the home page of david prater

This one's a secret, between us three. You, me and Buddha - our secret machine. A dim machine with four long limbs, two hearts and one desire. Explodes upon impact with water or fire. A new machine in time, its discernable hum. The clock that will not lock, an horizon's tilt. A pink smoke machine, a bubble-gum vending Buddha. Lights go out around the world. Someone asks a question but it's only "what?" - we're looking for a "wow". And that's not even a question. This one's a secret, between you and me. There's no one else listening, and the hotel's open. I have an interview with the manager. In my mind she's tall, though I haven't met her yet. I'm still carrying the machine with me - though I know it'll trigger palpitations in passers-by, strong motion in pavements and maybe even innovation in poetry. Powerful machine! Drilling stacks, plasmic karma, ornamental crushes. Through the gates of doom, blindfolded and shin...

For the first time ever, I've been asked to be a judge for a short story competition. The competition, organised by the City of Boroondara, features three categories: Open Short Story (judge Paddy O'Reilly), Young Writers Poetry (judge Bulk Ace ) and Young Writers Prose (judge, yours truly). You can read the press release here . Jippie. Here's hoping we get lots of good entries, and a minimum of fantasy writers. I clearly remember my own years as a young scribe, writing endless stories involving swords, scabbards, trumpets, duels and lords. JRR Tolkien, you've got a lot to answer for. Oh, and that also includes you, Anne McCaffery. Yeah, John Marsden, you too.

Please call a doctor. I'm losing blood. There isn't much time. I'm at home. Please call a doctor right away. I mean it. Hang up the phone, then dial the number. It's on the fridge. Above that one. Right. You've got it? Good. Now, do it. I'm at work. Please call home, as there seems to be some kind of emergency there. I can't, just at this moment, as I'm about to go into a meeting. I'm sorry about that. Just call me later at work. I'm in a meeting, call me later at work, I already told you that. I'm afraid that even if it's an emergency there's very little I can do about it from here. I'll be stuck here all day so you know where to reach me. Did you call home yet? Meeting is cancelled. Well, how could I have known that then? Did you - you didn't get through. Right. Did you try the mobile? I couldn't get through either. You what? Okay, I'll wait. I am late. I will be there at 2pm. I have to go to th...

Send me your sunshine. Only you can make this buddha machine run. When there's just one the drone creeps and the loops begin to skip. Buddha needs two machines to set up his feedback mantra, his fearful explosions. Buddha's playing your melody. Buddha's sweating underneath those robes. Your sunshine is Buddha and the sound of the northern sea drowns out my southern gales, my hail and cloud. I'll post them somewhere else. Through the chat rain and the weather reports, I can sense the glow of long evenings. Send them to me, too. Preferably on a floppy disk, in Buddha format. Compatible as two bombs. Bam! The machines that hum and create their own sunshine, a kind of quicksand sound I'd happily throw myself into, hoping that you'll come along. Teen movies starring Buddha. Family sagas in several parts. No more sad bildungsroman . Happy Buddha. The phone's earworm keeps drilling its designs. There's no need to send them on, just yet. Buddha can wait. I...