"Thoughtful Poems and Prose"

Chapter 1
Ma Baker

By Curly Girly

Surly youth filled with solitude,
stress, drama, and ingratitude.
Insecure from a broken home
without siblings and all alone.
Limited communication
led to such inner frustration.
Inability to express
desires to attain life progress.
Wavering from introverted,
to anger, quickly converted.
Speech was a limited mumble,
causing confidence to tumble.
Mrs Baker took on a huge fight—
making the child pronounce words right.
She was a good speech therapist,
but child felt like ventriloquist.
Tongue-twisters she made child recite.
Extra homework was done at night.
Kids taunted child about lessons:
‘Dummies go to her dumb sessions.’
The child scorned help and ran away.
Upset, she implored child to stay.
Surly youth filled with solitude,
stress, drama, and ingratitude.
Child never gave thanks for concern—
its only thoughts were flee and spurn.
Child’s education incomplete.
It grew-up thinking on its feet.
Numerous busy years later—
that small child feels like a traitor.
Dear old Mrs Baker taught me well!
Delivered me from earthly hell.
She taught me the write way.
May God bless her, I pray.
Her lessons gave freedom and independence
from unemployment and unhappy parents.
Mrs Baker has since passed away,
but I think of her every day.
Please rest in peace, Mrs Baker.
May you enjoy God’s acre.


Chapter 2

By Curly Girly

Silent, stormy sky with segregated grey clouds slipping by.
Sweeping breeze lifts swirling leaves in floating slow-style.
Softly gathering insidious momentum with measured guile.
Swishing stark branches, towering above dusty ranches.
Sudden darkness obscures sunlit afternoon sharpness.
Splashing droplets fall, shadowed with vexatious downpour.
Streaks of silver lightning flashes, raging thunder booms and crashes.


Chapter 3
Worldly Worries

By Curly Girly

Wendy spoke to her cat as she weeded the garden.
“Worry is terrible, Sniffles. It’s hard to imagine a day without it. I worry when I have nothing to worry about, and I worry more when I do.”
The cat stretched out a lazy paw, yawning as it rolled onto its back, with his large, white tummy facing the sun. Wendy shook her head.
“Look at you—not a worry in the world. You think every day is purr-fect, and that I’ll always be here to pander to your whims. You have no bills to pay, no clothes to launder—you’re worry free.”
Sniffles winked while he caressed his right ear with a cupped paw.
Wendy frowned. “It’s too perfect today—something will go wrong.”
Sniffles, a pedigree Australian-bred Persian, made a rapid change of position as he sat upright and licked his crotch, as if to say, “Balls, mate.”
Wendy smiled. If only she could be carefree, not that she wished to preen in the same manner, but the aging Sniffles’ agility and body-confidence were admirable for a fat slob.
“Oh, bother, I must hose the mud off the patio before I go,” Wendy thought with irritation. “My work never ends.” She flicked the valve on full-throttle with an impatient nudge from her gumboot.
“Whoa!” Wendy shrieked. She clutched her buttocks with wide-eyed shock. Sniffles darted to a safer place. “Darn! I forgot the hosepipe was right behind me. I didn’t expect a fountain of cold water up my dress.” She giggled. “I’ll have to change my clothes before I drive to town.”
Wendy was running late. She scrambled into dry clothes, and then rummaged in the bottom of her dark cupboard in search of shoes. Found, she yanked them on, grabbed her handbag, locked the door and fled from the house, hoping to reach the doctor’s room in time.
Twenty minutes later, she hobbled into Dr Jenkins’ consulting room, where she realised she had different shoes on—no wonder she hobbled—they were unequal heights. 
Dr Jenkins peered over his spectacles and asked, “Why are you limping, Mrs Smith?”
Wendy chuckled. “I’m not in pain—I mistakenly put odd shoes on.”
“How extraordinary!”
“Yes indeed.” Wendy agreed as she groped inside her handbag. “I also forgot to bring my purse …”
“It sounds like you’re having a dodgy day.” Dr Jenkins smiled.
Wendy grimaced. “Things were going too well, so I knew something would go wrong, and now it has—I feel better.” Her brow knotted. “Is there any more bad news, Dr?”
Dr Jenkins leaned forward. “Do you enjoy worrying, Mrs Smith?”
“No! Of course not. It’s a bad habit.”
The doctor nodded before speaking. “Today I have news for you.”
Wendy sat bolt upright like a startled rabbit framed in car headlights, her head nodded, indicating Dr Jenkins to continue.
“Your cancer results are negative—the lump was benign.”
Relief coursed through Wendy’s veins. A smile curved her lips as she let out a long sigh. “Thank you, doctor. Oh, my goodness—how am I going to pay? I’ve left my purse at home.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Smith. Our receptionist can post the bill.” Dr Jenkins wagged his finger. “Remember to take time to smell the roses—and wear matching shoes.”
As Wendy hobbled out the doctor’s room with a spring in her gait, there was a new concern … “Darn—I hope I put enough money in the parking meter …”
Wendy thought, ‘There’s comfort to be found in day-to-day worries. It means I’m alive and things are normal.’ A grateful feeling welled up inside her as she hummed Bobby McFerrin’s one-hit-wonder, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy!’

