This is just a little story I had to write for English, and the rationale is included so you guys will have an insight into my head =D. Bold is lyrics of the song "Blow Up The Pokies" By an Australian band, The Whitlams. Italics are flashbacks. And please don't criticise my spelling; I'm an Aussie, and we spell things different to Americans, 'kay?

I'm sorry if i've missed any punctuation; this computer doesn't have Word *grumbles in frustration*, so I couldn't edit it on there before uploading.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Blow Up the Pokies" or The Whitlams, though i did get to see them on their Little Cloud tour =D. Nor do I own Word. Microsoft does. If I did own Word, I would be very rich.

SHORT STORY

"And I wish I, wish I knew the right words To make you feel better, walk out of this place And defeat them in your secret battle Show them you can be your own man again."
He sat at the kitchen table, on a hard plastic chair, bathed in a dingy yellow light. The room around him was falling into disrepair, the plaster cracked, the tap dripping, the appliances ancient and the few cupboard doors that remained were wonky. On the table lay an envelope, stamped with the dreaded red words, FINAL NOTICE. He was scared to open it, though it didn t matter; he knew exactly what it said.
Taking a swig from the bottle of strong alcohol that sat half empty on the table, he scrunched up the envelope and threw it across the room in anger.

He was sitting in front of the machine.
Again.
"And it's strange that you're here again, here again."
Feeding money in, pulling the lever, watching the lights flash and the pictures spin, catching the small amount that trickled back out, if any did at all, feeding money in.
The little victories ameliorated the pain of the great losses. Too often, he d run out of money to go crawling to his friends , begging for money to fuel this fire. Now they just refused him. They knew any money he did win would go back into the machine, rather than paying off his debts.
He d lost all track of time. How long had he been here? Hours? Days? What did it matter? Time now, was so irrelevant.
"And your wife? I wouldn't go home."
He had a family. They were so dependant on him, his wife, and his kids. He was the breadwinner.
"They're taking the food off your table."
Was he addicted? Not in his own eyes. He believed that he could walk out at any time. He was a free man.
Wasn t he?
"And I wish I, wish I knew the right words, to make you feel better, walk out of this place."
So why did he keep coming back?
What drew him to this... this... black hole that was sucking away his money, his relationships and his life?

Sobbing now, the man put his face in his hands.
What had he done? He was alone in this shabby house. Could you even call it that? It was nothing more than a dilapidated shack, falling apart around his ears.
When had this started? Could it even be pinned down to one event? He was surprised he even bothered trying. It was over. He'd worked himself into a rut, and could not think how to get out. He was stuck; his life was at rock bottom. He didn t care how he got there. Why should he care if he ever got out? Perhaps others would care, but his mind was so focused on this depression that others did not gain a passing thought.

He stumbled into the house; it was much cleaner and in a lot better condition then. Different sized shoes were piled near the door, a handbag was on the hall table, and a cricket bat had fallen over in the living room doorway. He stumbled in late, late at night, to find his teenage son sitting at the kitchen table, waiting.
"Dad," his son sighed; relieved his father was finally home. The man did not notice his son, other than a grunted acknowledgement of his presence. The man's thoughts were so introverted this night- he had lost a large sum of money, larger than usual.
"Dad?" The boy was confused. Why would the man spend so much time in front of those stupid machines? How could they be more important than his own son?
"The little bundles need care."
"Why are you doing this? Why do you insist on staying away from us, from your family, squandering your life and your money on the pokies?" The boy was angered. How could his father be so inattentive? The boy was ashamed to call this man his father.
"And you can't be a father there, father there."
Wasn't this man supposed to be a role model and provider for the boy and his sister and the boy's mother? What good was a role model who was addicted to the pokies, spending every cent he had on those wretched machines?
"And I wish I, wish I knew the right words."
Seeing the man begin to cry, the boy walked over to hold him. "You have to stop, Dad. You can t spend your life wasting away down at the RSL!"
Sobbing harder, the man pushed the boy away. He did not want to hear his son's impassioned pleas to stop. And he definitely did not want to accept that maybe, like the boy had said, he was becoming addicted.
With one last glance at his father, the boy left.

