When all the flour had been folded in, he divided the batter into three portions. To one he added a small crimson splash of cochineal atop the creamy yellow butter, and mixing it in with a spoon, so that the red stain disappeared, leaving a shock of pink batter. The judges liked a vibrant pink. Too pale and it offered no contrast to the vanilla. He wondered how many bugs he had just added to the cake. He knew it took about 150,000 insects to make a kilo of cochineal. 150,000 insects boiled to death, then dried and pulverized, to give such pink cakes their lurid colour.
He turned to the small bowl of chocolate he had melting over a saucepan of boiling water. Never let the bottom of the bowl touch the water but no one had ever bothered to explain why. He tipped the glossy molten chocolate into the second bowl of batter. It was dark chocolate and Sylvia’s favourite. Gently, he mixed it. After the first bite of every cake she’d ever baked him, he’d always said, You know, you should enter this in the Show. But she’d never dared.
The cake tin stood at the ready, greased and papered all the way past the top edge of the tin – that was the secret to a cake with a clean edge. And icing was only allowed on the top, just the top. No way to hide sloppy edges.
From the top drawer he drew out three large spoons and used them to dollop the different batters into the tin. Always start from the centre and work out. First a dollop of vanilla, then chocolate, then pink. Vanilla, chocolate, pink. Vanilla, chocolate, pink. He’d learnt this from years of watching Sylvia in the kitchen. Next he took a butter knife and swirled it around in the batter a few times. Not too much mixing – the judges didn’t like that. They preferred a patchwork, not a Pollock painting. He picked up the tin with both hands and brought it down sharply on the counter – to release any trapped air pockets. Bang, bang, bang. Now was not the time to be gentle. A hidden air bubble was the competitor baker’s nightmare.
The oven was preheated. Too hot and it would cause cracks in the top of the cake. A trap for young players. He carefully placed the patchwork cake into the oven and set the timer. A hundred and seventy degrees would be just right.
There might even be time for a kip. He wondered what Sylvia was doing. He hoped she was having a lovely nap too.
In the bedroom, Sylvia was waiting for him, smiling from her silver frame upon the bedside table. “Well, it’s in the oven,” he told her. “Let’s see if we can go one better and nab the blue ribbon this year, eh?”
He decided he would go and visit her if he got back early from the show, bring those nice people at the nursing home some of the prizewinner. Sylvia might eat some too, and she might remember him, if it was one of her good days. She might smile at him and they would hold hands and laugh and eat marble cake.
He took his shoes off and lay down on the bed.
Category Open: Honourable Mention
Monsters by Jo Antareau
“What time do you call this?” Margaret stood in the doorway in a halo of light, hand on hip. Alyssa knew the expression well enough. She studied her feet and elbowed past her mother into the hall. “Answer me, young lady. Where have you been?” Margaret's voice rose shrilly. “At the library. I don’t think so!”
Alyssa turned and dragged her eyes up to meet her mother's. “Yes, Mum,” her voice choking. Alyssa cleared her throat, “I went to the library and read. Then after closing time I just walked around. Reading.” She yanked a sheaf of magazines and a paperback from her satchel and slammed them on the hall table. “There, see.”
“I've been worried sick and all you do is give me attitude? I even called your idiot father – ” Then the phone rang. Margaret examined the window, lip curling. “Speak of the devil. He's been ringing every hospital, every police station ... “ she broke off and jabbed the answer button. “Hello? Yes, she’s right here ... just walked in bold as brass ... “
Alyssa turned and strode toward the kitchen. Snatches of her mother's outrage glancing off her back until she pulled the door shut. She stood in the spotless kitchen illuminated by the neighbours' light filtering in through the window. The dishwasher hummed and gurgled to silence. She breathed deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Once, twice ...
So her mother hadn't noticed.
Alyssa filled a glass with water, and downed it in one draught. She refilled it and held its coolness to her face, eyes closed, letting it draw the heat from her cheek. She sank onto a stool, elbows on the gleaming benchtop, chin on her fist. The tap spooled droplets into the sink, loud as a heartbeat.
She felt his presence in the room. Moving silently was his speciality. She straightened herself and drew open an eye. Bryce stood opposite her, feet planted. He flicked the light on. Alyssa winced and shielded her face.
“How are you?”
It was the command for an update. The drip-drip filled the silence between them. Alyssa clenched her teeth. “I. Am. Fine. How do you think I'd be?”
Bryce reached across the sink and with an abrupt flick, the tap fell silent. “Then how come so late?”
“I crashed on Jessie's couch until the anaesthetic wore off.”
His mouth tightened. “What does Jessie know?”
“Nothing.” Seconds passed. Alyssa slammed the glass down on the counter. “You didn't even bother to show up. There were protestors! They had placards. With pictures of … of … They called me a murd – ”
In one movement he had crushed a finger on her lips. She recoiled at his touch, baring her teeth.
“Do you want Margaret to hear?”'
Alyssa met his gaze. “Where would you be then?”
His eyes narrowed but Alyssa kept her face up, lips pressed together.
When he spoke, his voice was steely. “Think about your mother, Alyssa.”
Alyssa frowned. And just where was he going with this?
He continued. “She's happy with me. You and her have it good under my roof. It means a lot to her after your dad dumped her. If she found out about what her daughter really is – “
“And what is that? What am I?” her voice rose.
“Oh, stop the amateur dramatics. You knew what you were doing, way you came onto me. But if your mother ever found out,” he dropped his voice to a hiss and leaned in.
“It would destroy her. She'd lose her daughter and partner in one fell swoop. Do you want that on your conscience?” He paused, “As well?”
Alyssa bit her lip. His gaze never wavered from her face. She dropped her head, her shoulders slumped.