Author Notes 611 words

Chapter 4
Western World Culture

By Curly Girly

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

Men were husbands and fathers, they wore trousers, had short hair and worked to earn money.
Women were wives and mothers, they worked at home in skirts, had long hair and earned respect.
Most men wear trousers, night club attire may differ. Some wear dreadlocks, some short hair while others sport none. Their income varies in accordance with their hairstyles. Terms of address: guardian, partner and bastard.
Most women wear trousers, have short hair and work to earn money. Respect and love are bonuses, delivered in accordance to earnings and ability to meet the demands of progeny and trends. Terms of address: parent, partner and bitch.
Androgynous blends of tattoos, earrings, trousers, hair styles and clothing confuse some spectators. Some men label themselves: bitches and drama queens. Many women brand themselves: multi-taskers, team leaders and single parents.
To sex puppies: lift the tail and peek. People differ, thanks to surgery. Psychologists analyse minds. Lifting the tail on a person’s brain might require a microscope, or a Ph.D. in Philosophy.
Are we progressing or regressing?
One stark difference remains: The sexes disagree, and the battle includes a third party.

Author Notes Thanks Wolfdance13 for the lonely image.
190 words

Chapter 5
A Happy Home

By Curly Girly

A happy home was all we wanted.
But somehow it wound up stunted.
Parents argued over everything --
Bitter tears made children's eyes sting.

Then Mom and Dad, they separated...
New marriages were consummated.
All of us kids were made to tag along
But the feelings of hate were strong.

Not happy the second time around
Their elusive love was never found.
Custody battles over the kids...
Pulling us, stretching us, like squids.

But when it boiled down to money
The things we needed were not funny...
"He has to pay for this!" she pouted.
"Oh, no! She needs to pay!" He shouted.

Neither provided education --
simply supplied procrastination.
"Leave home early. Get a job and pay."
That's what our kind parents had to say.

I vowed to make my marriage work,
and not to call my husband a jerk.
I desired to start my life again
And try to live without their pain.

On our special wedding date
My parents refused to celebrate!
He did not wish to see my mother
And she hated him like no other.

Now that they have turned old and grey
They expect us to provide and pay.
But with the jobs we all had to get
We aren't professionals - don't forget.

Poverty cycle must be broken
Parents, we offer a mere token.
The money we have slaved to earn
Will go towards helping our kids learn.

What a shame and what a sorrow!
You never thought about 'tomorrow.'
The best thing God gave us on earth
Is family - understand its worth.

Author Notes A short poem

Chapter 6
Changing Channels

By Curly Girly

Celebrates a  new creation to existence on earth.

Life prepares for next transition with expectant last breath.



Author Notes Thank you, Google and:, for the use of artwork.

Chapter 7
SEX in the City

By Curly Girly

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.

It is an outrage! People have gone mad. Women are the forerunners of a zany, new insanity. According to a CNN news report, they are going bonkers over a ‘handsome’ gorilla in a Japanese zoo.
In the 70s men had long hair, beards and hairy chests—and women loved them. Suddenly the 80s arrived, making Kim Basinger a new trendsetter when she announced hairless, waxed men were preferable. Young people do not recognise her name. These days, Basinger’s views are thirty years old.
The pendulum has swung, bringing along with it a new swinging masculine gorilla. He and his testicles dangle before our eyes; dazzling us with a symbol of what women want—but won’t admit. Bizarre! Apparently, their actions and body language demonstrate to analysts and psychologists they are ‘turned on’ by this beast of abundant booty.
Monkeys and apes are cute and entertaining to watch because they are humanlike. One cannot pass a group of baboons on a safari and not stop to view. They make compelling spectacles. Compelling—yes; but sexy? 

Godzilla the Gorilla’s attributes include:

1. Dark complexion.
2. Small, beady, brown eyes.
3. Muscular build—he’s very strong.
4. Sports a hairy, pot belly.
5. Has a saddle-nose with wide, flared nostrils.
6. Features a prominent brow bone (in keeping with pre-historic men and deformed humans).
7. Small ears. (His hearing ability may be questionable).
8. A big, dour mouth with strong teeth.
9. A beard which excludes a moustache.
10. Physical size. (This counts +++)
11. Sleeps often.
12. Poor table manners.
13. Poor toilet manners. (Forget the seat, ladies.)
14. Inability to do anything too intellectual with the exception of breeding, hunting and fighting.
15. Has multiple mates.
16. He is an Alpha male who will not tolerate competition.
At this point, please draw your eye back to number 10 on the above list: Size. Perhaps it is not common knowledge among all women, but quite often the muscle-bound, testosterone-pumping male has a small penis. It appears as if the Gorilla male is no exception to that rule, having an apparatus of between 3 cm and 5 cm long. This is significantly less than the average male human package deal.
Some women want the return of the caveman. Let’s face it, being dragged around by the hair and humped on demand has appeal—until it happens. Do women really know what they want? It seems now that they have everything mapped out in modern society, some wish to regress. Perhaps women are becoming too catty by changing their minds more often than cats have lives, collectively.
Well, guys, quick—before the trend changes—don your gorilla suits today. Some of you won’t need to because you are already equipped. Get ready to meet the primitive urges of modern women and swing into action. Good luck! Let’s see the fur fly …

More reading:
CNN: Japanese women go ape over surprisingly handsome gorilla
Gorilla tight-rope:
Shabani The HANDSOME Gorilla Raised In Australia Found Fame In Japan (REPORT)!!! – YouTube
Gorilla has small penis:
Gorilla sexuality:

Author Notes Yeah, I know. It's over the top. I saw this PICTURE which linked to a CNN report on a friend's FB page. He invited comments ... Well, I made them here instead. Sorry!

Thanks to Google images:
Gorilla portrait:

Chapter 8

By Curly Girly

Not write
Power failure

Author Notes Image: eShots

Chapter 9
Computer Trouble

By Curly Girly

Technological glitch,
Virological hitch;
Psychological switch!

Author Notes Thanks, Michael Whitson, for your image.

