The world is your sardine.

It’s like that whole oyster thing, but… not.

Let’s talk a little bit about food.

For the most part, I think it is a good thing. It is probably safe to say that eating is a vital practice for the majority of humans. But nothing is black and white.

Food can be difficult.

I’m not talking about the making of food (although as someone who has only three dishes she feels confident serving without the risk of inducing botulism, this is certainly a point), but more so the eating of food.

Cutlery in particular can provide a complicated challenge.

According to the film adaptation of Northanger Abbey, a film on which I base many dubious assumptions, cutlery has been the cause of woe since the 19th Century. Poor Catherine at least had a conscientious friend to guide her to the correct implement, but it isn’t always that easy for the rest of us.

Admittedly we have fewer utensils to choose from than our 19th Century predecessors, but this can occasionally become a problem in itself.

Take ice cream, for example. Suddenly it is fine to do away with cutlery all together. Instead of a spoon you are handed ice cream in a cone. Within seconds there is ice cream on your chin, in your hair, and up your nose. Within a minute the cone has begun to lose integrity and there is more ice cream on your hands, your clothes and the ground than in your stomach.

Ice cream cones are yummy, but they are not practical.

Let’s move on to the fettuccine conundrum.

For my entire life I’ve been unable to eat fettuccine within the restraints of cutlerinary protocol (yes, cutlerinary is a word now).

Served a delicious bowl of fettuccine, I am always at a loss. I look down for my knife and fork, only to find that my knife has been replaced with a spoon. What travesty is this? How is one to proceed? Typically the aroma of a scrumptious garlic sauce or the sight of a delightful, wee artichoke peering from beneath a thread of pasta is enough for me to cease worrying and throw the dish down my gullet by whatever means necessary.

This, however, usually ends with my outfit looking somewhat worse for wear.

In certain social situations this won’t do.

When I was 16 the fettuccine conundrum struck its most vicious blow.

I went to my friend’s house for dinner for the very first time and was determined to make a good impression on his parents. This was during that period of teenage-hood when parental trust directly equates to freedom. I wanted to show that I was the sort of friend who would rather do Maths homework on a Friday night than anything else. I convinced myself that their trust, and therefore our Friday night freedom, was entirely dependent on my behaviour at dinner.

The universe being as spiteful as it is, I was not in the least surprised when served a huge steaming bowl of the most delicious fettuccine I’d ever smelled. I reached for my cutlery and groaned internally as the end of my would-be knife appeared as the round, mocking end of a spoon. I looked up at my friend with wide eyes, desperate for guidance, but he was too busy digging into his delectable feast to worry about my cutlerinary concerns.

I spent the next 30 minutes dabbling at my plate and attempting to make polite conversation to distract from my failure to eat anything.

Eventually, my friend’s mother collected the plates. When she reached mine and found it full, she asked, “Have you had enough? Was there something wrong with your meal?”

It was all too tragic, but I suppressed my tears along with my longing for fettuccine goodness. I looked up at her. Attempting to ignore the sounds of my gurgling belly and channelling Catherine Morland, I said, “Thank you, it was very nice. I’ve had a delicate sufficiency.”

And thus, our Friday nights were secured.

You know how I don’t like summer? And how, not so long ago, I expressed my undying love for winter? Well, winter is only two days away and I’m not really sure how I feel about this weather.

It’s quite… cold.

On the plus side, I have the beach predominantly to myself at night, which aside from the hypothermia is really rather nice.

I’m getting better at surviving visits to Melbourne. I’m learning to accept the crowds, the weird tasting water, and the smell. During my last visit, my confidence was so high that I even decided to brave public transport unaided.

Usually upon arriving in Melbourne, I catch the bus into town where my sister meets me to take me home. This time, armed with explicit instructions, I caught the bus into town and hopped on a tram. All by myself.

Because I’m a big girl and these things shouldn’t be that hard.

My heart was beating with only the slightest bloodcurdling terror as I stumbled aboard and searched for a seat with the least sticky residue.

I sat down and, feeling smug, texted my sister: On tram now. Be home soon.

She replied: Are you on the right tram? Did you follow my instructions?

Ye of little faith, I thought, and texted: Yes.

I knew the journey would take at least 30 minutes, so I settled into one slightly odorous seat, leaned away from the woman next to me, who was chewing pieces of gum before carefully replacing them in their packets, and plugged in my iPod.

