Competition entries

Alana Pritchard

Statuesque

Despite being tall, dark and handsome, most passed him by without stopping to say hello. Every day was the same. Their eyes would connect for a second, then detach. He felt hollow. Just a husk of something once brimming with life. Soon even fewer would pass by, when the finished BORR would cut Bunbury right out of the journey down douth.
 ‘Daddy, he’s scratchy.’
 Fergus had been so deep in thought he hadn’t seen the maroon Mitsubishi Outlander roll in.
 ‘He just needs a bit of oil, Taj.’ The father gave him a firm double pat on the rump.

[Inspired by Fergus, wooden statue on Southwest Highway]

Alice Macri

Salt

The fizzing slap of the waves against the boat’s hull intensifies as they get closer to land. The ocean air clings to Gabrielle’s skin and stirs her hair into matted knots.
Her father points towards a shimmering slither of reddish brown on the horizon. “Look, mon coeur! Land!”
Gabrielle shields her eyes from the relentless sun with her book, a battered leather copy of Histoire Romaine De Tite. The gold gilt of the spine catches the light.
“This is where we make our fortune,” he says, bright smile splitting his sweet face.
She licks her lips and tastes salt.

Alison Davis

Shattered

I slam the front door behind me so hard the windows tremble.
Before that, I hurled the glass vase across the kitchen. The one your mother gave us, hand-painted with cerulean flowers. It shattered on impact with the fridge and tiny shards of glass pooled around your bare feet.
Before that, you yelled with your mouth so wide-open I imagined I would disappear inside it.
Before that, we tossed words carelessly at each other. They fell lightly around us like summer rain.
‘It’s your fault,’ we both said.
Before that, we were breathless with the brilliance of our love.

Andrew R. Cameron

An Ode to My 2002 VX Commodore

We barrel across the Narrows in the stagnant heat of a summer’s midnight, low and intimate with the bitumen. Windows down, radio blaring. Tepid streetlights strobe in the spaceship curves of your bonnet. The freeway is ours, you promise, and the tiny city with its sprawling suburbia stretches vast and beckoning through your windscreen.
And now, old warhorse, with your wheezing, stuttering engine, time has rusted you, rendered you impotent and slow. Trapped us together in morning gridlock, where we crawl and rattle towards mundane pastures. But I don’t mind, because you kept your promise when we were young.

Annie Horner

The Back Fence

The Back Fence

He scaled the fence often, sometimes daily.
A jarrah fence constructed by my father.

But she was there, on hands and knees, polishing floor boards as the boundary was breached

As children we trudged the dirt track to and from school, dodging magpies, our days filled with times -tables and phonics.

One scorching summers day, we arrived early at our back door, always open, yet today, locked.
She eventually appeared in her dressing gown.
‘I’ve just got out of the shower’, she said.

The shower recess was dry when I went to wash my roasted face.

Caitlin Ellis

Opening the Cicada Jar

I lift one to my ear with a crunch.

I would awaken to their tymballic chorusing. That electric, hive-like hum. After seven years of sipping sweet eucalyptus sap, the forest would erupt with that tk tk tk tk tk of insect-song. Little wings would vibrate past my earlobes, and sticky feet would cling to my tent to malt – to emerge once more from the dark. I’d collect exuviae like beach shells and hold them to my ear. Let the wind blow through their hollow, cracked backs.

The old chitin ghost crumbles between my fingertips. Shivers into dust.

Casey Mulder

Self-image

She sat above Nitmiluk in the amber glow.

Awkwardly holding his camera out in front of her, she took a selfie. She shielded her eyes and peered at her veiled smile on the small display screen, before deleting the image.

The laughter of the tourists taunted her from the gorge below.

A rock fall jolted her from her waking sleep, and she caught herself disappointed to see him silhouetted by the sunset.

“We should go.”

She reluctantly rose and followed him back down the trail.

Devin Grimm-Kos

Angel Station

I've never believed in angels.