As the man remembered his son's brave confrontation, he began to dwell upon the thoughts of others; something he had not done for a long time.
Thud.
The man looked up out of reflex- it did not matter to him which part of the house had broken this time.
The dust cloud swirled and slowly dissipated.
A cupboard door.
The man froze as he stared into the gaping hole the missing door had left, like losing a front tooth, mind you, from a mouth that was missing many teeth already.
In the cupboard lay a faded and drooping yellow rose in a cracked, white vase.

It was early afternoon, and the man was on his way home. He d been successful today- or, at least, he was a couple of dollars up. Not that he could tell. The losses became so unanimous that any small, far removed wins were the instigator of great exultation.
"Lots of little victories take all the pain."
In his hand was a beautiful yellow rose; crisp, bright and perfect. The rose was for his wife. He loved her dearly, but sometimes he felt she did not see this.
The man found a small white vase and put the flower in the middle of the table. She would be sure to see it there.
The man heard footsteps behind him, and a strange noise, it sounded like hard, plastic wheels rolling across the tiles in the hall. He turned and saw his wife enter the room, her face grim, and her eyes trained on the lone rose that the man had placed on the table. She had a suitcase in one hand, and the other held a carry bag that the man had not seen in many a year, not since they last went on holiday.
"And your wife? I wouldn t go home."
"I'm leaving," she said quietly, but still firmly. "The kids and I, we can't stay here. We've tried to be supportive, to help you, but how can we when you won't take a step back and see what you are doing?"
"The little bundles need care."
"You're ruining your life, but not only that, you are dragging us down with you."
"And you can t be a father there, father there."
I wish... I wish that there was something I could do to help you, but what? You have been sucked in. you have an addiction.
"And I wish I, wish I knew the right words."
The man looked away. He did not want to listen. He wasn t addicted. He couldn t be.
"Just... just go", the man sighed, looking away. He couldn't bear to turn around and watch the woman he loved leaving him.
He glared at that horrid rose, screamed in agony and anger, pushed it into the closest cupboard and slammed the door.

He knew, now, that she had to leave him. What else could she do? Who would want to stay with an...
An...
Addict.
Yes. He was addicted. They say that admitting it is the first step towards recovery, but the man felt worse.
He was stuck in the gutter, with no direction, no family, no life and an addiction to a stupid machine!
How could he keep living like this?
He couldn't.
The man did not think. He went to what was left of the medicine cabinet and dug out the strongest, most potent drugs he could find. He'd taken more than enough alcohol to react with the drugs.
It would be simple.

"Dad? Dad!" The boy called for his father as he entered the little house. The boy had just gained his licence and wished to share the excitement of being liberated with his father.
The boy looked in the kitchen.
His father was lying on the floor.
The boy rushed over.
The man's body was cold, stiff and lifeless.
The boy heaved.
The boy sobbed, grieving. He needed some time of his own before he called his mother and the authorities.

The boy drove. He knew what to do. He d researched it.
As he thought about what was to come, the boy reflected on the past. His father s life was stolen. Stolen by machines.
The boy was angry. Who would condone such a machine? Who would allow a man to become addicted to the pokies when he could be living out a wonderful life with his family?
"And I wish I, wish I knew the right words."
The boy had no father.
The boy had no father because of these machines.
The boy needed to help.
"And I wish I, wish I knew the right words."
Leaving the car, the boy went close to the building and lit the cloth of the Molotov Cocktail. He threw it at the gas cylinders at the rear of the RSL. He walked away. Ten seconds later, there was an almighty explosion. As the boy walked, his body was silhouetted by the burning flames licking up the sides of the building.
A radio crackled into life nearby...
"And I wish I, wish I knew the right words
To blow up the pokies and drag them way
Cause they re taking the food off your table
So they can say that the trains run on time.
Another man there was made the trains run on time."