Chapter 10
Killing Future Interests

By Curly Girly

The closure of SeaWorld shows was met with sadness for some, joy for others and with indifference to the beautiful, but dumb, creatures it housed.
Activists won this round. Still not satisfied with the death of San Diego SeaWorld shows, warlike, they march on to protest, complain and destroy all SeaWorlds around the globe.
Stop. Consider the topic of abortion. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? A divided answer with many in betweens. Have there not been divided answers to debates in life?
If you make two people cohabit—there will be arguments and disagreements, and if anyone denies this fact, he is either a liar, lagging in some way, or is denying himself to please another. Does that make marriage wrong? No. People who don’t marry but live together disagree and argue more; statistics point out, especially when kids are involved.
Push the protestors aside and consider the consequences of their recent achievement:
* An expensive establishment closed, money was lost. There will be consequences for that loss somewhere.
* Jobs have ended, and many will be unemployed and their families will suffer.
* Highly trained, specialised people have nowhere to go.
* Presuming the animals are returned to the sea, will they be any safer there? Will they be better fed?
How safe is the sea? Pollution is severe in certain waters. Animals get tangled up in discarded ropes, nets and refuse. Some swallow plastic and harmful objects that cause suffering before a slow and painful death. Some whales beach themselves. Others get hunted in the ocean by whalers. Some of their offspring are preyed on by sharks, and some do die from disease and injuries.
Numerous videos are available on the internet depicting Killer Whales hunting seals. They toss their live prey into the air and torture it for ages before devouring it. Not unlike cats, playing with mice before killing them. Sickening, but natural.
Whatever your conclusion, it’s yours to make. You see, you have a choice. However, it seems that the ‘Kill Joy Police’ want to take our choice into their hands and dictate to us what we should think about these matters.
Consider the image chosen for this article. Look at it. Impressive, right? The sheer size of that Killer Whale boggles the mind. Can you smell it? Can you hear it? Is your heart beating any faster? Did you think it was going to jump out of the picture and land in your lap? No. You answered ‘no’ to all of those questions. Why?
The reason all your answers were no is because it’s a one dimensional image. The picture is not a whale. It is a flat, lifeless colour image.
Consider the fact that most of us have never seen a Killer Whale in real life. Some of us have not seen dolphins, sharks, seals or penguins either. None of us saw such creatures until we went to SeaWorld. Have you ever taken kids to SeaWorld? Have you seen the pure pleasure on a child’s face when it saw the awesome, spectacular splendour of nature at its best right before their eyes?
Children and adults used to be excited by the thrilling proximity of nature. They could see it live. They could feel the water spray, they could smell it, hear it up close, so tangible. They enjoyed some scary moments too as the whales leapt up.
The children who went to SeaWorld were impressed by nature. Most kids got an opportunity to treasure a personal experience close to nature. That is exactly how the love of animals and of nature is born—in the heart of a child.
Children become adults and they will be the new leaders. Removing exposure to nature and animals from children will cause indifference in the following generations. No amount of pictures will compensate for the impression of a great personal experience.
Very soon, such wonderful experiences will be reserved for intellectuals and the elite alone. No longer will ordinary people, who are in the majority, be able to see a Killer Whale. Only scientists who study them and the wealthy will get that chance.
Take a look at your old family photos. Do you remember your granny? If you met her, you will remember special moments as they come flooding back when you see her image. Delve deeper into your box and pull out another photo of a family member, one you never met who has long since died. How important are they to you? Not important at all, simply a fact, and one that the next generation might not even consider worth keeping.
What has really been achieved by isolating marine life? When the masses no longer care, marine animals will no longer be cared for.
For the sacrifice of few, many are spared and gain freedom. This is so, even for humans, that’s why there have been wars.
Thank goodness for rhino conservationists in Texas. In Africa, poaching is almost out of control.  Maybe the day is near when Texan rhinoceroses will be the only ones left.
Food for thought:
Conserve—to support, safeguard. A way of using wisely while ensuring constant replenishment.
Preserve—to pickle and bottle, to leave on a shelf, remaining untouched, but no longer breathing.

Author Notes IMAGE:



Chapter 11
Winner or Loser?

By Curly Girly

Betje de Vroome was a child born to a South African family back in 1866. At birth, she appeared normal and grew like any other child.
“I love life and want to live forever!” she wished, cracking the roast chicken breastbone.
Life in the Orange Free State, South Africa known as the breadbasket of the land, was sunny and warm with brief, cold winters; a place where deciduous fruit trees, wheat, maize and potatoes grew well.
At age 23, young Betje married the only love of her life, going on to produce seven children. She lived to see 23 grandchildren. Later she lived to see 42 great-grandchildren, but unfortunately her husband didn’t.
Much to her surprise, and everyone else’s, she went on to see 51 great-great-grandchildren. However, and most surprisingly, she got to meet 13 great-great-great-grandchildren!
Today, unofficially aged 149, she is the oldest living person in the world, and thanks God for it.
Why ‘unofficially?’ The answer is simple: she lost her birth certificate.
When I read this article, a few things sprang to mind:
She doesn’t look a day over 90! Yippee! Eat your heart out, Joan Collins.
Imagine how many insurance policies she could have cashed in on if she had kept re-marrying! But what pleasure can be indulged in at that age? No disco dancing, no romantic holidays, no sexy clothes, no skiing trips … Maybe some joy could be found in giving it away to family.
Think of how many loved ones she lost—so many tears shed at funerals—a river full.
Many people pursue longevity with a tenacious agenda, but is it worthwhile?
Several things can be gleaned, take your pick:
First:  Forget Botox and cosmetics. Betje looks 59 years younger without them.
Second: Enjoy life! Eat cheese, get fat, laugh and don’t exercise; be first to die.
Third:  Keep re-marrying people with insurance policies, you might live to be 149.
Fourth:  No matter what is achieved in life, worldly recognition depends on paperwork.
Fifth:  Don’t forget to do the paperwork or lose your birth certificate.
Imagine all that effort in clocking up 149 years on the human speedo and receiving no recognition.
Was the disqualification because of insufficient paperwork or because of steroids? 

