“No!” My voice was firm. “Can’t you see? These, they’re battle scars. They show you are strong. They are beautiful and so are you. When I look at you, I don’t see a girl who can’t eat. I see you, and what you are is beautiful.”
Her lips met mine in a crush of emotion. For the first time in months, I felt her smile against my lips, and I smiled too. We would get through this. Together.
Category 15 to 17 Years: Honourable Mention
Blooded by Vivienne Ngau
I placed my key in the lock, opened the front door and bolted upstairs. I was grateful that my parents wouldn't be home for at a couple of hours. Burying my face in a tissue, I let the tears fall, salt on my lips and dripping from my chin.
The western sun was still high and its rays were hot on my blinds. I’d just been through another torturous school day. Of pretending to pay attention and lying to my friends, saying, "I'm good, thanks." I step into the bathroom and face myself in the mirror. I had changed so much in the past week. What usually filled my eyes had been replaced by black holes. While my once rosy cheeks were hollowed out. More tears blurred my sight.
I opened the top drawer to my right and retrieved a small shard of glass. I felt the cool material between my fingers as shut and locked the bathroom door before sliding down against it and clutching my legs to my chest.
Scared, I lifted my right hand until the piece of glass came into contact with my wrist. I tried to stop myself from shaking and turned the shard of glass over and over in my palm, waiting for the voice in my head to stop this. But it didn’t. I couldn’t hear anything, nor process what I was about to do for the upteenth time.
I knew I should speak up. Tell somebody.
It had barely been weeks since the accident but I missed her as if it were years. I remembered the accident and it became overwhelming. I craved the pain that offered escape. I pressed the edge to my wrist. The delicate skin parting beneath it as blood began to leak. There was pain and regret, but I couldn't find it in myself to stop. I just wanted to hold her in my arms. Wrap myself around her little body and bury my head in her fragile shoulders.
I felt rage as I pictured the driver’s face. I was on the other side of the crossing, waiting for her when the speeding car appeared. I shouted to her but my baby sister was gone.
I dug the blade deeper, the flesh parting beneath the pressure. I bit my tongue and tasted of iron.
I tilted my head up and stared at the skylight. The sun wasn't shining anymore. Worried my parents would find me I forced myself off the floor and washed my hands. Red trickled down the sink and the wounds stung beneath the water. The glass still in my right hand, I clenched my hands into fists. The edge penetrated my palm and I gasped before my throat closed up.
All the emotions I’d tried to block out during the day came rushing in. I struggled for breath and winced as the cut became deeper and deeper. Lost, I let go of the glass and it clattered in the sink.
There had been another time, when she was five, myself thirteen, we were playing in our tree house. She was the princess and was one of her maids. We played this game for hours before it was time to go inside. Forgetting the ladder, I remember her thoughtlessly placing a tiny foot in the open air. I protectively threw my body at her, pushing her back into the tree house but fell to earth and broke my arm. It hadn’t mattered because my little sister was safe and unharmed. I could feel a building pit of nostalgia fill my stomach, making my knees tremble.
I heard the unmistakable click of the front door being unlocked. In a haste to conceal what I had done, I chucked the glass back into the drawer and splashed my face with water. I crept out of the bathroom, pulling the door too behind me and finding mum almost at the top of the stairs. Hiding my hands behind my back I faked a smile. Mum was wearing the same gloomy expression since the accident and I could tell that her day hadn't been easy either. I ran towards her, desperate to relieve her pain, and moulded my body to hers, my arms clinging to her tightly. We stood silent, hugging, for what felt like forever. Then we let go and both of us began to sob.
Category 15 to 17 Years: Honourable Mention
Ominous by Jake Jones
Have you ever wanted to escape so desperately that you would abandon everything you have ever known, just to start out fresh? I have. I've dreamed to escape the shackles of my existence for longer than I can remember. I am trapped here, confined in this white-walled prison cell. It is my own personal damnation, for sins I have not committed. My only crime? Not being the perfect daughter; my mother is ashamed of my very existence. Yes my existence, I do not live a life, I simply exist, and every day of my existence starts the same, just like this.
I awake to the sound of thunder rolling off the clouds; flashes of light illuminate the house as I lie here motionless; overwhelmed with a pain that consumes my mind, my body and my soul. I take short sharp breaths willing myself out of bed but my body remains stiff; each movement forced and uncomfortable. I look myself up and down, survey the damage of last night and run these small hands over my swollen body. I cringe as the pain shoots through me. I support myself with both hands and push myself off the bed, attempting to stand.
Each step is excruciating but I make my way to the bathroom carrying towel, phone and fresh clothes. I make it to the bathroom but as I go to turn the door handle, my mother stop's me. She grips my wrists tight. I drop my head down and avoid eye contact. I nod my head, and she lets go. I can't stand the sight of her.
I swing the door open, and slam it behind me. With my back to the door, I slide down the timber until my head lays in-between my knees. Tears run down my cheeks. Content to stay here, lacking the will to move. I have hit rock bottom.
