Brandon 2
KitaPower and Passion.
January 15th 2007 02:15
Write a story with characters from real life.
This story is set in the 2004 Australian Federal Election.
I’m standing in the middle of the Queen Street Mall, bodies passing across in masses, like brightly dressed cattle, flashy wu-tangs thump, punks strut and Aboriginals with “Australia has a black history” T-shirts surround every square metre of the ground, never allowing more than a centimeters distance between any two people.
These streets seem so hopeless, so littered with people who have lost their power to believe in a new world. The power to change the world. They are complacent, like cows led to the slaughter, stupid brown eyes looking at me. They need a leader. They must be united. This is my role in life, to bring them the leader, to find the hero who will lead the way.
I look behind me, then to the left wondering if I’m wrong, wondering if I’d miscalculated. Wondering if he was going to be here when…
There he is. A flash of bald head, moving across. Everyone turns to look.
Moving through the mall are the four least inconspicuous creatures born of this Earth. Lagging behind three of them, is Simon Crean, who looks very tired. To one side is the mountainous creature that is Kim Beazley. On the other side is the re-incarnation of ‘Dilbert,’ Latham, twisted glassed lingering across his face. And in the centre is Ghandi. In the centre is Jesus Christ, the Dalai Lama and Buddha melted together in a new human form. Peter Garrett.
I move through the masses, forcing myself towards his holy essence. I can feel the power and the passion radiating off his shining head. I approach.
There is little opportunity to speak to him, when the Labor Party starts campaigning. I stare at him, waiting for my chance. Peter see me, and whispers something to his body guard.
After the speech is over, I seize my chance. Peter is standing beside the huge table fountain thing, the dripping table put in as street art, to prove that we too have culture, even if we don’t have some namby-pamby opera house.
I walk up towards him, ready to open my very heart and soul, when Bruce, his bodyguard steps in front of me.
“G’day Bruce”
“Mike. What are you up to?”
“It’s OK Bruce, I just have to speak with Peter for a moment.”
“Mike. What did I say in Canberra?”
“Yeah but…”
“And Adelaide”
“Bruce…”
“And Sydney. Mr Garrett is a busy man, and if you continue to bother him he will press charges.”
“Aaaarrrrg!” I scream, staring behind him. Bruce whips around. I run off towards Peter.
“Pete!” I call. “Pete, I need your help!”
He turns, alarmed. Bruce is running towards me.
“Piss off,” Peter whispers. “Before I press charges, whacko.”
Bruce is still after me, but I run back away from him, getting away from this man, who seemed so wise in ways, once.
‘Press charges’ he said. Press charges. Sue me. Work against me, attack me as society is constantly attacking itself, suing and fighting and hating each other, separating instead of uniting. I fight back tears at the discovery that this man who I thought to be a hero is nothing more than another drone with a dead heart. There is no other choice now, Peter Garrett has had his spirit broken. It is up to me to unite the people. I run to the coffee shop and jump onto a table, yelling.
“People! Listen to me! We have forgotten our power and our ability! We must unite or be destroyed by the forces of our world” A few Goths and a wog with a ‘TOO SEXY shirt look at me.
“Look mummy, a crazy man!” yells a little girl in a pastel green dress. Her mother swoops down like a pterodactyl and takes her away. No one is paying attention. Coffee patrons are moving away.
Everyone is listening to Peter. But Peter isn’t saying anything worth listening to. I must be heard.
Someone is yelling at me, and they grab my leg to try to pull me off my podium. I give them a swift kick in the nose and jump, half-landing on the roof of the coffeehouse, and clambering on top.
“We must unite!” I say, throwing my hand in the air. People gape. Peter Garrett puts his head in his hands, Kim Beasely looks shocked, Mark Latham backs away slowly, and Simon Crean stands still, sleeping while standing up.
Then, just as I’m about to send my message to the world, this absolute nutter of a woman, with messy black hair and unshaved underarms comes across, looks at me and screams.
“He’s a terrorist!”
Pandemonium ensures. People run screaming and crying in every direction. Yuppies call their mothers on mobile phones. Security bundle the members of the Labor party and stick them in their car. Even the Gothics have run away.
Police charge towards me, like Bull Roarers.
As I’m pushed into the car, here is an Australian pride burning in my chest. I will not let go. I will not give up.
I will not sleep while my bed is burning.
This story is set in the 2004 Australian Federal Election.
Peter Garrett
I’m standing in the middle of the Queen Street Mall, bodies passing across in masses, like brightly dressed cattle, flashy wu-tangs thump, punks strut and Aboriginals with “Australia has a black history” T-shirts surround every square metre of the ground, never allowing more than a centimeters distance between any two people.