In the race of life, prepare your winning pathway by avoiding both pitfalls.

Author Notes To read more, click on the link below:



Chapter 12
Restless Seas

By Curly Girly

Restless seas of depth and power,
  against barren rocks you shower.
Waves spewing undying life,
  turmoil waters herald strife.
White horses ride your wild waves,
  foaming above hidden caves.
Ceaseless tossing and pounding,
  rhythmic movement resounding.
Day and night, your surges swell,
  brooding depths where sailors fell.
Breakers rise, curve, bow and fall
  worshipping the Siren's call.
Sly, beckoning passers-by,
  hauntingly with wanton cry;
"Come this way and lie with me ...
  down in the deepest, dark sea."
Wild, reckless, wind-tumbled hair;
  enticing without a care.
Raging torrents cover heads;
  passion turns to waterbeds.
Stormy skies go cold and dark—
  this is wicked siren's lark.
Eternal writhing motion;
  powerful, brutal ocean.
Endless whispers calling me,
  softest murmurs, restless sea.
Timeless, tortured, helpless plea,
  tireless, constant haunting sea.

Author Notes The mystery of the sea.

Chapter 13

By Curly Girly

Two families from Verona
lived behind high-class persona.
Now they can’t forget
how Miss Capulet
faked sudden death by coma.
Hot Romeo Montague
engulfed in fiery stew,
drank poisoned red wine,
choosing death sublime,
ignoring fearsome taboo.
Alas, Juliet awoke,
to learn of death’s cruellest joke.
With Romeo’s knife
she ended her life.
Paired in death, ‘neath oak.


Author Notes IMAGE:

Chapter 14
Christ Mass

By Curly Girly

Christmas is a happy time!
Listen to those church bells chime!
Come, worship His Majesty!
Let us unite—affably.
Draw family together
despite hot or cold weather.
Exchange your gifts and eat well;
proclaim your joyous, “Noel!”
Celebrate this day with cheer,
eternal hope ever near.
Fear not! And know that He lives!
Filled with pure love, He forgives.
The world is set in motion—
spanning every ocean.
In His Son, place your hope.
Through life trials, He’ll help you cope.
We are still free to worship
Never let your freedom slip!
Sing His praises all day long!
Worship Him with joyful song!
Commemorating that stable stall;
wishing, “Merry Christmas to you all!”


Author Notes IMAGE:

Chapter 15
Horsing Around

By Curly Girly

walk, trot, canter,

Author Notes IMAGE:

Chapter 16
Piggy Pug

By Curly Girly

Our dogs also enjoyed a Christmas treat. Muffin our pug, usually enjoys watching TV, but yesterday wore her party hat and bow tie. It’s the same bow tie my husband wore at our wedding 27 years ago. Bounty our sheep dog prefers the unencumbered approach to dress. Both dogs tucked into a feast of turkey giblets and gravy for Christmas treats. Bounty’s table manners flew out the window when her food was placed before her; she forgot what the word ‘stay’ meant. Her long tongue had a lick before the camera clicked.
We live in the south of the South Island in New Zealand where the weather is cool. Hot summer days are few. So far this year we have had five lovely days; the last three in a row. Our weather rocketed from cold to heatwave in the space of 24 hours.
A trip to the beach with body boards was in order. We surfed, stopping shortly before hypothermia set in.
We live on a sheep farm and the dogs always enjoy herding. Yesterday I walked to the top of our steep hill to bring sheep down to fresh pasture. Bounty and Muffin trotted alongside, both panting.
On returning home Muffin was missing. I walked back up the hill and found her collapsed in a clump of grass. She lay panting excessively with tongue hanging out. Her tongue was dark blue and she was too weak to stand. Heatstroke has been the cause of many dog deaths, so I picked her up and carried her home fast.
Taking care not to stress Muffin, I dunked her once in the fish pond. Then I lay her in a shady spot in the garden where a cool breeze blew over her. I fetched a bowl of cold water for her to drink. Within a few minutes Muffin’s panting reduced enough for her to drink.
Half an hour later she was fully recovered from her near-death experience and back to watching TV.
My son had vacuumed my car while I was busy with sheep. Only afterwards did we realise that the keys had got locked inside it. I don’t have a spare set. So there my car sits—waiting until after New Year, all locked up with the keys on the seat. I’m not sure how we’ll remedy the problem, but we will.
All said and done, family is wonderful and pets are precious; and I’m lucky to have both and a car. Of course I would be luckier if I had spare keys!
Wishing you all the best for 2016.