But I know about our iron. How it formed in space; hurtling at great speeds to be melted, beaten, and moulded into our dirt. How the first living things that existed, extracted iron from the ground, mining for oxygen.

And billions of years later, organic life mined the earth again, for the iron we discarded the first time. We melted, beaten, and moulded it. We hurtle trains at great speeds against tracks, and I believe that the screech of iron against iron is as close to angel song that we'll ever hear.

Emily Paull

Cold Ears, Warm Heart

That winter I learned two things; how to knit a beanie and that, like me, my Grandpa hated the cold.

His beanie was the colour of the sea during a storm. He joked it made him look like a person of interest. But a few weeks after I gave it to him, when he tripped on a loose plank on the boardwalk, he checked that it had not fallen into the dunes before he would let me tend to his bleeding hands.

It still holds the shape of his skull, and the warm, oily scent of his scalp.

Emily Robertson

Detritus

The bedside cupboard doesn’t close right now.
It’s only when she can no longer shove another thing in, that it’s cleaned out.
Years of accumulated detritus is emptied finally into the bin. The plastic stick in its bag emerges, fished from the bottom of the drawer.
Her throat goes hot and tight, hand clutching at the faded lines.
The bag makes it no closer to the bin than it did years ago, when those lines first appeared.
The promise. The dream. The heartbreak. This little stick and one black and white photo tucked away is all that remains of him.

Erika Johanson

Love-Soaked Cotton

After he slept in my shirt, I tucked it into bed like a child. That night I held it, breathing him in. Afraid of sucking out his essence, I took shallow inhales, trying to curb my greed. Afraid to leave the shirt empty of him – a vessel no longer inhabited by a ghost. In thick sleep, the scent tricked me into feeling his presence.
I later awoke to the lack of him. Taking a final and desperate inhale, I filtered through my mundane smells to grasp the last of his. Then, I put the shirt in the wash.

Isobelle Smith

Paradise or Perdition

The circular red stain in the glass indicates exactly what kind of night she had. When I went to bed she was still on white. I potter into the kitchen, carefully quiet to not rouse her.
The dishwasher mouth yawns open and I stack the glass. A solitary apple core discarded, the only evidence that she ate yesterday.
I brace my hands against the sink and look across the dust bowl front paddock from the window.
"We have to celebrate living in paradise!" Usually punctuates another glass being poured.
But paradise isn't at the bottom of a bottle of pinot.

Jeanette Stampone

Gentle Reminder

I find him awake in his hospital bed. I hand him the diary.
He frowns. ‘I already have one. My wife gave it to me for my birthday.’
‘Your old one is full.’
Irritation spreads across his face. He shoves the diary back into my hand. ‘I don’t want it. You nurses think you know everything.’
‘I just thought…’
‘It was a nice thought, but no thank you.’
I place my hand on his. ‘Okay. Get some rest.’
As I walk away, I open the diary, greeted by my own handwriting: For my darling husband. To remember our special dates.

Joanna Morrison

Tough Love

As a girl, I had a block-mounted print of Alice in a forest wonderland, intricately rendered in earthy green on sepia. Caterpillar sat smug on his toadstool, sucking on his hookah, watching Alice with narrow-eyed disinterest. She looked up at him with excellent posture, eager for his approval. Later, they hung in the flat I shared with friends, co-dependent at parties, unmoved by transgressions. Later still, watching over my sons, they persisted with their questionable dynamic until the velcro fasteners gave out and they fell behind the TV unit. I left them there a while, to think about their choices.

Josephine Clarke

Piggy Bank

They'll toss it out, the pink china piggy, with his cheeky grin, his green overalls, an ear tip broken jagged against my library shelf. They'll try the perishing stopper to check for coins, not hearing the chink of the sheep's head shilling, the plink of the big brown penny so loud in my empty bedroom – lino and holland blinds.
Straight to the bin, Royal Show memento; the only present he ever gave - the rosy cheeks so foreign to his language. For now, I'm saving memories no one else values – a museum for myself on my loaded book shelf.