I eventually stand myself back up and ready to shower. I drop my clothes and turn the water to luke warm. Under the showerhead, the water’s force makes me flinch. I pull my long black hair to one side of my neck, exposing the worst of the bruises on my left shoulder. The pain is so excruciating my legs begin to shake. I lose my grip and slam my whole body into the tiled wall, causing the tiles to shatter and fall like dominoes.
The water’s pelting is disrupted by abrupt banging on the bathroom door. It's my mother again, abusing me and ordering me to unlock the door.
I stay silent, unable to make any translatable sound.
With small uneasy steps, I move towards the basin where I left my phone. I dial three digits carefully and place it to my ear. A calm, collected voice, asks me questions. I answer them with detail.
Outside my mother begins to count, gives me five seconds to open the door. I’m stunned and can't even breathe.
The lock breaks away from the door frame.
The vein in her forehead looks as if it's about to burst. With eyes filled with hatred she stares through me. I put the phone down on the bench. I stand tall but frightened as Mother explodes into rage. I wonder whether this is it, if this is the end? Will I die naked, with tears streaming down my face?
Category 15 to 17 Years: Honourable Mention
When Light Fades by Allanah Showell
In darkness I wait. Time passing and I begin to feel the edginess that I have come to associate with the waiting. Each fresh second only increases pressure on my heart. I’m used to the darkness, yet I still have to keep my mind from getting lost in it. The only things that I can summon are based on memories and my only memories worth reliving are about her. I remember how her eyes smile, how she laughs silently, how she can never seem to stay still and how when she thinks, she makes facial expressions. But most of all I remember how she smells – warm, sweet and more mouth watering than words can describe.
To know a person's scent shows that you really know them. Anyone can know someone's quirks, their likes and dislikes. I recall her scent and before I know it my waiting is over. Light pours into the box room, revealing its contents.
The plaster walls are coated in a shade of light cream paint, and streaks of light spill across them, leaking down to the wooden
floorboards. Each of the four walls is occupied: a creamy door, a time worn dresser, a well-stocked bookcase and a small window. The window is hidden behind a sheer white curtain – it’s intricate pattern casting oddly shaped pools of light and dark across the room.
In the corner of the adjoining dresser and bookcase, sits a bed, covered by a light purple quilt, and between this rests a sleeping body. With their each unconscious breath the cover rises and falls.
Above the bed there are black words painted on the wall in elegant script. I attempt to make sense of the black lines but the scrawl is foreign to me. I have witnessed this morning scene more times than I can count.
Right on cue the mass of purple heaves upwards as the body beneath it wakes. The blankets are pulled back to reveal the rising sleeper.
I note features as my eyes scan: pale skin, purple painted nails, a freckled nose, two sleepy blue eyes, a pair of smiling pink lips and bright orange frizzy hair. It is her. Her beauty never fails to snatch my breath, stop my heart and numb my mind – and today is no exception. I am frozen as she blinks her eyes, adjusting to the light.
In the mornings, she is at her most beautiful and not yet tainted by the expectations of a new day. Not many see her like this and, while I am pleased to say that I am one of the few, I am not the only one. This morning is quiet, calm and comfortable, but comfort can be terribly blinding. The difference between this particular morning and others is in a phone call. She speaks for long lengths of time and smiles during her silences. Normally I listen to her words, to the rhythmic sound of her voice as she tells stories, but today they flow over me effortlessly. Her sound is just as sweet and her meaning is just as real, but still she sounds so distant. Who is she smiling for?
She ends the call and dresses. We travel through the house, which is much the same as the box room, creamy and wooden with random splashes of colour here and there. We arrive at the front door. It isn't particularly special and looks no different from the other doors, yet still it stands as a beacon. It is the thing that separates her from the outside world. On this side of the door I can have her all to myself, mine to watch and adore. But on the other side of the door she is watched and adored by all the random nobodies that she meets.
I can't take that. She is mine and I don't like to share. I'm selfish but I know I love her more than anyone else. I have already decided that it is best for her to stay with me, the one who loves her most. With me she is safe. With me she is happy. With me she is loved. All she needs now is to know this.
Then I think back to this morning, to the phone call. Is it already too late? Did I get replaced before I could start to compete for her heart? Am I not her only one? Or was I never even a competitor? I'm afraid the truth will break me, but I think I know it already. My heart knows the truth.
Wherever she goes I am always there, loyally following. Through the light I let her lead me as she goes about her day. Then when the sun goes down and day fades to black, I wait in the dark, waiting for her to return with the light so that I can once again be by her side.
But does she even realize that I'm here waiting? I will wait for an eternity if I must. I will wait for the day when she notices me, when we can be together, when I am hers. In the darkness I wait. In a small box room, lit by the fleeting light of the setting sun, there is a wall that reads in black elegant script Shadows never truly fade, they are just waiting out of the light.
Category 15 to 17 Years: Honourable Mention
Broken by Annie Kheo
Trembling hands, lingering touches, bodies intertwined, hammering hearts, whispered lies, broken souls. Stop it, he told himself. He brought his palms to his face, his whole being racked with thoughts of her. He rubbed his face in a failed attempt to rid his fatigue. To rid himself of these painful, unwelcome thoughts. It was not something he wanted to remember, but nor was it something he could forget. How could he forget if his heart still beat for someone else? How could he have known that to entrust another with one's heart would be so unbearably painful.