Chapter 17

By Curly Girly

Competition is healthy. There would be no motivation without it.
Some say we are all born equal and have equal opportunity. Oh, yeah? My response: That’s why some are born with deformities, some are killed before birth, and others have starved to death in Ethiopia.
Equality does not exist—it never will. That does not signal: stop attempting to improve or get ahead. Being redundant helps no one. Each individual is unique. The rain falls on the good and the bad, but not all prosper. Seed that falls onto fertile soil has the advantage over seed that is blown onto barren rock.
Some ‘handicapped’ people turn disabilities into strengths. Shining examples:
Andrea Bocelli (blind singer)
Stevie Wonder (blind singer)
Susan Boyle (learning difficulty)
Douglas Bader (amputee WWII pilot)
Oscar Pistorius (athlete with birth deformity. Later, suspected of murdering his girlfriend.)
Not all handicapped people are nice. They are just people too—some good, some bad. Ask Oscar.
The motivation to win differs for all. Some want recognition, others see it as a personal achievement; while others see commercial advantages. As the year draws to a close, the competition for placement on FanStory heats up. No matter how hard we try to get into the top five, there will always be a number six.
Once I won second place in an equine endurance race. It was disheartening. I missed my goal by one place after two years of training. That was a low point. Many riders behind envied my placement. They would have been happy with it.
The point is: Winning is relative to each individual’s goals.
In South Africa, there is an annual competition: The Fauresmith endurance ride. Over the years there have been many winners, most can only be recalled by the names left on the trophies. It is a tough 200 kilometre race that requires great skill. At the start of every Fauresmith endurance ride, tribute is paid to one special contestant.
He was a man who had one opportunity to ride that race. He and his horse were in peak performance and were set to win; they were untouchable. His fate changed when he came across another rider who had fallen off and broken his arm. The winning man pulled up to help the injured rider and stayed with him until help arrived. Needless to say, that man lost the race, and to my knowledge, never got the opportunity to ‘win’ again. Horses only peak for one or two years at best.
However, that ‘good Samaritan’ is remembered every year at prize giving while the previous winners are long since forgotten.
So who was the real winner?
Prosperity should not be measured on finance alone. One can be prosperous in other things too: family, health, love and in character.
Some of us work and write and it’s tough to get into the top five. Whether we get there or not is immaterial if we set our eyes on the true prize: Improving and Learning.
Did you know that John Lennon was once placed fourth in a talent show?
I don’t remember the name of the person who beat John Lennon in that contest, but I will never forget: John Lennon.
If your writing has improved this year, then you have won!
The ability to ‘improve’ is worth more than first place.
Best wishes and may you and your writing prosper in the New Year. 

Author Notes IMAGE:

Chapter 18
Madame Tussauda's Working Prisoner

By Curly Girly

A persistent worker, this striped buzzing

Bee. Drinks nectar, carries bright yellowing

Clumps of dusty golden blossom pollen

Downhill to hives of natural wooden

Hue, yielding honey into waxen cells.


Chapter 19
Writing Common Sense

By Curly Girly

All write a new rite
on righteous paper, alright?
Right is all that's left.

Author Notes Thanks to Google for this image obtained from:

Chapter 20
Are You Being Robbed?

By Curly Girly

What if you were a Royalist under Cromwell’s reign? What if you were a Cromwell supporter under the Royalist’s reign?
What if Hitler had won WWII? What if your family had been among the twenty million people starved to death under Stalin’s reign?
What if you had been born in Uganda under Idi Amin’s reign where he killed 500 000 of his people?
What if you had been born to a Rwanda family when the genocide took place in 1994?
What if you had been born Chinese and subject to the ‘one child policy’?
What if your family had travelled to Africa 150 years ago instead of to America? Where would you be today?
What if WWIII happens in your lifetime?
What if another atomic bomb goes off in your lifetime where you live? What if the Middle East starts using their newfound atomic might? What if you can’t believe or trust politicians?
What if your father had been Muammar Gaddafi?
What if you had been born to a poor Ethiopian family and herded goats that died in a drought?
What if, in the name of peace, you gave up your religious freedom and accepted a mark, possibly a microchip, in your right hand or forehead? What if it turns out to be a bad decision from which you can’t turn back? What if you are lined up and shot?
What if your faith is challenged? Would you die for it? Are you ready? Can you save yourself? What will you do?
What if the saving ‘rapture’ that many Christians believe in has been misunderstood and does not happen until after persecution? What if you see them die first? Who will be next?
What if you don’t believe Armageddon will happen but it does?
What if Israel loses?
What if you don’t believe in God?
What if you lose your life on earth, which is guaranteed to happen, but then also lose your eternal life?
What if life after death does exist? Would it change the way you think and live today?
What if the West becomes the new ‘third world’? What if your descendants become the new slaves to the emerging ‘first world’ countries?
What if there is a major series of earthquakes and severe weather patterns that destroy international food supplies? This could happen with volcanic dust. History tells of the year without a summer. What if the next time is worse? What if it comes in your lifetime? What if people start eating each other?
What if you think this is all impossible but it happens?
What if you don’t believe you should pay tax and then don’t? What if you are caught? What if you go to prison? What if you think you don’t deserve that sentence but get it anyway?
What if you are found guilty of ‘thought crime’? What if George Orwell’s book, 1984 happens?
What if your paradigms go up in smoke? Or have you become so characterless and spineless that you have no thoughts in your head other than what the Politically Correct Brigade tell you is permissible?
What if you have been betrayed by the idea of freedom? What if you have been sold a white rag, a visible flag, that means nothing more than cotton?
What if you never cotton on until it’s too late?

