Competition entries

Gillian O'Shaughnessy

The view from apartment 95 on the Wednesday afternoon

The birds are the first sign, though she doesn’t know it yet. She sees them rise like a toss of black confetti and fall as one, shrieking. Something must have spilt on the footpath down below.
She hopes the clamour doesn’t wake the baby. Creeping up the hallway, she opens the door, her footsteps as soft as butterfly kisses. She tiptoes across to the cot. The small knitted blanket has been thrown aside, a one-eyed teddy smiles up from the floor. A slight breeze curls around her neck, thin white curtains billow in a ghostly whisper across the open window.

Rosalind Thomas

Certified Male

Spider Seaton had spent his life astride his pushbike - postman and mail criss-crossing the streets that fanned out from the Nullagine Post Office.

The Mayor declared: ‘He’s been on that bike so long he’s turning into one.’

Spider could only remain upright by moving forward. If he slowed to a stop, he toppled over.

The townsfolk grew used to their half-man half-bike. Spider spoke in a breathless whir. Walking uphill, his voice notched down a gear. His wife complained their lovemaking had become mechanical.

On the day Spider retired, everyone wore their right trouser legs tucked into their socks.

Alison Davis

Frozen

When Hannah’s cat died, she stored his body in the chest freezer. Just until she could make funeral arrangements. Wedged between the peas and an ancient chicken casserole, his earnest face looked up at her every time she lifted the lid. Sometimes, late in the evening, she lifted him out and cradled him on her lap, returning him to his icy home only when he began to thaw. One night she couldn’t sleep, and she climbed right in beside him. That’s where her husband found her. He stored her body there. Just until he could make funeral arrangements.

Rebecca M Newman

Poetry

Kids Sarah doesn’t even know mutter, Poet, sneering, as they pass her on the stairs. She’s stopped pointing out she doesn’t write the poems – just memorises them, carries them in her head like talismans.

In English it’s that relief teacher again. He leans by the door and scans the room for transgressions.

‘Borrow a pen?’
Sarah doesn’t have time to answer – the teacher slams his hands on the desk.

‘When you can recite ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ by heart, then you’ll have time to chat!’

Twenty heads swivel in Sarah’s direction.

Her chair scrapes as she stands.

She begins.

Elaine Hanlon

Smart Oven for Lonely People

Daisy is freaking out. Still no perfect her. Dozens of failures pile up in the corner. The Smart Oven had promised to make a magnificent new life; just add skin and hair, then follow the recipe for a flawless creation. It should have been baked to perfection.

Daisy caught her reflection in the oven door, her face covered in Band-Aids, her scalp peeping through her hacked hairline. For a second, she wondered if you really could bake your way out of loneliness. She cut another sample, ignoring what she knew deep down: she was never any good in the kitchen.

Paul J. Laverty

True West

Seargent Brewster surveyed the carnage. The tow truck had jackknifed, taking out two utes, a Harley, then knocking over the town’s only lollipop lady, who’d luckily just finished her shift.
‘The driver stumbled out,’ she wheezed from the stretcher. ‘He scarpered true west.’
The Seargent hooked a tow chain onto his police car bumper. He gathered the bloodied hi-vis vest and STOP sign knowing he’d be back in the arvo to do her job too. He’d miss The Chase season finale and for this alone he’d throttle Tony the Towie when he saw him at happy hour.

Shannon Brie

Last Night

It is my second bookstore today. My gaze lingers over the new releases, but I force myself to keep moving. In Australiana, they have three Randolph Stow’s, three more than the last shop. My friend, she was born in Geraldton too, just like the author. I knew that when she lent me that Merry-Go-Round in the Sea paperback, it was portentous.

When I knocked it into the bath last night, guilt rose, like steam from the water. While I did not plan to stop sleeping with her husband, I reckoned the least I could do was replace her ruined book.

Mikhael Koshi

A Family Man

His children play outside; their soft, fragile voices elicit a smile across his lips. As a parent, there is no sweeter tune. He walks to the window; out in his safe and secure backyard, where no one can take them away, they chase each other. The TV is on; the news reports another missing kid. How awful, he thinks. The front door opens; he turns to look. At the door, his wife is there. She smiles excitedly; a little girl is by her side.

His wife squeals. “Another one!”

He looks at the girl.

He grins.

“Welcome to the family.”

Andrew Kelly

Mix Tape Memories

“You belooong…” The voice quickly turned to garbled nonsense as the car’s tape deck chewed through the magnetic strip. His only anchor to this world replaced with a guttural scream as I scrambled to save him. Ejecting the cassette in a blind panic, streams of black ribbon spooled across my lap as I pulled it free.
“No!” I yelled trying in vain to shove it back into the plastic housing. It was too late, he was fading fast. I looked over at him and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry’. He smiled sweetly reaching out to touch my face before disappearing into memory.

Shannon Meyerkort

Telling the Bees

The bees attended my father’s funeral, settling on the low branches of a Moreton Bay Fig. Their hum was a backdrop to the sobs and sighs as the community said goodbye to its last beekeeper.

He made me promise to tell the bees when he died; to tie a black ribbon around the hive. They would understand, he said. He told the bees things he could never tell me, his voice low beneath their earthy buzz. Telling the bees was a custom as old as bee-keeping itself. They understood.

When the coffin disappeared, so did the bees.