You and Me versus Zombies 014

(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)

My dad taught me how to shoot while I was growing up. It’s in a little subset of skills that I never thought I’d ever use again.
The postman has not moved from across the street, still twitching and muttering in the bright sun.
I bring the rifle to my shoulder and align the sight’s crosshairs on the helmet. I debat for a moment if the bullet’s caliber is enough to travel through all those layers, and move the aim for its chest.
“Don’t hold your breath,” whispers my dad into my mind’s ear. “Aim just above the target. And squeeze squeeze squeeze-”
The rifle kicks into my shoulder. The postman yelps, and sinks to the ground.
Sam starts to cry.

Clean Feed: The Clash of Perceptions

Forget the current soap-opera that is Australian Politics at the moment; there were once real issues to discuss. To wit: should Australia implement a nation-wide firewall on our Internet access? Should we have a clean feed?

The federal government was all set in rolling out this Internet clean feed upon us, though I have little knowledge as to where the issue now sits.

Eighteen months ago, I made my own video on the clean feed issue, and submitted it to Hungry Beast (and they gave me $1000!)

It’s available on the ABC website hungrybeast.abc.net.au/media/clean-feed-clash-perceptions

I thought time I put it on my own YouTube channel.

Here it is in glorious technicolour:

Cut yourself open!

Tonight after school, I sliced open Gabe.

Actually, we made fake wounds. We made fake flesh by mixing flour and water into a dough, and mixing it with coffee for skin tone. I attached it to his arm using Vaseline, smearing the edges down with more Vaseline so that it was a swollen lump on his arm.

I then ran a bread knife through the middle, gashing it open like a large wound.

We made blood using chocolate sauce (the Paris Hilton of chocolate sauces: thick and rich) mixed with red food dye.

I dribbled it down through his fake wound, letting gravity drag droplets naturally down his arm.

All the while we talked about types of blood (venous and arterial) and other things that lie beneath the skin.

And the results:

Oh, the agony!
Oh! The agony!

It really hurts dada!It really hurts, dada!

Mmmmmm.
Actually, it tastes like chocolate…

I give this after-school activity two thumbs up!
Two thumbs up!

You and Me versus Zombies 013

(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)

‚ÄčI wonder how it got so close without us hearing. But then, Sam does have a powerful set of lungs when he’s upset.
The postman was once an averaged sized person, but since Zero Hour the limbs have struggled to change their shape beneigh the work clothes. The motorcycle helmet is still bright red, and sits crooked as the head has began to morph and deform. The fluro saftey jacket is caked with dust and mud, and sometime over the last few weeks it has lost a shoe.
Maybe it sees us, or detects us, or something. Right now it sways in the bright morning sun, dazzled and confused, legs wobbling.
My trigger finger begins to twitch.
Sam knows the drill. For the first time this morning he is still, and lets me pick him off the slide and put him into the seat of the pram. I turn him away from the postman, and reach into the carryall for the earmuffs. They make his head look like two giant pimples have replaced his ears, and they must feel heavy. But Sam doesn’t touch them. He knows the drill.