RATIONALE

You don't have to read this bit, but it does provide an insight into my head (Well, as much as you can from an essay about my own work =D). If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask me, and I always welcome constructive criticism!

Short stories are designed to show the reader a snapshot in time where something significant is altered in the life of the character. In writing my short story, I have utilised the elements of this form of writing to present my opinion on gambling. Gambling affects not only the gambler but their family and friends, and has terrible consequences. My wish in writing this story is for my opinions on gambling to reflect in m reader s opinions, even if their values and attitudes are very different to mine.

Gambling is an inescapable addiction for those who are sucked in. Using a metaphor, I have described this addiction as a black hole ; an entity that not even light can escape. Like light, my main character has been sucked in and is unable to escape. This positions the reader to feel that the man is in a hopeless position- the reader is invited to pity him. The suicide of the man accentuates the hopelessness of his situation, for his only escape from his addiction was death. Again, this positions the reader to pity the man, and the family he has left behind.

My story was constructed so that the reader could see that the addiction of the man was leading to the destruction of his relationships. The faded and drooping rose is symbolic for these relationships- things that were once beautiful that are now discarded and broken. The fight with the boy, and the reader s access into the boy s thoughts, allows a deeper understanding of how the man s addiction had impacted his son and what his son felt about the man ( Why would the man spend so much time in front of those stupid machines? How could they be more important than his own son? ... The boy was ashamed to call this man his father... Wasn t this man supposed to be a role model and provider for the boy and his sister and the boy s mother? ). The sound the man hears in the hall, that of hard, plastic wheels rolling across the tiles, breeds a sense of foreboding, as most people would recognise this as an allusion to suitcase wheels: the man s wife is leaving him. She is leaving him because his addiction is ruining her life and their children s lives. However, the reader is not given access to the woman s thoughts, so empathy is more on the side of the man, who could not bear to see the woman he loved leaving him. Having the effects on the loved ones allows the reader to see that gambling addictions impact more than the gambler themselves, but also tears apart the addicted person s family.

I have constructed my story to show the depression of the man after his life had completely fallen apart. The sensory imagery of the dilapidated shack is also symbolic for the man s dilapidated life. The slow destruction of the house is reflective of the way the man has treated himself. The half empty bottle matches the man s pessimistic mood and, combined with all the questions the man is asking himself, showing his self doubt, the reader is confronted with a very miserable person. The suicide of the man is an important part of my story conveying depression. For a person to commit suicide, to kill themself, they must be very desperate, just wishing for a way to free themself. The reader is invited to feel for this desperate man, to want to help him escape from his black hole, without injuring those he loves more then he already has.

I designed my story to show only one way the family coped with the man s suicide. The boy was angry, not with his father, but the cause of his father s death. The boy had no father because of these machines. The fire is symbolic of the boy s rage at the machines that stole his father away. The boy, however, did not intend to harm anyone that was in the building, he just needed to destroy the pokies so that nobody else could waste away in front of them. The boy just needed an outlet for his feelings. He did not care about the consequences of his actions, but he could not sit idly by while other people s lives were ruined. The reader is positioned to sympathise with the boy, and to understand that it was the gambling which caused his father s death, and in turn, made the boy spiral out of control.

Through the use of these techniques I have created my story to reflect my values and my beliefs about gambling, that it is detrimental to those who become addicted, as it is an inescapable addiction, it ruins relationships, and it psychologically destroys both the addict and the addict s family. I have deliberately manipulated the techniques of short story writing to position the reader of my story to agree with my perspective on gambling. With my short story, I aimed to enlighten my reader on the issue of gambling, and what it could do to society. Though I know that what my audience thinks after reading my story is dependant on their own attitudes and values, it is the goal of a writer to impart their own opinion on their reader. My aim for this story is to leave my reader feeling that gambling is a devastating addiction for all those involved.