Chapter 21
Sex, Lies and Boobtube

By Curly Girly

A poem on FanStory prompted me to write this piece. It was about honesty. Never lie; always tell the truth. Huh. This post is about lying.  I thought about naming it, Liar, Liar; but then decided Sex, Lies and Boob-tube, holds more appeal. Perhaps it’s a lie? Anyway, here goes….
First, I want to tell you that I was raised to be an honest girl. My mother taught me not to lie. Some think that’s a good idea, but it has problems. Every time I lied, my mother knew, and that was scary. I could never lie to her. My mum also prided herself as a strict disciplinarian, so whenever I lied, I got slapped. Here’s an example:
Mum, “Curly, did you eat all those apples? You know we have sanctions in this country. Fruit is hard to get, and it’s expensive. I see all the apples are gone. Did you eat them?”
Curly knew if she lied she would get slapped, so there was only one thing to do, she answered truthfully, “Yes, Mum, I ate them all.”
From my point of view, right from the outset, life was doomed to be a no-win situation.
A vivid memory springs to mind. Me, as a seven-year-old sitting in the Methodist Church in Waterfalls, Salisbury, Rhodesia. Old, Jack Cosky, the minister, was a well-liked man. I picture his smiling face as he questions Sunday School kids.
“Hey, guys, I want to ask something important; really important. But you must answer truthfully, okay?”
All kids sat to attention, bright-eyed, and eager to hear.
“Tell me, honestly, who has never lied?” His eyes swept across his audience. “I repeat, please put your hand up if you have never ever lied in your entire life.”
Everyone sat still until one courageous good boy, eager to win favour, stuck his hand up. All eyes turned to him.
“Son,” the minister said. “Let me tell you something--you’ve just told another lie.”
The adults at the back of the church burst out laughing.
Okay, here are examples of telling the truth….
I was 18 and had left home when I got my first boyfriend. I was eager to please that young man. One day he told me a secret. “Curly, to me it’s important the first girl I have sex with and marry is a virgin.”
Great! I was everything he needed--a virgin. I told him so. The result? I was too eager and the fool didn’t believe me. We broke-up, and he continued his virgin-hunt. And me? Well, I got spotted by another dick-head virgin-hunter, who knew a good girl when he saw one. Alas, I was used, abused and discarded.
This brings me to job interviews. I suck at them. Why? Too honest. Examples:
Interviewer, “How do you cope with stress?”
Curly, “I get really nervous and shaky.”
Interviewer, “How’s your health?”
Curly, “Perfect. No problems at all. But I’m prone to stress-related migraines.”
Interviewer, “How are your telephone skills?”
Curly, “I don’t like taking calls. People struggle with my accent and my voice is too deep for most people’s liking. I can’t change it.”
Interviewer, “What are your strengths?”
Curly, “Honesty and reliability. You can always rely on me to be honest.”
I never got the job.
Once, I applied for factory work; twenty other people also applied. We went into an interview room together. The old guy who cross-examined the group seemed amiable enough, or so I thought. 
After a lengthy chat, he posed a question, “Put your hand up if you do not wish to be a Union Member.”
Curly was honest. She stuck her hand up. She was the only one.
“Let me tell you,” he said. “Everyone working here is part of the Union. You will not fit in with our crowd.”
I didn’t get the job; that’s why I’m stuck here with retirees on FanStory.
Often, people tell me, “Just lie.”
I can’t. I don’t know why, but I just can’t. Lying is a skill to be learned in the formative years. Mine were lacking. Sometimes I feel like a child who skipped the crawling phase and went straight from bum wriggles to walking. Everyone knows those kids aren’t right in the head.
Once, a young woman who worked for us arrived sporting a hideous new hairstyle. Laughing, I told her what I thought.
Bad idea.
The other day I went to a beauty salon to enquire if they stocked a particular brand of sunblock. It turned out they didn’t. As I was about to leave, the woman offered me a Free Facial. Nothing’s for free. I knew I would have to lie back and endure hard-sell on her couch. I declined but she would not take no for an answer. Next thing, she steered me by the elbow and propelled me down a long passage into a small room in the bowels of the building. Weird, slow-beat sex-music pulsated in the background. She promised to return with samples, closing the door behind her. I looked around at the grubby towels; hygiene was questionable. A creepy feeling slid over me.  
She returned and said, “You have terrible skin, but my products can fix it.”
That ruined my day, making me feel unattractive.
She leered too close for comfort, staring into my eyes. “You know what they told me at Beauty School?”
Dumbly, I shook my head.
A maniacal laugh escaped her lips. “You’re too gay to be a beauty therapist!”
It was an OMG moment. When I tried to leave, she pushed me back on the bench where I was supposed to lie down for a massage. Suddenly, I realised if I were to scream--nobody would hear me. No one knew where I was. I wanted out!
Her phone rang. “Wait here,” she said. “I’m coming back.”
Soon as she was out the room--I grabbed my stuff and headed out and towards the front door. She hung up and collared me. “You can’t go! I’m not finished with you.” She tried to take my arm and lead me back.
I stood firm. “Sorry, but I must go. I have another appointment.”
“I must have your contact details before you leave.”
I began to perspire. She must not contact me.
She grabbed pen and paper. “What’s your name?”
“Curly.” Urgh, too honest.
“What’s your cell number?”
“O211.” I hesitated. Seriously, this woman was not to have my number.
“Yes?” She prompted.
“707248.” I lied.
Yes! I lied. Jack Cosky was right--we are all liars.
Concluding on an honest note, that FS poem I read about being honest--it really sucked!


Author Notes NOTE:
The beautician story is true. She also appeared to be on a high.
She asked me when I had last felt like a teenager.


That was my cue to run.

I checked her online business reviews: Only one review (not mine!); the person had left a ONE STAR rating. I wonder why? :)

Chapter 22
Black Gateway

By Curly Girly

I stood before the blackest gate and saw
spikey burnt iron stakes standing tall.
Desolate barren land led up to it,
framing way to damnation’s darkest pit.
Passing through Hell’s Satanic gloomy gate
was my final walk to fathomless fate.
My eighty-year-life was lived, spent and done,
and now the battle for my soul was won.
Wrong decisions and pride had led me here;
through this monstrous gate of eternal fear.
Too proud, I had scoffed, jeered and not believed.
If only my life was not filled with greed.
The gate stood insurmountable and strong;
iron presence dividing right from wrong.
The gate before me groaned, opening wide.
Devourer of masses--me now inside.
Sick, sorrowful souls cried in anguished pain--
never to return through Black Gate again.
Acid sulphur smell arose from gate’s grill,
while whining deadlock hinges closed on
Today, most mournful moment of my life…
is passing through those evil gates of strife.
During my life, I chose not to believe,
now all I can do is
rue, weep and grieve.

