Gracie Delaney
Stories (6/0)
Monkey Bars
There are boys, running and jumping and swearing. They're throwing words about in a back-and-forth sort of way, big words that they’ve heard from their dads, their brothers, their sisters and their aunts: words that they don’t really understand, but like the taste of all the same. These words - bad words, dirty words - taste like an electric shock. They’re little zing-zings of pain that zap the boys’ tongues and tingle across the skin that covers their arms and their necks, feeling very much like something that isn’t supposed to be there. Because these boys, they aren't supposed to be swearing - they've been told this, time and again, and again, and again. But these words, they come with a flash and a flicker of white-rush danger: danger, danger, swinging from the monkey bars, and Michael is a bastard, and Daniel is a dickhead, and Benny is a worthless son of a goddamned-bitch. These swear words, they’re like lemon Starbursts on a tongue with a paper cut: sharp, stingy, so very sweet.
By Gracie Delaney2 years ago in Fiction
From Tasmania, With Love
On the 7th of August 1998, my life was changed irrevocably. Well, alright: in truth, it was my parents' lives that were changed irrevocably. Because on that cold August Friday, almost twenty-two years ago now, I popped into the world. So while it isn't an exaggeration to say that it was a fairly significant milestone for me, I feel as though dear old Mum and Dad probably registered the shift in a somewhat more immediate sense.
By Gracie Delaney4 years ago in Wander
Murder, Mirrors & Morgan Harper Nichols
A Note: This piece contains content relating to disordered eating and mental illness. 1. Murder I've never been much of a crier. Even as a kid, my eyes were, for the most part, dry. Tears and tantrums, they were my brother's department - youngest child syndrome and all that. I joked, I giggled, and on the occasions when something hit an inch too close to home, I would quietly wander away and sit, alone with it all bottled up inside of my head.
By Gracie Delaney4 years ago in Psyche
It's My Turn Now
Bundled up in an over-sized, over-fluffed dressing gown, Shan smirks slightly as she says to me, “I’ll tell you a story.” And, wrapping both arms about my legs, I settle in: I’ve learned that a story from Shanna White is a story worth listening to.
By Gracie Delaney4 years ago in Humans
Peace, Love & Cider
I sat at my desk, coffee by my elbow. As Nathan - my esteemed boss - muttered away to himself about case deliveries and canning costs, I wracked my brain for dinner recipe ideas. I had promised to cook: everyone at home was (somehow) busier than I, and in all honesty cooking has become somewhat of a hobby for me, as opposed to a chore.
By Gracie Delaney4 years ago in Journal
The 'C' Word
On January 22, the seemingly-unthinkable happened: my partner of two-and-a-half years asked me to marry him. Apparently, he's come to the silly conclusion that, despite my daily ridiculousness, he loves me enough to hang around for the next four-to-five decades. His loss? Who can say, but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the proverbial mouth.
By Gracie Delaney4 years ago in Humans