohemian Newtown, inner city Sydney. The tale is entitled, Throwing Poses, and is the thirty-first story in Aberrant Selected. Like the previous story, this one is also a chronicle of true events, which I partially turned into fiction. Let me explain.
     One cool spring night, high on LSD and walking along the main street of Newton during my previous years of homelessness, I was suddenly attracted by bright lights on my right, seemingly just having turned on. Like a moth I was attracted to the lights, and stumbled into the beginning of a photo shoot in a shop. The photographer looked very disappointed at my entrance, and I likewise felt guilty about causing trouble. Needless to say I left the shop immediately, but my high was a bit damaged.
     Throughout the years after this incident I sometimes thought of it, and the feeling of guilt remained there. I eventually wrote a story about it, starting off with the bright lights, and then fictionalising the rest. I no longer feel that guilt since writing the story, and for some reason remember the bright lights fondly now. Probably because it was my first taste of fame.

Puzzling

G'day again, everyone, hopefully the new season is treating you all well. Here in Oz the autumn is proving to be very warm. Very warm also is the thirtieth story in Aberrant Selected, entitled, Puzzled at Himself. This story I wrote purely for fun. Usually when I write I have some theme, or motif, to convey. This story though was written just to tell a funny story, one that happened to me. Let me explain.
     Around six months after I turned fifteen years of age, one morning, washing my hands and looking at myself in my father's shaving mirror in the bathroom, I noticed a black hair sticking out of my chin. With much consternation then, I realised I had to fully lather my face, and give myself a manly shave. Sure it was only one hair, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
     The next morning, again washing my hands in the bathroom and idly looking at myself in my father's shaving mirror, I was annoyed to see my cheeks, mouth area, and under my chin were covered in hairy stubble. Since I shaved yesterday, I decided not to shave that morning. My mother had other ideas. At the breakfast table she told me to shave before eating, despite my protest that I shaved yesterday. She then informed me that since I was now obviously a man I would have to shave every day. And I still shave every day.
      So Puzzled at Himself was written just to describe the above incident, but the rest of the tale is the product of fancy. I am still surprised, at the age of forty-five, that my facial hair grew so incredibly quickly, and so very abundantly, and I still choose to see it as a good sign. Who knows?

An Unbelievable Lady

Thus time moves on, moves inexorably on. I only realised this morning that we are now in autumn, here in Sydney. So let's get ready for the cold with a warm story from Aberrant Selected. This post I will tell you why I wrote the twenty-ninth story in the collection, entitled, Despite Her Reasoning.
     Like some of the other stories in the collection, this tale I wrote to chronicle a magickal event that I had witnessed. Essentially, I was at an illegal rave one night in Sydney Park, in an abandoned warehouse. I started off in the evening in a mildly psychotic state, but eventually improved as the evening progressed. Anyway, at the start of festivities, I was sitting with some friends, feeling persecuted, and trying to ignore the hostile voices in my head. In doing so I noticed a young lady a few feet from me, and crouching down while apparently studying something in her cupped palms. She swung around while crouching, looking on either side for someone or something, and also clearly sobbing. She then noticed me, and, still sobbing, offered to me what looked like a little faerie, a little, delicate lady with a trailing gown. The crouching lass could see it, I could see it, and the faerie could see us. The lass was waiting for me to confirm the miracle.
     I turned away, then got up and moved off.
     The reason I chose not to confirm this magickal event was because if I had indeed done so it would have fundamentally changed Reality. And I was in no state at all, at all to take responsibility for that.
     These days I am still happy with my decision, at least, most of the time. This tale is only time that I have told the story of that faerie, but I hope it does make you all think that magick happens. You just have to keep an eye out.

A Telepathic Romance

Well, everybody, autumn is slowly creeping up on us here in Sydney, meaning that Christmas is getting steadily closer. Typical. Anyway, today we will talk about the twenty-eighth story in Aberrant, entitled, Such Possible Love. This story I wrote to express to others the experience of having a woman always in one's head. Let me explain.
      I have mentioned Elizabeth before, here in these posts, a woman that I am still madly in love with after over twenty years. Trouble is she's very upset with me at the moment, and has been so for decades. Thus, my solution has been to telepathically communicate with her, the closest I can get. So far. This story then was written to let others know what it's like living entirely on one's romantic imagination, especially when it seems so real.
     Of course, some of my friends have told me that I am obsessed with Elizabeth. I prefer devoted. Like Will Benton said, more or less, in Trollope's, The Benton Estate, 'I can only love the one woman. Her or no-one.' Like Will Benton it does seem very shallow to me to fall in love with more than one woman.
     Anyway, I am still these days telepathically communicating with Elizabeth (usually when I am very intoxicated), and I have also started begging here forgiveness on Facebook Messenger, in the real, non-telepathic, world. Wish me luck!