Chapter 23

By Curly Girly

King Highness had a strict reputation. The people who lived under his rulership lived simple happy lives. No other nations attacked them because they feared King Highness’ strength.
One day, King Highness called his messenger, Sam, and announced he wished to travel to another kingdom.
“Your Majesty,” Sam said. “When will you return?”
“I am not sure,” the King replied. “When I am gone, I want you to look after my people.”
Sam trembled. “Your Majesty, that is a big request. I do not have your power.”
“Do your best,” King Highness replied.
Within a few hours, King Highness set off on his journey taking a few trusted soldiers along.
Years passed, but King Highness never returned. The people complained, “Why should we keep King Highness’ rules if he’s not here to see us?”
Sam reminded them, “You were commanded to keep the King’s wishes.”
The people grumbled and turned away.
More years passed. Soon a whole new generation was born. The children born to the new generation had not seen the King. Most heard tales about him through the stories their parents told.
One boy named, Jed, said, “I don’t believe the King lives. I reckon he died in some far-off land and will never return.”
“Shush! Don’t say such things,” warned his parents, but Jed didn’t listen.
Many more years passed. Jed grew up into a strong man. He said to the people of the land, “I am your new king. The old one is dead. From now on, I make the rules.”
The people murmured.
Jed said, “Roll out the barrels of wine that were stored for the King’s return. Let’s drink it all.”
The crowd cheered with glee and rolled out barrels. A big party ensued. Everyone drank far too much wine. Fights broke out. People bashed each other and stole from their neighbours.
The next day, the city streets were dirty with trash. Many people were sick with headaches. Some were injured from fighting. No longer was the nation healthy.
Jed stood up on his castle tower and said, “It’s good. Now the people have the freedom to do what they like. This is the way it should be.”
One day King Highness returned making his people shake with fear. Jed feared King Highness’ wrath, so he ran away. Wild people in the wilderness saw Jed’s rich clothes and became jealous, so they captured him and threw him into prison. “Who is this spoilt man from the prosperous land that dares to travel through our wilderness?”
Jed sat in prison and said to himself, “I hate King Highness. All my life I never knew him. Now I am in prison because I wore his expensive clothes and jewels. King Highness is to blame for my problems. If he wasn’t such a horrible King, our people could have been happier. I’ll never forgive King Highness for the trouble he caused me.”
King Highness knew Jed was missing. He wished to meet the young man he had never met. The King sent his faithful old messenger, Sam, to travel to the wilderness to give Jed a letter.
The wild people knew King Highness had returned. They feared him, so they didn’t harm his messenger, Sam. When Sam got to the chief wild man, he asked to see Jed. The chief allowed one visit.
Sam found Jed sitting behind iron bars in a dark, damp cave.  
Jed smiled when he saw Sam. “Hello, my friend. I’m so cold and lonely here. My life is over. The wild people say tomorrow they will kill me.”
Sam frowned. “I have come to deliver an important letter to you, from King Highness.”
Jed shrank back. “Take it away. I don’t want it. King Highness is harsh. He too will kill me.”
Sam said, “I am not permitted to tell you what is in the letter. You must read it for yourself. It has the King’s seal.”
Jed shook his head. “I hate King Highness. I swear I do not trust him.”
“King Highness insists you take his letter and read it.”
“No!” Jed said. “Never.”
Sam was sad. “Very well. I shall return to the King and tell him you rejected his message.”
As Sam was about to leave the prison, the guard grabbed the letter, tore it open and read it. He handed it back to Sam without saying a word.
Sam journeyed back to King Highness.
The next day, Jed was taken to the sacrificial rock where the wild people killed their prisoners. Before the executioner lifted his axe, Jed’s prison guard came forward and said, “If you had read the King’s letter, today, you would be travelling back to the land of prosperity.”
“What do you mean?” Jed asked.
“King Highness’ letter was a ransom to our chief, offering an amount of gold that would be paid to us if we set you free.”
“So, why are you killing me?” Jed asked.
“There was one condition to King Highness’ letter; you had to read it to receive his forgiveness.”
Jed’s eyes widened. “Do you mean King Highness was willing to pay to save me?”
“Yes,” said the guard. “You refused his letter and forgiveness, so now you must die.”
“Wait! Call Sam back.”
“Too late. Sam returned, and our chief won’t allow him back.”
And the moral of the story is stubbornness and unforgiveness can only hurt yourself.

Chapter 24
Precious Opportunity

By Curly Girly

Every person born has huge potential. Good parents should do their best to help their children attain their individual potential. Life is filled with twists and turns. Not everyone gets the same package deal.
We can’t choose our parents.
We are not all university material.
We can’t always afford our career choice.
We can’t make ourselves look the way we want.
All those things above are the insignificant negatives.
Here is what we can do:
You can choose to smile--people tend to return it.
We can be grateful--there are always others with less.
We can choose to say only positive things--other people will like you more.
We can choose to love our family and to bless them with kind and encouraging words.
Parents have the potential to influence their children’s lives for better or for worse.
Everything we say is either a blessing or a curse.
If we have no love, we have nothing.
What is true love?
Love is patient and kind. It does not envy or boast. It is not proud. It protects, trusts, hopes and perseveres.
Imagine if you had parents like that! You were lucky if you did. Why not make your children lucky today? Let it be the start of a new tomorrow.
The seeds you sow soon grow into a fruitful harvest.
Will your harvest be bitter or sweet?
Take control of your harvest.
*  Prosperity is not measured by money alone. One can also be prosperous in health, happiness and with family.
*  Please, do not underestimate the power of a loving and supportive family.
*  Marriage can’t make people happy, only people can make a marriage happy.
*  Happy memories are made by you. Start creating yours today!

