Time To Write
2013 short story prize
First published in 2013 by Northern Melbourne Institute of TAFE Bachelor of Writing and Publishing’s Yarra Bend Press.
Email: [email protected]
Web: https://www.nmit.edu.au/ybp
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Senior editor Robyn Doreian
Cover designer Nathan Jurevicius
Time to Write would like to thank everyone who took the time to enter the 2013 short story prize. We commend our category winners and honourable mentions who have made this publication possible.
Congratulations, you are now published writers!
Table Of Contents
Acknowledgements
Foreword - Dr Karen Simpson Nikakis
Introduction - Robyn Doreian
Category 12 to 14 years
Winner:
There’s No Escape - Mark Lasky-Davison
Honourable Mentions:
Curiosity Killed The Cat - Elise Bennell
The Jade Jewellery Box - Haini Jiang
The Lost Locket - Ciara Brennan
The Lair Of Anarach The Cloud Breather - Tristan Simpson
We Are Birds, We Are Free - Ella Crosby
Closure - Dinushka Gunasekara
Category 15 to 17 years
Winner:
Warmth - Samantha Walls
Honourable Mentions:
Stay - Sammy Liang
Scars And Bones - Alanah Mahon
Blooded - Vivienne Ngau
Ominous - Jake Jones
When Light Fades - Allanah Showell
Broken - Annie Kheo
Category Open
Winner:
Marble Cake - Syie Mei Thai
Honourable Mentions:
Monsters - Jo Antareau
Do I Look Fat In This? - Sandy Bennett
Snakebite - Kate Molony
Frozen Teeth In A Sunken Face - Jack Waghorn
Cunnamulla - Pavle Radonic
There Is Never Enough Time, For Anyone - Chris Rowley
Category NMIT Students
Winner:
The Wedding Cake - Matthew Latham-Black
Honourable Mentions:
Blameless - Jessica Tait
A Settling Of Ash - Peta Hawker
Misguided - Amanda Kontos
On Almost Any Given Day - Thys Pretorius
Rest Stop - Chloe James
About the Bachelor of Writing And Publishing
About Yarra Bend Press
Acknowledgements
The Time to Write short story contest and Bachelor of Writing and Publishing students’ anthology would not have been possible without the help of Jan Robinson, Terry Ninolakis, Matthew Latham-Black, Peta Hawker, Amanda Kontos, Jessica Tait, Zach Gardner, Emmanual Vitulano, Thys Pretorius, Christina Ratcliffe, Kristian Hatton, Megan Hanson, Mikki Joiner, Avrille Bylok-Collard and the students of Writing Professional Practice 2013.
NMIT staff Karen Simpson Nikakis, Elise McLellan, Amy Espeseth, Brad Webb and Annie Fitton also contributed expertise; in particular, Dr Michael Kitson.
NMIT’s Bachelor of Illustration students Alexandro Aguanta, Evie Cahir, Felicia Choo, Nina Elliot, Shawn Lu, Constance Hunter, Daryl Toh Liem Zhan, Jay Manley, Emma Wiesenekker, Kit Bennett, Ruby Halwi, Laura Lea, Zac Grenfell, Tom Van Gaans crafted wonderful illustrations, as did esteemed Australian artist, Nathan Jurevicius.
Foreword
Dr Karen Simpson Nikakis
A warm welcome to the Bachelor of Writing and Publishing’s second Time to Write anthology that, in keeping with our inaugural publication of 2012, celebrates the wonderful craft of writing. Of course, short stories are just one of the myriad forms writers use to express their creativity. Novels, novellas, flash fiction, poetry, screen and film scripts, graphic novels, articles, journalistic pieces, song lyrics, blogging, podcasting and tweeting are some of the others, and in keeping with the creative impulse that impels writers to write, the list keeps growing.
This year has been an exciting one in the program. The new degree has been finalised and is envisaged to commence in 2014. It reflects the massive changes that have taken place in the writing and publishing industries over the last few years and offers students a greater range of subject choices and digital skill development to support commercial or self publication — either in print or online. The year has also been an exciting one for staff member Ms Amy Espeseth, whose first book Sufficient Grace was long-listed for the inaugural Stella Prize and short-listed for a NSW Premier’s Literary Award.
Writing though, is not about prizes, no matter how wonderful these are. Writing is about making that story you’ve been carrying around in your heart, either fully formed or half guessed at, into a reality. It is about sitting down in front of an empty notebook or blank screen and filling it with engaging characters and beautiful settings. It is about daring to write. Congratulations to all of you who had the courage to write your stories and to share them with us. Keep writing!
Introduction
Robyn Doreian
Firstly, thank you to everyone who entered our second annual Time to Write short story competition. Almost 150 entries were submitted and came from as nearby as Essendon and as far away as Edinburgh. But more astonishing than our entry from Scotland, was the enthusiastic and imaginative responses from each of the four categories: 12 to 14 and 15 to 17 years, open, and NMIT students.
