Competition entries

Andrew O'Connell

The Pirate

It was immediately after the battle of 1741 in Cartagena. The English had tried to take the Castillo San Felipe de Barajas but the Spanish had proved too strong. The sun had gone down, and darkness covered everything. A solitary light moved among the carnage - an English pirate intent on increasing his wealth. Suddenly, another light caught the pirate’s eye.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Señor …’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Mi padre – he perdido mi padre.’
The boy had lost his father…
‘That is my ship,’ the pirate said to the boy, as it sailed away without him just before dawn.

Jo-Anne Giles

Witness

The school crowd swarm to the tennis courts with Kimdarren held aloft and then dropped on the ground. He cries out and they laugh away his protest. I can see them from my tree alongside the town park. It is a small town. Koolyanobbing. It means place of hard rocks. I hear them. They are giggling with shared frivolity. Kimdarren’s cries punctuate their glee. His anguish rises in pitch but the older kids are in brutal fervour. They pull at his grey school shorts.

I turn away. I’m shook. I lower myself to the ground and hurry home.

Jacqueline Warner

D Day

That last ball had knocked him flat. He lay on the warm sand, winded, staring up at the sky. God, he loved cricket. Loved being there with his mates. Hearing the whack of the ball, the shouts of his friends. The smell of the sea and the sweat. Billy was a bugger for bodyline bowling.
“Come on Jacko, get up’ Billy’s face loomed above him – older, dirtier.
“Yeah I’m all right” he thought. “I think I’ll just lay here a bit longer”
“Keep moving mate”
It was loud, The noise was hurting his ears.
“Nah” he closed his eyes.

Craig Duncan

Day Trip

Uncle John and Aunty Pat's farm seemed like nowhere, ‘out there’. We’d already been caged four hours, bouncing on the Holden’s hot vinyl seats with sweaty legs and dust coming in the back window. Then the adults stayed in the kitchen talking about family stuff. Our chips lasted 2 minutes and we got bored playing with the horse-shoes and dice. Dad grumbled to us and waved the tennis ball. Thongs on, stumps out. Tom went keeper and Josie slips. I pulled Dad over the trees and we lost the ball. That’s what I remember. And sleeping all the way home.

Jessica Kenny

Bop

‘Oh my gaud, honestly Bufin, give it over!’
‘No. Leave me alone!’
‘Shadup, you two,’ Cooper calmly stated.
Cricket in the driveway-the best place to play. Dust. Gravel. Head hits if you got in the way.
Cooper, hands on his knees, watched the pitcher, cool as, wondering when he was going to throw. Curly, ready to clout Bufin if he didn’t at least hit the ball coming his way any second, started his prey mantis rock. He’d catch every ball Bufin missed and eat him alive. Bufin, threw the bat down, dust flyin’. Once again, Curly had got im.

Louise Tarrier

Birthright

XÆA-12 scans the monitor. Carbon levels optimal, oxygen optimal, nitrogen sub-optimal. Making the necessary adjustment to air quality he sinks back into his chair, resting his head into the cradle made by his hands, with the certainty of those born into greatness.

Conceived to keep alive newcomers who stake false claims to this red planet that denies them breath. An abode of geometric domes and grand palaces waking to a reborn sun. The sound of back-end scrubbers swishing like blood through a heart. His divine birthright. Whilst post-colonial thieves drill for wealth and new beginnings dreaming of oceans and home.

Nadia Rhook

Settler Dawns

Here, afternoon tea can be consumed at first light. A baby can be born before her mother’s waters break. A map of country can surround a church and take it hostage.

At high-noon we stand upright and walk with confidence through the gap between the riverbed and the shooting stars. The church tower is firing up crosses that get wedged in holy constellations of land. History’s potted bricks are whispering 'he who comes first will be last'. We flinch, try to keep living as if nothing’s happened.

I was born when we crawled over gravel and ancient stones into this scene.

Sam Elkin

False Claims

Your honour, my client comes before you today embarrassed by their actions, and with a strong commitment to make redress to those affected by his mistakes, and to address the underlying causes of his behaviour on that night; namely, problematic drug and alcohol use and impulsivity stemming from untreated anxiety and depression. My client particularly regrets causing offence to any female passengers in the train who were offended by his nudity, which can best be described as a performance art piece about contemporary gender relations. My client now recognises that this was not the right venue for such a piece, and is committed to confining his performances to artistic establishments known for such activities, with appropriate warning notices for graphic content. My client is deeply sorry, your honour, and requests leniency on this occasion so that he can avail himself of the appropriate community supports and continue to search for gainful employment in the arts industry.
Those are my submissions today. Thank you, your honour.

Pixie O'Neill

Everlasting

Rolling thunder, strobing lightning, drenching rain, red ground soft, a tiny seed awakens in darkness.
Seed casing cracks, a tiny frond emerges pushing toward light, chloroform explodes with colour in a magical chemical reaction.
Bulging flower bud, blushing pink, cupped in fraying paper thin layers. Warm sunshine coaxes shy pink petals to open, exposing butter yellow of precious pollen.
Buzzing bee, striped blue rump reflecting skies above, feeding, vibrating, facilitating precious fertilisation. Duplicated hundreds, thousands, millions of times across the understory.
Petals fall, a marsupial foot, tipped with black claws, crushing, perfume released, seeds fall, swallowed by the earth, everlasting.

J A Hooper

Mother

I was adopted.
It wasn’t a secret. I always knew.
Mum and Dad would say, ‘We chose you.’
When I was little I figured they’d gone to a shop and picked me off a conveyor belt.
I’d daydream about my biological parents, secretly telling Mum’s younger sister, ‘They’ll be rich and famous, own a Kingdom.’
Then I’d add, ‘Not that they’d be my real parents. Mum and Dad are that. I’ll always love them more than anyone who gave me up.’
Years passed and truths were revealed.
I wonder how much it hurt my Aunt to hear me say that.