He sat crouched on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, and sobbed quietly into his hands. How pathetic he must seem. He had fallen into an abyss of darkness, an endless pit of nothing that he couldn't clamber out of ¬– no matter how much he longed for the light. He felt numb, all for the sake of this girl. Yet she was not just some girl. She was different, she was special. It was not as though he chose to dwell on a past love – he didn't want to remember the pain – rather it was that he had never fallen, never loved so hard, that he was forced to remember everything about her.
He remembered the way his heart would skip a beat in her presence. He remembered the smell of her hair. He remembered the way her mischievous grin could render him speechless. He remembered her fierce eyes – eyes so electrifying he thought her ethereal. He remembered how hauntingly beautiful she was. He remembered the violent pounding of his heart every time she kissed him. How his body would burn with her touch. How he had defencelessly welcomed in that warmth and allowed it to envelop him. Oh how he now longed for that. He wondered when that warmth had turned on him.
When had something so wonderful turned so viciously cold? That feeling had frozen inside of him, shattered and pierced his heart like shards of glass. And his heart was bleeding, and it would now bleed until he was lifeless. Was there a limit to how much love one could give to another? Maybe he had been stupid to give her all of his love, and maybe he was delusional enough to believe she had done the same for him. Truth be told, even though he tried to ignore the feeling, he had doubted her love. He felt a twinge of sadness and guilt at that thought.
He had been so overwhelmed by the urge to hold her, to have her in his arms. He knew it would be a reckless, silly thing to do but his legs had moved of their own accord and then his arms had been wrapped around her.
It took him a moment to register what he had done. He would never have had the courage to do such a thing of his own freewill. His head clouded and spun, he felt dizzy. She was so warm. His heart thrashed violently in his chest. He needed to let go. He needed to let go for his heart threatened to ignite.
Just as he loosened his arms from their grip, her arms came up around him in a clench. "No ... " she had whispered. "Stay with me."
How rare and odd for her to request such a thing. How ridiculously happy it made him. Maybe he had caught her off guard. Maybe she had let down her defences to let him in. Maybe she really did love him. His mind lingered on the thought of her loving him. How he wished this love would last. He lost himself in that moment of euphoria. Chests pressed together – in that fleeting moment he had feel the beating of her heart.
"Your heart is racing?" he said out of shock.
She was silent for a moment, hesitant in her reply, "For the same reason yours is."
And then that moment was gone. She pushed him away, and she was gone. Gone was her warmth and gone was her beating heart. Why had she been so reluctant to love him back? How was it possible for him to be with someone he loved wholeheartedly, yet felt so much sadness at the same time? Maybe he was to blame for loving someone who would never return that love. Maybe the yearning in his heart to be loved by her would subside. Maybe he could forget – but maybe he didn't want to. Maybe he didn't want to forget the love, or the pain, because there were times when he was so genuinely happy. How could he have known that to fall for someone would lead to such terrible fate? To love was a very strange thing.
Category Open: Winner
Marble Cake by Syie Mei Thai
The butter was a soft golden cube that slid into the mixing bowl and smeared the sides. He measured out a cup of sugar and tipped in the perfect white powder. If you could dry snowflakes he thought, this is what they would look like. And Sylvia had always wanted to see the snow.
He turned on the beater, feeling its vibration in his hand as its mechanical paddles mixed the butter and sugar. His hands were brown and wrinkled now, liver-spotted. But he remembered when they had been strong
and smooth, and had held Sylvia’s hand for the first time. And placed a ring on her finger, and caressed her at night, and felt her belly grow big and round.
Carefully he added the vanilla extract, then the eggs — one at a time, otherwise it was difficult to mix uniformly. Tap the egg on the side of the bowl, put your thumb into the yolk-yellow smile, a loud crack ¬and then, if you are listening carefully, a soft plop as the slippery contents fall into the bowl. Repeat for the other two eggs — tap, crack, plop.
Listening carefully was a skill he had spent a lifetime mastering. After the baby (stillborn, they’d said, but you can easily have another one), she had cried for a month. But grief doesn’t kill, it merely maims and they had gone on.
“Beat in milk, then sift flour…” he recited under his breath. He peered at the piece of paper and handwritten instructions. Sylvia had written the recipe out for him. She had left it in one of the cake tins in the bottom drawer, years ago, where she always stored the tins and the beater. He’d found it one day searching for a saucepan lid – this was after she was gone and he was fending for himself. He measured out the flour and baking powder and methodically turned the sifter’s crank, listening to the blades, their each revolution creating a fluffy pile of flour in the bowl. It had been a good move to return to the little country town. Wide-open spaces had a way of soothing the soul.
Time to add the flour, in two lots. Too much at once would give you a lumpy cake. Beat — slowly at first, otherwise you raise a dust storm of flour — then faster until thoroughly mixed, then stop and add more. Some people were good at saying important things. Like, I love you. He wasn’t. Sylvia was — she said it by baking.
Time To Write: 2013 short story prize Page 4