We received some truly spectacular entries, particularly from our youngest age group. The winning story, “There’s No Escape”, by Mark Lasky-Davison, left the judges stunned by its mighty description of a wounded solider and its unexpected, quirky end. Similarly intriguing was “The Lair of Anarach the Cloud Breather” by Tristan Simpson. His painting of the dragon Eclipse was so fantastical, we could hear the beast’s giant wings beating.
Surprisingly, the 15-17 year olds preferred darker subject matter such as ghosts in “Warmth”, the winning piece by Samantha Walls. Anorexia and self-mutilation inspired “Scars and Bones”, a bleak tale by Alanah Mahon; the latter theme also fuelled “Blooded” by Vivienne Ngau.
The winner of the open category, Syie Mei Thai, adopted a sorrowful tone. “Marble Cake” begins with a husband in the kitchen following his wife’s recipe, but it concludes with a tender reflection on her residence in a nursing home. Kate Moloney reached a dangerous pitch in “Snakebite” as her character narrowly avoided the reptile’s fangs.
We were delighted to see NMIT represented by such high calibre stories as “The Wedding Cake” by Matthew Latham-Black. His winning entry spun a taught tale of retribution for adultery. Equally impressive was “On Any Given Day” by Thys Pretorius. Beautifully penned, this story told of a church-going man and his un-churchlike ways at home.
This year’s standard was impressively high. Please use these imaginings as a springboard for next year’s contest. So read on and be inspired.
Category 12 to 14 Years: Winner
There's No Escape by Mark Lasky-Davison
The plains were deserted of life. A muddy flippin’ wreck. Bodies littered the ground. Woo
den planks scattered through the slush, once tramped upon by millions of soldiers, now barely able to hold off the rain. What had been a field of flowers and freely roaming sheep had become a sea of rolling mounds of dirt, rats and disease. Not even flies could live here.
Among the spaghetti limbs was a hollow figure, his eyes abnormally large in a featureless face. He hadn’t eaten a damn scrap of food in almost six days. He was only twenty though you wouldn’t tell. His skin was so loose you couldn’t see where it ended and the tangle of bodies began. He didn’t have the strength to blink and the ants had been feasting on his eyes. The field was deathly silent. He longed to hear a sound. Any sound. Even the sound of a knife ripping through his chest. It wasn’t a blessing to live. When he had been stronger he had tried to end it but God just wouldn’t let him go.
He tried to calm his nerves but his mind was torn. In the last few flippin’ years of pain and suffering all he had done was kill. And what good came from that? Did it please some flippin’ general? Did he enjoy seeing them blast each other’s heads off? What must he think of us? Little maids fussing about the length of his coat? Tickling his nose and placing cake in his mouth and milk by his side? If he could’ve, he’d have let us chew his flippin’ food for him. Probably too lazy to lift up his arm and make more orders. Orders to kill. Orders to kill more damn innocent people. And I could clearly remember the terrified face of each man I had killed. All men like me. No one had wanted to fight.
It’s a terrible way to live, if you can call it that, kill or be killed. I should be dead. My left leg is severed to the bone. I can barely see, thanks to the ants and the grisly face of some unfortunate, lying dead above me. But I can feel. If it weren’t for the press of dead bodies acting as a tourniquet, I’d have bled to death already. Even if I am found I’ll be tried for treason – for dressing up in an enemy uniform – just to keep warm at night – an act that accidentally got me fighting for the enemy side. Surely face the death penalty for that. So what difference would rescue make?
War seems like such a flippin’ waste of time, money and lives.
Even I had better things I could have done with my life. Two more years and I would have finished my medical degree. Then I could have achieved my goals – to save people, not end them. And my beautiful girlfriend, Jeanne! We would have had such a happy life together with lots of children and grandchildren. We would have grown old with plenty of food and wine in our bellies. I had thought this war would be a grand time but in just days of arrival, I saw my brother fall, a bullet to his head. I cried out to him but to no avail. He never got to see his unborn child and now I fear I shall never be an uncle.
The pressure above me had shifted. I tried to yell out in pain but no sound came out. The blood in my legs began to run freely again; the pain riddling my mind. I drifted in and out of consciousness my leg becoming unbearable… light seemed to burn my face, still I could not see and my mind drifted… scratching, shuffling, such noises exploded in my ears… my body rose, lifted up and fresh pain rushed across me… a voice broke through… I was pulled from amongst the dead bodies of men… breath in my ear… two fingers on my neck… seeking my pulse… I’m in a car… in a bed…
I sit up and try to look about, I feel my leg – nothing – the shade of a man enters the room. I hear the steps come closer, he says something to me in my own tongue, German, something about three months and treason. I run my arm along the wall, feeling out what I recognize by touch as a bookshelf. In anger, I snatch up the weight of a book – just another thing that war has prevented me from seeing. Now bursting with rage I tear off the sheet that encases me, topling out of the bed. I ram the bookshelf making it sway. Bring it down upon me. The top of the shelf, on my temple. I scream in pain but no sound comes out. I loosen my grip on the book. Finally, my time come.
Now is when most people close their eyes and say goodbye. Now – the time when most people close their eyes and drift into a peaceful goodbye – but no sound came out.