Katie Pope

The Mermaid Shell

The air at Floreat felt heavy, as the waves licked the shore, scattering shells carelessly across the beach. We had collected more than enough, when Ella handed me another.

“Mermaid shell,” she said.

“Aha,” I replied absently, turning it over, inspecting its intricate, green patterns and shiny surface.

That night, as the rain fell heavy, I dreamed a sweet serenade in foreign tongues I strangely understood. I woke to find my daughter in my arms, the shell resting between our chests. We didn’t speak, drove to Floreat and waded into the foamy sea, returning the shell to its ocean home.

Laila Miller

Catch After Catch

My son strokes the balero’s worn hand-carved edges. I show him how to toss the barrel, peg upright, string loose, catch it neatly in the hole, its green and burgundy and black Aztec design painted for pesos in a Mexican street stall, scuffed from long-ago misses and catch after catch after catch. We hid the sombreros and woven baskets, but Mum didn’t mind the balero, its soft wooden thunk, catch after catch, after Dad drove our blue station wagon out of our driveway, back to his one-room flat and his new job, saving pennies for his next holiday.

Laura Motherway

From the Mouths of Babes

Dreaming, I inhale their tiny bodies, and in waking, I hold their pieces in my hands. Memento of innocence, of youth, of a time before life wearied me to unrecognisable frailty.

They’re all mixed up now, I can’t tell which one bloomed from which perfect child. I grew them inside me; I should know them, they are me, I am them, but now I am confused. Flustered they slip through my fingers and fall to the ground.

A shattering symphony.

I treasure that dishevelled box of baby teeth until I am no more than ash dancing towards the sea.

Liam Blackford

Fire, Water and Earth

This ‘kugel ball’ sculpture has a secret power, not known to many. There is a person in Perth at whose lightest touch the ball will spin at even speed for a full 24 hours. This person will go on to do great things in Western Australia: they may cure diabetes; they may raise a great family of ten or more children; they may even be the first leader of a newly established Western Australian Republic. It may be years before we know who this person is; for now, only the ball knows.

Macey Turner

My Father’s Only Vice

“I’m in here,” Dad would say when Mum yelled time for dinner. Out he’d come, feathers in his hair, smelling of nail varnish. Straight after, he’d return, closing the cupboard door. Reunited with his golden plumes and silver feathers. His rabbit and fox. For hours, he’d sit and toil. “Come look at this,” he’d say, finally. And there, a perfect crab or mayfly lying on the desk. I think often now of my father’s vice. Still clamped to the desk and waiting. And while it waits, the trout lie waiting in the river. They will wait, like me, forever.

Makenzi Prince

The Mother Tree

There was another life before this one, she knows this for certain. A hazy memory of the place where she grew up: dusty and dry, parched by its own breath, relieved only by waves of golden sunlight. The tree across from her house was pregnant with Boab nuts. They fell from their mother tree, hitting the ground with soft powdery thuds. The end of one life cycle, the start of another. A memento, its skin holds stories, memories, dreams. A gift she carries with her, places proudly on the shelf. A portal into that other golden life she once knew.

Nellie Crawford

A Rope Swing in the Forest

I wish you could feel it, know it. The feeling of swinging weightless over the river on a rope tied to a branch, and the terrifying freedom of letting go.

Of plunging through watery shafts of light to the murky bottom. Of kicking blindly to the surface to gasp the cool swamp air. And of floating, face to the treetops and the sky, while dragonflies hover with fragile rainbow wings.

But there’s nothing to show you. Just a weeping ulcer of a pool, a bruised sky, a dying forest, and this remnant of rope, still hanging from its branch.

Pat Saunders

Squeaky Shoes

My librarian’s squeaky shoes felled me like an oak in the old growth forest. Her metronomic, melodic stride played double bass to my dirty sax raggedy breaths, caught deep in my throat, ready to explode.
Her dimple twinkled when she smiled. I told her jokes ‘til I ran out. She played me kd on her turntable. The scratchy needle relaxed me like a good head massage. Before I knew it she’d pumped up the volume and played my B-side. My tongue curled around hers, swimming.
She stole my heart, tossing it to the reserves shelf alongside 'The Price of Salt.'

