Competition entries

Sarah Ayres

The Child

The child was heavy in Donna’s arms.

It did not squirm, as she thought it might when placed into the hands of a stranger. It did not cry, for which she was thankful. She still had a splitting headache from the night before: the exertion of tears, the sodium-saturated meal left barely touched at the hospital café.

It simply gazed up at her, smacked its pink lips and blinked.

Those eyes were not her daughter’s. Hers. People always said she and Mia looked alike but, really, it was only the eyes.

Donna sighed, rubbing circles on its—her—back.

Emily Tsokos Purtill

The blessing

With my baby snuggling on my chest, I wait in the morning coffee line, foggy after another restless, forever night.

A silver-haired lady sashays towards me. I offer up a half-smile, bracing for the well-meaning advice. She doesn’t speak but touches my arm. Then, I see my baby’s life in the briefest of moments - her first words, waving goodbye at the school gate, falling in love, work, heartbreak, death. I blink. The lady is gone.

A curse? No, a blessing. I inhale my baby’s milky scent, cherishing the flicker of time that she belongs only to me.

Michele Nugent

Stupid eyes

I don't want to be a mum anymore.
Not this one whose brain is cooked with worry.
I can be the mum one of my children loves, needs.
But not this other mother.
There are too many questions.
I'm screaming inside my skull, eyes bulging, guilt lapping at my nostrils, catching in my throat.
I strive to be the best mum. But she's wrong for this meth addicted daughter.
I have to leave her alone, she says.
Leave her to slowly die.
That was a question. Punctuation can get fucked.
I don't know how to be her mum anymore.
My eyes still know how to cry. Stupid eyes.

Debby Vinciullo

Alive

It’s 3 am, you need me to meet another need. You cannot make it though the night without me and I cannot make it through the night without you.
The silky softness of your skin rivals that of my spun silk robe. The weight of your body against my chest more luxurious than any fabric.
I won’t complain about another sleepless night. This love is more fulfilling than sleep. More fulfilling than anything I’ve ever experienced.
When my mother died, I thought this feeling of belonging would always be replaced by loneliness. You have taught me a new truth.

Natasha Seymour

How do I feel good again

She couldn’t explain it with words, she didn’t know how to ask the doctor for help. How to describe a desire to throw your newborn daughter out of a window? Do you start with the voices in your head telling you this tiny thing- screaming, demanding every minute of your sanity - is the source of the dread in the pit of your stomach? That the voices need you to suck the life out of her lungs in order to feel good again? I don’t even remember what good is, but maybe I would if I got rid of her.

Rebecca M Newman

Fish

When he turned three we gave my little brother a goldfish. He named his fish Swimming In the Water, and put it in his pocket so it wouldn’t be lonely.
I forget what the next two fish were called.
Three little fish graves. (Three matchboxes buried under the roses.)
My mother took my little brother and bought a silver-scaled snapper, picked it out at the fish market one Sunday afternoon.
That was a pet too big for a pocket. It lived in the chest freezer in the laundry. My little brother was allowed to hold it — ten minutes every day.

Laurie Butterly

I Knew I Could Fly (Away)

After 8 years away, I boarded a plane. I was full of trepidation. Would I lose myself? Was I brave enough? I had moved to the Harbour City where I could be free. I paraded up Oxford Street in Mardi Gras and lived the queerness of the inner city. My rainbow wings were able to open. However, my dreams were filled with the colours and smells of home - red dirt, aqua waters and peppermint trees by the river. I fought panic as the plane door closed. I knew I could fly away, but could I fly back?

Melanie Cranenburgh

Broken Wings

A green and blue figure jogged into view: bicolour activewear hugged an athletic frame and wispy pigtails flapped with each movement - like the wings of a butterfly.
Whistles and calls echoed through the deserted parkland.
"Ro-o-o-ck-e-e-e... He-e-e-re boy...!"
When she paused to swig, spit and stretch, he approached, clutching the empty collar and chain.
From his phone he showed her pictures of Rocky and his kids. They'd be heartbroken.
Of course she would help him search for their pooch!
In the crepuscular glow of evening, creatures of the dark were coming to life.
But not the green and blue butterfly.

Bernice Barry

Beneath

I know you.
The weight of you, the rhythm of you.
The press of your small body rolling against me, laughing under the sun. The trembling of one bare foot balancing alone, the first of all your steps. Later, boot leather and hobnails. The patterned measure of running. You ran toward things more than you ran from them. Did you know that?
And now we come to this. We always do. You’ve grown still, old man. You sit so long that I warm beneath you. Soon, I’ll welcome you back.
The lightness of you, home again for a while.
Dust.

Natalie D-Napoleon

Moth Wings

In the nether time the world is made of moth wings, houses of paper and glass, the good intentions of women’s work—citizens walk the streets holding their breath. Trees have expired; chairs, dressers, dinner tables are made of recycled cardboard. Walls of houses are glass. Masks replace smiles, walks replace hugs. Women work 70 hours a week—half this work is not paid. We can look but not touch lest it all fall from the sky. Touching leaves us with silver dust on our fingertips, and broken winged-things flapping around in circles on the shadowless ground fighting to seek the light.