How ironic, saved from a pile of bodies to be killed by a pile of books.
Category 12 to 14 Years: Honourable Mention
Curiosity Killed The Cat by Elise Bennell
The sun beamed down relentlessly on the students as they alternately complained of fatigue, blisters and sunburn, while endlessly stumbling over tree roots in the path or tripping over the next pair of heels in front of them.
At least it seemed that the trek across the river would remain memorable – if not for the right reasons – as Peta Kendall, year nine, had been noisily regaling any who would listen to her story of the time her uncle had made her eat oysters. So it’s true to say that Peta wasn’t paying proper attention when her foot slipped, and despite waving her arms frantically, crying out in surprise and grasping at the student beside her, it was perhaps inevitable that she would fall in.
While Peta’s sister walked behind her snickering into her hand, Peta might have spent the rest of the day grumbling bitterly about her discomfort but fortunately the warmth of the day and the sun’s rays made short work of her wet clothes and soon Peta returned to her chipper self.
On the path ahead of damp-Peta, Isabelle Walters walked alone. A school camping trip wasn’t something Isabelle had been much keen to participate in but as her classmates straggled along chattering anything but the immediate surrounds, Isabelle found her attention piqued and curiously drawn to the abundance of nature. The trees towered like skyscrapers. Birds fluttered madly as they launched themselves out of the canopy and it all served to make Isabelle’s mouth curl up into a smile, especially as she thought herself the only one to notice it.
That first night the air was musty and hot, making the insides of the tents suffocating and leading many of the campers to contemplate sleeping beneath the stars. That night – after most people had passed out from exhaustion by the day’s vigours – a few figures remained awake and moving about in the shadows like restless spirits. As the night wore on, to amuse themselves they made noises into the darkness, imitating feral cats and sounds they thought to be the calls of monsters. Isabelle was woken by these very noises. At first she blinked, the gears in her head seeking traction as she tried to make sense of where she was. Beside her the last of the campfire’s embers flickered, yellow and red against the charred logs. And it was as she shook off the stupor of sleep that Isabelle took in a shape that loomed behind the campfire and seemed to towering over her like the tallest of the trees in the forest.
“Come on sleepy head, we’re going on an adventure.”
The shape transmogrified and in its place, Peta stepped into the muted ring of firelight, grinning. From the shadows stepped four of Isabelle’s classmates, all baring equally smug smiles that screamed trouble.
Wiping her eyes as she sat up and swivelled about to face Peta, “We’re not allowed to leave the campsite,” Isabelle croaked. She was wary of the group that accompanied Peta and ¬– even if there was barely enough light to see by – Isabelle felt sure that she could intuit Peta’s growing Cheshire grin through the dark.
“And you’re not the least bit as intrigued as we are?” Peta cocked her head to the side, hazel eyes taunting as they swept over Isabelle. “Didn’t you hear?” Peta continued, not ready to give up before the fun began. “There’s a secret.”
“A secret?” Isabelle repeated and catching the contagious excitement which began to cloud her better judgement.
“You in or out?”
“Well,” said Isabelle and a new voice piped up from behind Peta, unaware that Isabelle was now decided and positively raring to go. “Come on, what are you afraid of?!”
The group was indeed an unruly bunch. Looking like they had been mismatched on purpose just to create variety. Isabelle could make out Taylor Douglas, the stubborn headstrong tomboy who would probably have gone off on her own it if came to it; Alex Williams, who didn’t know when to shut his mouth and constantly had something to say; the usually quiet, Hazel Baxter who by fire light now wore a ch
eeky grin, and the notorious, Daniel Reid, infamous for many of the most notorious school pranks.
The six set off barely able to contain their giggles, especially Peta, who, according to her, the teachers had been whispering that night about packing up and leaving early because of something that had occurred down near the river. She didn’t say what, which caused a tiny sliver of worry to break through Isabelle’s excitement.
“What do you think it is?” Taylor asked Hazel who was leading the group, her torch trained on the ground. Hazel shrugged in reply, maintaining her demeanour as the girl who didn’t speak.
“How long is this going to take?” Alex whined, his expression contorting into one of anxiety, now that the group was slipping away from the familiar campgrounds. Alex’s cool façade failed when Daniel surprised him by breaking the night’s eerie silence trying to mimic a crow’s caw. Utterly spooked, Alex let out a cry before darting away and running fulltilt back the way they’d come.
Unfazed everyone else walked on and only then did Alex reappear, his eyes narrowed as he glared at Daniel who just smiled back.
They walked until Peta paused in her step, making the group do so as well. At first, Isabelle had to strain her ears to hear the soft, nearly inaudible trickle of the river. It was melodic to listen to and she nearly lost her train of thought.
“It’s beautiful,” Taylor sighed as they approached the river. The full moon was a silhouette against the water, ripples disfiguring the mesmerizing image.
Everyone but Alex seemed captivated by the scenery. His eyes were glued upon a hunched figure a couple of metres away from them. Wary, Alex took a few tentative steps towards the shape before stopping. He took a few more steps until he was hovering over the form.
Time To Write: 2013 short story prize Page 1