Rebecca West

Legacy

Women are born with all their eggs, like Russian dolls the generations are stacked one upon another.

Our family heirloom passes down through the maternal line. I first saw it on my grandmother’s wrinkled hand as we played board games and drank tea, then later on my mothers as she plated my hair. I am the current custodian. The gold band clasps the diamonds, still sparkling after a century.

Lately grandma pats my childless abdomen, the pressure once needed to form diamonds, now focused on me to reproduce.

"You’ll change your mind," she says, like I’m pondering buying a jacket.

Robin Bower

Watching

Her gnarled fingers were like an oyster shell protecting its gem. Slowly, she opened her hand to reveal a dainty, old-fashioned lady’s watch. Its delicate face was surrounded by a tiara of miniscule diamonds. The slim band rolled into two strings of the finest leather, trapped in a gold clasp.
‘Keep it safe.’
She passed me the watch, as if passing over a small dying mouse.
The glass on top was missing, and one leather strap had frayed.
‘One hand is gone… it needs to be repaired. You can’t even tell the time now,’ I said with a snort.
‘Promise.’

Rory Lefroy

Blot in the Copybook

‘Whatcha got?’
‘Squid.’
‘Nice! Watch out, it’s inking… oof, too late. You look like a walking Rorschach test mate!’
‘A what?’
‘One of those inkblot tests shrinks do to find out if you’re a murderer.’
‘Ha! Hang on, let me take a look. Hmmm, reckon you’re safe - I only see a butterfly.’
‘Yeah, probably all bullshit anyway. Hey mate?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Give us the knife would ya?’

Scott-Patrick Mitchell

The Promise-Shaped Doll

I commemorate a year of being clean by buying my mum a Barbie: 1996’s Bill Blass Barbie. This doll has a cropped red haircut. She wears a long flowing citrus yellow gown, trimmed with fuchsia. A doll my mum has loved from afar.

When the doll arrives I discover a letter, hidden in the back.

Dear Mum

I get out of rehab Jan 17, 1997. I’ll visit and buy you that Barbie you want.

Love, John

Us sons, buying our mothers moments to mark our success. To make up for absence. To hold back the relapse.

I am still clean.

Susan Braghieri

They came in search of riches, Kalgoorlie, 1895

Her baby daughter’s grave was now one of many dug in Kalgoorlie's parched red earth. Typhoid, they said, rampant among the prospectors’ tents with water scarce and sanitation absent. Hanni refused to cry. Another child sacrificed to her husband’s folly, abandoning Schleswig-Holstein for one goldrush after another in this bewildering land. She thought of four-year-old Carl, lost to fever in Cooktown. Hanni clutched the wishbone brooch made of Palmer River gold; an extravagance they could ill afford meant to summon luck. Luck, she knew, was like gold, an elusive promise they would chase and never grasp. She yearned for home.

Therese Edmonds

Home

If she closes her eyes she can shut out the distance so when the wheels hit the driveway she can pretend home is just around the corner. Then she can try to love him again despite being here, in Augusta, where she said she’d never live.
He brings her tea as the day ends, her hands still grubby from planting. The twin aches of loss and new beginnings collide in a sigh. He squeezes her hand.
“When will those be out, then, by spring?”
Her toes touch the fresh earth over the bulbs she brought from home.
“Yeah. By spring.”

Wendy Arthur

Spin Cycle

I left your ID card in my breast pocket and the washing machine buckled your photo into a misshapen parody. The colours are right, but it isn’t you anymore.
Hold still, let me remember. Your face shimmies loose in my mind. It is a dust moth, skittering and sliding. Fleeting. Elusive.
Alchemise into an apparition. Visit me as I sleep. Come, stand before me. Peer down, so I can paint your eyes, your nose, your mouth, deep into the twisted crevices. I want more than an echo, a mnemonic, a fragment. Live and breathe, laugh and smile, if only there.