Competition entries

Ally Millington

Four Years

Four years. Four years of starvation, animal attacks, genocide, and landmines. Four years of ambush and war. Four years of walking with 20,000 children, clutching guns, trying to remain brave. One foot forward, don’t look back.

1989, what was I doing? Was I worried about those children fighting for survival in South Sudan? Did I even know where Sudan was?

No, I was roller blading through the neighbourhood, making eyes at boys, painting, watching Alf on TV, chatting to friends from school.

Selfish, that’s what I was. Now, I can’t stop thinking about them, the Lost Boys.

Henry Farnan

That Face in the Dark

His face is so dirtied, so scuffed, it nearly merges with the concrete beneath him. The neon sign of the bar above us injects orange into the crimson that pours down his right temple. Splatters so flesh I can smell the blood fuming off the metal pole in my hand. A grip so hard my knuckles shake, white.
I step over him and glance back, catching his dying eye in mine. There’s youth there and it forces a pain from my chest. I swallow it back down.
‘At least now he won’t snitch,’ I say.

Jane Lawton

Shark of the Soul

He was obsessed. For years he held onto the information. It circled his consciousness like a shark looking for prey. His own dark past made him fearful he would become the prey if he stepped forward to the police. The dark night and strange movements at a building site that was now covered in concrete haunted his soul. Living rough with his dog overcame his fear. Harsh interrogations, suspicions and disbelief followed. His dog died and then his mother. Literally his heart broke. He died before the trial of the Claremont killer. One body was never found.

Susie Conte

Monsters under the bed

I have always found the journey to the toilet at night a difficult one. I hate to feel exposed. The sleepout of the back verandah is open to the elements, a thin veil of mosquito net separating me from the open world. I am only ten, and the night still holds magic and fear for me. The darkness has eyes. I took a breath, flushed the toilet and scampered through the kitchen door, locking it behind me. As the lock caught, I laughed to myself. It seems silly once you are safe. I took a long jump into my single bed from the door because, you know, monsters under the bed.

Nadia Heisler

Polished

On my way home. Train packed, masquerade faces everywhere. Work is finished, but I’m still smiling with my eyes. It’s hard. My manager said my skirt was too tight, too pro-vo-ca-tive. Who failed to teach me how to behave?

Was it you, mum?

Opposite me, a man holds an enormous bouquet. The flowers look so…wild. I can’t see his face amidst all the foliage, so I check his shoes, shiny and polished! I wonder who is being gifted these flowers. The one who polished his shoes?

Is she well-behaved? Or wild like her flowers?

Alexandra Hargreaves

Forest Flight

It had been too long since she’d fed her chick, her nest burnt and full of lingering acrid smoke. The damp mists of the sky offered shelter and sweet relief. Soaring through clouds, the loss of her flock echoed keenly, every shadow meant potential threat without help. A break in the clouds and she spotted a patch of green, shrouded by blackened trees. She dove, slicing through the air towards the ground. Surreptitiously, she poked her way through the earth, desperate for a patch that might yield a meal. At last! A juicy, wriggling worm, hers for the taking.

Owen Gust

The River Breathes

They’d drowned early this morning. Caught in a mirage of themselves, I’d guess. A cacophony of water, breaking onto rocks with the force to kill would have dazed them, lulled them into intoxication and frankly, I don’t blame them in the slightest.

Someone told me that a couple had tried to save the others, whose wrists caught under unfortunately angled pieces of granite. Stupid boys.

Seeing the rapids with my own eyes, I can see I was wrong; the tree’s whisper and the river purrs, the stillness scares me.

Cupping my hands, like my father had taught, the water’s sweet.

Owen Gust

The River Breathes

They’d drowned early this morning. Caught in a mirage of themselves, I’d guess. A cacophony of water, breaking onto rocks with the force to kill would have dazed them, lulled them into intoxication and frankly, I don’t blame them in the slightest.

Someone told me that a couple had tried to save the others, whose wrists caught under unfortunately angled pieces of granite. Stupid boys.

Seeing the rapids with my own eyes, I can see I was wrong; the tree’s whisper and the river purrs, the stillness scares me.

Cupping my hands, like my father had taught, the water’s sweet.

carolyn parker

Light and Shadow

They’ve removed their mask

now half in light and half in shadow

not sure they want to be seen

Vulnerable eyes, baby skin

mullet and blunt bangs, hair of a rebel

they’re blue-toned like

a sad Picasso

Pain

and hope

and strength

and stubbornness

in their blue-toned face

Looking past the frame

maybe toward tomorrow?

or is a memory recalled?

do their eyes feel more looked at than seeing?

They linger there

caught in a moment of time

half in light half in shadow

blue-toned like

a sad Picasso

Vasco Pimentel

Pushing B(l)ack

We’ve soared this land for centuries past. And of our precious species, we might be the last. We’ve witnessed history: strangers arriving with their menacing ways. Their fires burnt everything down, dividing our old ways, for when they cut down our trees, they cut down our days. But the land is sparse, and so we screech and squawk ahead. Sky-high we soar, piercing the blue with glimpses of black and red. What would it be of my species, dear visitor, if it hadn’t been for you? Where would we be, the proud black cockatoo?