30 minutes later and there was still no sign of my sister’s street. The gum lady had since left and I was alone in tram-stickiness.

40 minutes later, the tram stopped and the conductor called out, “Last stop!”

Last stop? What the what? Something had gone terribly awry.

I rang my sister. “I am lost.”

She wasn’t in the least bit surprised.

It turned out I had caught the tram travelling in the opposite direction to my sister’s house. This is easy to do if you have absolutely no observational skills, an inability to follow instructions and a general lack of worldly competence.

Luckily, hopping on a tram heading back the other way was relatively simple, so I started the whole process over again.

I clambered on the correct tram and sat morosely, staring out the window.

And then a man sat on me.

“Excuse me, I’m sitting here.” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t see you,” was his completely inadequate reply.

I cried quietly to myself and texted my sister: I hope you have wine.

This week I have been staying with my sister. She has a new cat.

The new cat’s name is Marple and she is as sweet as pumpkin pie. Her sweetness makes her quite a contrast to my own beastly creature, but that is only the beginning of their differences.

While my cat uses his scratching pole as one of his many pee places (the others being clean laundry baskets, my bed, and any open drawers), Marple uses her scratching pole to… well, scratch. She never tries to escape and she doesn’t bite. Instead of carrying her food to carpeted areas, she eats over her bowl. She never goes out of her way to vomit in shoes.

When I hug or pat her, she purrs. My cat prefers to claw my face.

After only a few days away, I already miss my puss, but I’m beginning to wonder why.

Except, not really. I secretly love my cat’s evil side, because, of course, we understand each other.

[Trigger warning: content includes discussions about rape and sexual assault]

The Sentencing Advisory Council of Tasmania is currently considering the sentencing of offenders convicted of sex offences in Tasmania. They have released a research paper and are seeking public opinion. In particular, they are looking at current sentencing practices for sex offenders and how these compare with sentencing practices for other serious offences and for similar offences in other Australian jurisdictions. They are seeking public opinion about whether the current sentencing practices for sex offenders in Tasmania are appropriate.

I strongly urge all Tasmanian’s to read and respond to the Council’s paper.

Having read the paper and consultation questionnaire, I am astounded. I do not want to talk too much about my own opinions since, as the Sentencing Advisory Council rightly suggests, “The question of whether current sentencing practices for sex offences in Tasmania are appropriate is not susceptible to an easy answer.”

Please read the research paper for yourself and respond via the community consultation form. The research paper is quite heavy with data, so if you feel intimidated, I suggest you read the consultation form first and refer back to the research paper for more detailed statistical information. Please be warned that both papers contain confronting information.

It is important to realise that the seriousness with which we consider matters of rape and sexual assault in the courts reflects the seriousness with which such crimes are considered in our society. With all the discussions of rape culture currently taking place, this is a chance to discuss not only how such incidents are considered by our media, but also by our legal system. It is also a chance to create change. How we respond to sex offences, whether by sweeping them under the rug, with a slap on the wrist or by condemning such behaviour, is ultimately decided by the justice system. If we can begin to take sex offences seriously as a crime, then this is one way we can question the rape culture which affects so many.

This is not something to be considered lightly or swiftly. Please read the research and consultation papers carefully and make sure you understand the definitions (such as those of sentencing options with a mind to their potential consequences) and the data supplied before responding. The closing date for public submissions is Friday 17 May 2013.

The Sentencing Advisory Council is also interested in holding a public forum on the matter. If you would be interested in attending, please register your interest by calling Lisa Gregg on 62334755 or emailing Lisa.Gregg@justice.tas.gov.au . We need a public response to this paper if we want rape and sexual assault to be matters taken seriously by the government, courts, and our society, so please consider attending.

You can find more about the Tasmanian Sentencing Advisory Council and their current work on sex offender sentencing here.

If you need the research and consultation paper in a more accessible format, please don’t hesitate to contact the Sentencing Advisory Council, or let me know and I will source one for you.

I apologise to my regular readers for hijacking the blog for this announcement which was neither humorous nor pop culture related, but it was important. Please forgive me and help me spread the word.

The bride was late.

After waiting 40 minutes, the celebrant sat down to ease his knees and had fallen asleep. After an hour and a half, the bridesmaids had given up on decorum and were flirting outrageously with the groomsmen, who had pulled out a flask and were offering it around. The flower girl had flopped down at one end of the aisle. Her party dress, victim to the ravages of the lawn, was covered in grass stains. Disappointed by the lack of cake she proceeded to eat the petals in her basket.

