Writing

2024 is over and here is my last blog post of the year – written in haste on New Year’s Eve. I always have good intentions to do a couple of posts a month and life happens. So, because I don’t have a heap of gas in the engine and not much to write about, here is a story I wrote a couple of months ago. I entered it into the Australian Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction competition.

They hold this competition monthly, and I’ve entered a few times, unsuccessfully. It is a worldwide contest, so there are a lot of entries and a whole lot of talent. Inspired by a video I saw of a doctor resuscitating a newborn baby, my little story took on a life of its own told from the baby’s perspective.

Readers, my entry, Blue, was long-listed. Shortlisted entries were published on the Australian Writers’ Centre website. The twenty or so long listed entries are acknowledged, but not published. So here is my story below for those of my pals who asked to read it.

Thank you to everyone for reading this blog- you’re a great bunch of people! Happy New Year 2025

BLUE

I came out blue.

This room is full of noise and too much move about. Colours are too bright. Someone yells, ‘Code Blue!’ That must be me. I’m cold and shaken by the world I’m in.

Now I lie here. Something sharp and nasty jabs at me and tickles my toes.

Image by Alex Hockett unsplash

‘Wake up.’

The sound comes from above me and far away.

Another voice joins in, breathing heavy. ‘Wake up.’ The voice is loud, insistent and the tickle on my toes grows stronger.

What if I don’t want to wake up? I don’t like this place with this white light and big noise. I’d rather be back where I was before. It was warm and quiet and there was always this steady soft, Ker thump, Ker thump sound. Sometimes I’d hear someone talking to me from the outside. They called me “The Bub.” I don’t know what that means but liked the sound of it

Maybe that’s who I am. The Bub. I liked that voice. It was low, gentle. Kind. I haven’t heard it for a while. I miss it.

Here there is no Ker thump. There’s no low voice. There’s nothing I like. I feel so alone

Then one voice cuts over the others. ‘How’s my Bub? Is he okay? Is he kicking? This was the voice that used to speak to me, the one that calls me The Bub.

Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad if that voice was here. If I could be with them. Hear their heart. Feel them breathe. Feel that I was part of them and that they are part of me.

Something wet sprays across my face. A fine mist. It makes me cough and I want to get away from it. Another voice prods at me ’Wake up.’ C’mon. Rise and shine.’

I move my leg to let them know I’m here. And then there’s another voice.

“That’s a kick, doctor.’

Image Patricia Prudente unsplash

They seem happy. I wonder if I can make those sounds that they are making. I open my mouth and draw in a breath and gulp in the strange, cold air. I don’t sound like them, but it sounds like something. Something separate from me

Something large and white and lumpy looks down at me. ‘Thought you were going to disappear on us, mate. Well done. You might end up playing for Hawthorn.’

I’m wrapped in something warm and dry. It’s not like the warmth that I knew, but it’s better.

They carry me over, holding me close. I see tanned arms and red hair. There’s a smell. It’s familiar. My heart skips a beat.

And finally, that voice — the one I know best.

‘Hello Bub, ‘she says, her voice soft and relieved. ‘Forty-one weeks. You took your time.’