Chapter 25
Blinding Rain

By Curly Girly

Glass eyes stare through window’s sightless pane.
Tears dripping, unseen pouring rain.
Blind, desperate, heartfelt cry.
Visionless. Why, oh, why?
Sight loss is my pain.
Teardrops falling…
from dripping,
grey sky.

Chapter 26
Solid Love

By Curly Girly

Glint of
Hope sparkled brightly
Rough diamond saved from
Other woman’s claws
My gemstone


Author Notes

Chapter 27
Business and Trade

By Curly Girly

So far, many readers commented that business in New Zealand seems slower than in the USA. In comparison, New Zealand is an island with a population of just over four million people. It’s a lovely place to live. Seriously, I love it, but its business policies can be exasperating.
The image I used for this chapter was taken at our local supermarket. If you can’t read it, this is what is says:
Due to a very unfortunate gap between our old and new liquor licences, we are unable to sell any alcohol.
We will resume sales of alcohol on Thursday.
Our sincere apologies for the inconvenience.
This would not happen in Africa. Somebody would be paid to fix it. It makes me wonder how much revenue the store is losing out on during this licence interruption that nobody can rectify.
Have you ever seen a sign like this in your town? I’m curious to know.
Last week I began to feel ill when I felt a head cold coming on. My husband had been off work for a few days, so I knew my turn was coming, and come it sure did.
On Thursday my throat felt itchy. By Friday it was worse. By Saturday, I was out for the count and could keep little down. I went through packets of cold medication, taking pills every four hours according to instructions. All the while I kept hoping things would improve.
An added complication was that a migraine headache began to set in on Saturday, and by Sunday it was intense. By Monday morning I was exhausted and in agony and lay prostrate on my bed. I phoned the doctor’s rooms for an appointment and was told, “Sorry, but we’re fully booked today. The doctors are not seeing any more patients. I’ll get the nurse to call you back after her lunch.”
Two hours later the nurse phoned. We spoke briefly. I told her I needed a Voltaren injection to relieve the muscle contractions in my scalp (Voltaren is a non-addictive muscle relaxant that can be effective in treating migraine.) She said, “The doctors are all too busy to see you today. But seeing you’re so uncomfortable, perhaps you could come in and wait.”
“Thank you; I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Feeling sensitive to light, I donned dark glasses and walked to the clinic. By the time I arrived, I was near collapse. The contractions in my head were excruciating enough to make me cry. Each contraction felt like a knife going through my skull. The kind nurse put me in a dark room and told me to wait.
After waiting for two and a half hours, the pain and frustration had escalated to the point where I wanted to die, vomit and pee all at once. I felt too afraid to go pee in case I should miss the busy doctor’s quick pop-in check-up. However, the urge to pee won and the doctor came and found me gone, so I missed out.
Enough is enough. I walked home and lay down. Gradually, after three days the migraine subsided, the contractions only coming an hour apart. Today, they have stopped, thank God.
I am grateful I never had a stroke. Nobody would have known or helped. So, when is it convenient to see a doctor for an emergency appointment? Maybe I should plan my next migraine in advance and make the booking now. Of course, if I’m not sick on the day, they will not give me medication, and I would have wasted my money.
When I moved to this area a year ago, I went to the dentist to make a booking to see an oral hygienist, and I was told that it was not possible.
“Because you need to have a consultation with our dentist first to decide if you need to see the hygienist or not.”
“My last dentist told me to see an oral hygienist as soon as possible. I had my records transferred to you--read them and see for yourself.”
“No, you must first see one of our dentists.”
“Okay. When?”
“Three months’ time.”
To cut a long story short, after I saw their dentist she told me, “You need to see our oral hygienist.”
Well, surprise, surprise. “Okay, when can I have a booking?”
“Sorry, but we’re fully booked. You’re going to have to wait at least three months.”
“Okay, make the booking.”
After seeing the oral hygienist, she said, “You have serious problems that I can’t fix. You need to see our specialist.”
“Okay, when can I see him?”
“Next year.”
My conclusion? My husband and I are going to Bangkok (open to interpretation). It’s cheaper, faster and we’ll have a holiday. So next month, when I disappear off FS, you’ll know why.
My poor dog is not exempt either. A few weeks ago, I noticed my dog had a swollen nostril with discharge. It looked to me as if she had cut her nose in the garden while burying a bone. I treated it at home with betadine for a few days, but it suddenly worsened. I phoned the local vet and told them my dog’s face had swollen overnight, and I needed to bring her in as soon as possible. I was told, “Sorry, but you don’t have an appointment. All our vets are busy. Bring her in on Sunday.”
By Sunday, the dog’s face was awful. Anyway, she’s been on cortisone and antibiotics for over a month. Finally, she’s starting to look normal.
Back in Africa, we never turned customers away. My husband consulted everything that came in unless he was out or doing surgery. Usually, we’d put the animal in a kennel, and he’d see it as soon as he could. Our fees charged were also lower.
Although I now live in a First World Country, it’s surprising to discover that better medical care is available in Africa. Is this a New Zealand problem, or is it a First World problem? I’m just feeling curious.

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