These streets seem so hopeless, so littered with people who have lost their power to believe in a new world. The power to change the world. They are complacent, like cows led to the slaughter, stupid brown eyes looking at me. They need a leader. They must be united. This is my role in life, to bring them the leader, to find the hero who will lead the way.
I look behind me, then to the left wondering if I’m wrong, wondering if I’d miscalculated. Wondering if he was going to be here when…
There he is. A flash of bald head, moving across. Everyone turns to look.
Moving through the mall are the four least inconspicuous creatures born of this Earth. Lagging behind three of them, is Simon Crean, who looks very tired. To one side is the mountainous creature that is Kim Beazley. On the other side is the re-incarnation of ‘Dilbert,’ Latham, twisted glassed lingering across his face. And in the centre is Ghandi. In the centre is Jesus Christ, the Dalai Lama and Buddha melted together in a new human form. Peter Garrett.
I move through the masses, forcing myself towards his holy essence. I can feel the power and the passion radiating off his shining head. I approach.
There is little opportunity to speak to him, when the Labor Party starts campaigning. I stare at him, waiting for my chance. Peter see me, and whispers something to his body guard.
After the speech is over, I seize my chance. Peter is standing beside the huge table fountain thing, the dripping table put in as street art, to prove that we too have culture, even if we don’t have some namby-pamby opera house.
I walk up towards him, ready to open my very heart and soul, when Bruce, his bodyguard steps in front of me.
“G’day Bruce”
“Mike. What are you up to?”
“It’s OK Bruce, I just have to speak with Peter for a moment.”
“Mike. What did I say in Canberra?”
“Yeah but…”
“And Adelaide”
“Bruce…”
“And Sydney. Mr Garrett is a busy man, and if you continue to bother him he will press charges.”
“Aaaarrrrg!” I scream, staring behind him. Bruce whips around. I run off towards Peter.
“Pete!” I call. “Pete, I need your help!”
He turns, alarmed. Bruce is running towards me.
“Piss off,” Peter whispers. “Before I press charges, whacko.”
Bruce is still after me, but I run back away from him, getting away from this man, who seemed so wise in ways, once.
‘Press charges’ he said. Press charges. Sue me. Work against me, attack me as society is constantly attacking itself, suing and fighting and hating each other, separating instead of uniting. I fight back tears at the discovery that this man who I thought to be a hero is nothing more than another drone with a dead heart. There is no other choice now, Peter Garrett has had his spirit broken. It is up to me to unite the people. I run to the coffee shop and jump onto a table, yelling.
“People! Listen to me! We have forgotten our power and our ability! We must unite or be destroyed by the forces of our world” A few Goths and a wog with a ‘TOO SEXY shirt look at me.
“Look mummy, a crazy man!” yells a little girl in a pastel green dress. Her mother swoops down like a pterodactyl and takes her away. No one is paying attention. Coffee patrons are moving away.
Everyone is listening to Peter. But Peter isn’t saying anything worth listening to. I must be heard.
Someone is yelling at me, and they grab my leg to try to pull me off my podium. I give them a swift kick in the nose and jump, half-landing on the roof of the coffeehouse, and clambering on top.
“We must unite!” I say, throwing my hand in the air. People gape. Peter Garrett puts his head in his hands, Kim Beasely looks shocked, Mark Latham backs away slowly, and Simon Crean stands still, sleeping while standing up.
Then, just as I’m about to send my message to the world, this absolute nutter of a woman, with messy black hair and unshaved underarms comes across, looks at me and screams.
“He’s a terrorist!”
Pandemonium ensures. People run screaming and crying in every direction. Yuppies call their mothers on mobile phones. Security bundle the members of the Labor party and stick them in their car. Even the Gothics have run away.
Police charge towards me, like Bull Roarers.
As I’m pushed into the car, here is an Australian pride burning in my chest. I will not let go. I will not give up.
I will not sleep while my bed is burning.
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Comment by Jace
i love it
it's very true. individuals will not be heard. only slandered. doesn't matter what the leadership or the organization claim to stand for. individuals don't matter. "the people" don't matter. only agendas matter. the union at my former workplace is a completely useless entity that exists only to self sustain. they talk big but their actions... i don't think they take any action, in fact...
Comment by Brenton
Dr Spin
Tales From The Other Side
Blip Blog
Gadget Museum
Hey I saw you're art site, very impressive.
To tell the truth, you made a totally different interpretation of my story than I had intended to give. I actually really love it when that happens. The story takes life outside of it's authors control. I think there's something special in that.