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(I enrolled in an online self-paced TAFE course in short story writing a couple of years ago. Even with 12 months to complete the work, I never did. Typical. All I've got to show for my desultory efforts are a few rather kind comments from my tutor, some brief exercises, and a couple of stories that I had fond hopes of getting published. I've included them here -- no idea if there'll be any more).
A favourite place
Think of a bed as repository for history. Mine is ordinary, even a bit disgraceful. The permanent imprints of two large bodies lie either side of a low range of lumpy hills. A squealing broken spring is a legacy from Fran and her brawny boyfriend's enthusiastic occupation while I was innocently at work. He's history now, at any rate. That appealingly ugly patchwork quilt kept my brain and hands busy for months while I waged war with a paralysing depression. Coffee stains and cat hairs have not improved its appearance, but immeasurably enhance its status as a comforter. Grubby smears on Tony's side of the headboard are a leftover from night shifts at the tannery. I'd wake to the protesting screech of the springs as he clumsily dropped, too tired to bother showering. (The smell of leather and sweat is not sexy. And it lingers). History is made at night, they say. Not in my bed.
A strange object
I have a garlic peeler. It doesn't clearly proclaim its utility to the observer, though. A flat mat slightly larger than my hand and shaped somewhat like a two-dimensional turnip, it is fashioned from dun-coloured resilient plastic which has a rather repellent tacky feel. Lay two or three plump cloves end to end across the bulbous part, then tuck under the narrow lobe that looks like the turnip root. Using the heel of your hand, roll it up like a cigar. Then, as you briskly roll the whole assemblage back and forth a few times with just the right pressure (assertive, without being a bully about it), you are rewarded by a satisfying papery crackle and the faintest tantalising waft of garlicky goodness. Let the peeler spring open, and the nacreous buds leave their coats behind as they pop out, coyly inviting you to do with them what you will.