Only the groom remained in place, staring up the aisle with a smile that declared his utter devotion and love for the woman he was about to marry.

The bride was known for her tardiness, particularly when it came to events that required beautification, which, in her opinion, was any time she left the house.

“This level of beauty requires time and effort,” she would say, tossing her curls momentously over one shoulder.

So none of the guests were terribly worried by her lateness, though some were becoming a little faint in the heat of the sun. The mother of the groom was being fanned by relatives. Before long, one of the bridesmaids had passed out, whether from the heat or the contents of the groomsman’s flask, no one was sure. The elderly celebrant had stopped snoring but after a necessary check, the guests were assured that his pulse continued to beat, just.

As soon as the bride appeared, however, everyone revived.

Even the flower girl, now feeling somewhat queasy, stood up and began the motion of sprinkling petals despite her lack thereof. A string quartet started up and from the sky a flock of bluebirds swooped down to fly ceremoniously above the bride.

“Sorry I’m late, darlings,” she declared waving her hand in a way that made it clear she wasn’t sorry at all. “Let’s get this party started.”

Patting the head of the flower girl, while unsuccessfully attempting to conceal a sneer at the sight of her dress, the bride took her place beside the groom.

“Do you take this woman to be your wife?” asked the celebrant.

“I do,” said the groom, barely able to suppress tears of joy.

“And do you take this man to be your husband?”

“I do,” said the bride as the birds above her head flew up and out of formation, disappearing dramatically into nearby clouds. The back of the bride’s dress quivered and bulged. Her fingernails began to elongate, her cheek bones and ears formed points that were both hideous and beautiful at the same time, and vines crept down from her head weaving through her hair. Huge wings sprouted from her back.

“Come here, dearest,” the Dark Fairy Queen pulled her newest husband close, kissing him hard before devouring him whole.

She licked the tips of her fingers and smiled out at her silent guests. “Right then,” she said, “It must be time for cake.”

“Time for Cake” was written as a gift for Anna Mead to celebrate her upcoming nuptials. My regular readers might remember Anna as the winner of my recent zombie flash fiction competition, while others will know her as the Dark Fairy Queen. Anna is the loveliest and naughtiest fairy queen, keeping so many of us writers in line online… or out of line online, as the case most usually is. All of us cherish her dearly and have come together to write stories celebrating her special day as part of a the Dark Fairy Queen Writerly Bridal Shower, organised by Laura, Miranda & Rebekah. You can read more of the stories here:

Details for the DFQWBS: “Time for Cake” by Holly Kench, eBook: Yes.

This evening after a couple of glasses of wine, I decided it was a good idea to replace my faulty exhaust fan myself, instead of waiting for a professional, or even merely capable, person to do it for me.

“I am a competent individual,” I said to myself, driven by the over confidence of perhaps too much sauvignon blanc, and marched off to find my screwdriver. I have one screwdriver, but it is really quite the loveliest of all the screwdrivers. With four interchangeable heads and decorated with pink flowers, my screwdriver gets things done in style. Theoretically.

Unfortunately, I had underestimated the strength required to actually use the screwdriver for this particular task. With arms that are exercised predominantly through typing inane blog posts or playing tetris, I strained against the screws embedded in my current exhaust fan, but it was a futile battle.

I nearly gave up when, after one huge burst of effort, I slipped against the wall screw and plunged the misdirected screwdriver into my arm.

But no. “I must push on,” I shouted at the heavens/my exhaust fan, while wiping my bloody arm on my pyjamas.

I proceeded to the garage, where my mother keeps her tools, and returned home armed with an electric screwdriver – that one must-have-item of the modern woman.

I was ready. I could take on the world, let alone an exhaust fan.

It was at this point that my neighbour pulled up in the drive.

“Hello,” he said politely as he edged away from me, taking slow steps backwards out of my vicinity.

“I have it all under control!” I declared, realising too late that this might not sound entirely comforting coming from a woman in moo-cow pyjamas, covered in blood smears, and with an electric screwdriver in hand. By the time this thought had fully made its way into my mind, however, my neighbour had already dashed inside and locked the door behind him.

Oh well, you can’t please everyone, and sometimes it’s necessary to terrify the occasional neighbour if you want to get things done.

I headed back inside and took to the exhaust fan with the drill and much excitement.

Ripping the fan from the wall I called out, “HURRAH!” Which is when I realised my mistake.

The hole behind the fan was filled with webs. And those terrible, horrible, most evil things that make webs. Spiders!

I threw down the fan and fled from room.

I have since filled the bathroom with Mortein and barricaded the door. Tomorrow I shall call someone to remove the remaining spiders and their webs, and someone else to fix the exhaust fan.

So much for being an independent woman.

Today I’m taking part in a special blog hop with the In Fabula-Divino authors. We are all hosting different authors as they answer five questions about their experience as part of the In Fabula-Divino anthology. You also have the opportunity to enjoy a little extract from each of our stories! I am hosting S.G. Larner, author of “Regret”.

Five Questions for S.G Larner, author of “Regret”:

1.       What was your inspiration for the story?

I’m not entirely sure. It was an image that popped into my head. The very first scene just played out in my mind and I knew I had to keep writing the story. Normally I am very clear on where the inspirations for my stories come from, but this one just turned up in a moment when my mind was in between thoughts.

2.       How different has the In Fabula-divino journey been from what you expected when you first submitted your story?

Well, I thought I had a winning story and it’s much more whimsical and “nicer” than my usual fare, and I knew Nicole wanted something not-dark. So getting my initial rejection was deflating! It involved a LOT more ups and downs than I expected. Ultimately though it’s been a fabulous process.

3.       What is the best thing about having your story in this anthology?

At risk of sounding fan-girlish, Kaaron Warren and Angela Slatter are two writers I admire enormously, so having a story in with stories of theirs is pretty exciting.

4.       Is there anything scary about having your story in the anthology?

Only the usual fear of a bad review that singles out your story.

5.       What was the most important thing you learnt during the In Fabula-divino process?

That a rejection is not always a rejection of your writing. It doesn’t necessarily mean that the story sucks, or the editor hates it. It just doesn’t fit the bill, for whatever reason—or maybe the editor had to toss a coin between two stories and yours lost. I never expected to read that I was being rejected for having a story that was too polished! Also, always hold onto hope and believe in yourself. And know when to say no, and when to say yes. Oh, I could go on and on, but I’ll shut up now!

And a little extract to whet your appetite:

REGRET

by S. G. Larner

The tear rolled down my cheek and paused at my chin. It quivered before diving toward the ground, a reluctant suicide. Contained within the crystal drop were the dashed hopes of a lifetime. It fell into the soft grass at my feet and my regret popped out, naked for the world to see.

“I think this is yours, Mary-Anne,” said Auntie, handing me my regret. She looked as embarrassed as I felt. I took it and clutched it to my chest.

“Thanks, Auntie.”

There was an awkward silence. Auntie kicked at the feathery grass with a green-slippered foot.

“Nice funeral,” she said. “Your mum would’ve approved.”

“Yes.” I glanced down at the regret in my arms. “I’m surprised there weren’t more of these.”

Auntie pursed her lips. “You know what your mum thinks—thought—of regrets.”

I coughed and hunched my shoulders. Mum used to say regrets were self-indulgent; that if you lived an authentic life there was no need for regret. She would say it in her loud, confident voice, trampling over any dissension. As her voice echoed in my memories, the regret weighed heavier in my arms. She’d be pretty cranky if she saw this whopper.

“Well,” said Auntie, “I’d best be off.” Her gaze flicked to the regret. “You mind that, Mary-Anne.”

“Of course, Auntie.” I hugged the regret against my chest. “See you on Sunday.”

—

S. G. Larner lives in Brisbane, where it’s way too sunny and humid for her liking. Her three children keep her occupied most of the time, but she sneaks off to write whenever she can. She tends to write stuff that is dark and weird to balance her mundane existence. She blogs at foregoreality.wordpress.com and erratically tweets as @StaceySarasvati.

The blog hop continues on my fellow authors’ blogs:

At Forego Reality, S.G Larner interviews A.E Decker, author of “In The Woods”, and Tony Owens, author of “Digging Out the Ribs of Gold”.

At Small Triumphs, A.E Decker interviews P.J Keuning, author of “Crossroads”, and Joseph W. Patterson, author of “Franklin’s Rainbow”.

At The Rick Blog, P.J Keuning interviews ME!

In Fabula-Divino is available for purchase on Amazon and Smashwords in ebook format, and will be launched in print at the upcoming Conflux Natcon 2013 on the 28th of April in Canberra.

You can find out more about In Fabula-Divino on The Tale-Tellers’ website.