He exhaled and smiled. “Good. You see sense.”
Margaret banged into the kitchen, replacing the cordless phone in its cradle. “Your father and I agreed for once, Alyssa, this can't continue – you're grounded until you learn common sense.”
Margaret paused, and sighed. She reached out and took her daughter's hand. Alyssa flinched, but kept her cold hand in her mother's warm one. “Please, darling. It's dangerous out there. Lots of strange people, predatory ... monsters, some of them.”
“Yes, Mum.” Alyssa said. “It is dangerous out there.”
Category Open: Honourable Mention
Do I Look Fat In This? by Sandy Bennett
I walk past them all the time. The fat one and the skinny one. Skinny is the mother, Fat is the daughter. They both wear their nothing brown hair pulled back in tight pony tails and take their dog for a walk in the evenings – when I am walking home from work. Sometimes Fat tugs the dog along on its lead, but mostly she waits while it sniffs things out, she waits while it takes a piss, she waits while it takes a shit and then she pulls a plastic bag out of her pocket and scoops it up. I see her feeling the warmth of the excrement in her hand through the other side of the plastic bag.
Skinny keeps on walking, and takes the conversation with her, does not even pause to finish listening to whatever it is her daughter is saying, I guess the imperative to walk is too strong. When the dog is ready to move again Fat shuffles to catch up.
The other faces and bodies I pass blur into
each other. Mothers and prams, joggers, businessmen in suits, secretaries in sneakers. But them, I recognize them coming no matter the distance. In winter, Skinny wears a sleeping bag coat that most of us would put on and ask, Do I look fat in this? It’s all grey and puffy right down to her ankles. It disguises her anorexia a little bit – but only if you didn’t know her. If you’ve seen her without the coat, you know. Fat also wears grey: track pants and an oversize hoody, stretched tight over her breasts. Sometimes in summer I’ve seen her wear cotton shorts.
They walk in all seasons, as do I. Sometimes I see them near my house and sometimes they’re as far away as the park’s city edges. I suppose they’re something like neighbours. I walk to get to work, and to home again – walk and wonder what I am going to have for dinner, wonder if he will call me back and I wonder about them and their walking.
Skinny walks compulsively. Once on a Sunday when I was on my way to buy wine I saw Skinny walking on her own – walking fast. Perhaps some doctor told them to walk together, told them, “Get a dog.” Maybe he’s trying to normalize her compulsion ¬– “it would be good for you both.” With a patronizing smile towards Fat’s fat figure and a shudder at Skinny’s bones. “Take the dog for a walk in the evening, do it together, that way you both get your exercise.” But really he’s thinking you’re some crazy old anorexic woman walking to escape the guilt of the lettuce leaf you ate. “And you, young lady…”, patronizing as hell, “you will get some badly needed exercise” – so you won’t die of a heart attack at twenty five. “What you girls need is to take a constitutional stroll.”
Fat is not fat like some teenage girls – who dress up in Sportsgirl and are fake tanned up to their armpits – Fat is not one of those confident fat girls either, fielding text messages from all her gal pals about what they’re going to get up to on the weekend. No one has ever told Fat that she is beautiful. If she has crushes on boys (or girls) they are buried as deep as you can go. Plain, fat teenage girls who go for walks with their mother and their dog every single night at six-thirty don’t have friends.
But they have each other, they walk and chat. I walk past them plenty and know that Fat recognizes me – even though she looks past me with her pebbly black eyes. I’d say we’ve been passing each other by for a couple of years now and we have not even evolved to nodding hello – back at home seeing each other that regular would make us cousins.
A little while back I started to see Fat walking on her own, just her and the dog. A little pale terrier thing – nothing fancy. She doesn’t walk far on her own, lazy girl. You don’t move subcutaneous fat walking around the block at puppy dog pace, I think. It’s warming up and she’s been in her shorts. You can’t help but notice how they ride up between her thighs.
The other day she and I were walking in the same direction and she stopped to wait for the dog. As I caught up I thought about breaking out of our routine of silent passing by. I rehearsed what I might say. “Evening”. I could say.
– “Hi, I hope you mother’s not dead.”
– “Hi, do you want to borrow my spare skipping rope sometime, as it’s great for getting the heart rate up?”
– “Hi, what’s your dog’s name?”
– “Nice evening for it.”
And that would be the beginning. But I don’t know if I want to be her friend. Don’t know what she’s walking to get away from. Don’t want that burden laid at my feet. As I pass her, her eyes glide over me yet again, refusing to engage. And I keep walking, keeping it as it is.
Category Open: Honourable Mention
Snakebite by Kate Molony
The snake stretches out across the sunburnt road. I watch with fascination where the glossy brown scales become a pale, frothy pulp. Split almost head to tail, it still commands respect. I want to touch it – not the bloody mess, but the part that seems alive, the amber eyes, its tiny diamond shaped head, perfectly formed of innocuous silk. Beautiful. My father yanks me back.
“Stay safe,” he whispers.
On the road again. The car is a cage. I wind down the window, and stick my head out like a dog, eyes closed. “When will we get there?” I yell, but the wind sucks up my words and carries them away.
When I do open my eyes to survey this new world, it’s amazing. The road is a ribbon of gravel winding its way around inverted dust bowls of emaciated sheep. It’s the drought of ’84. In a farmer’s economy, this town is going down the toilet. I’ve heard my parents arguing about it:
“What about our life in Melbourne?” Mum.
“The kids will be safer in the country.” Dad.
Despaired, leathery old farmers string themselves up beside the water tanks that haven’t seen a drop for months. I hear this too. But my mother is impassive when I ask her what drought is. “What it means for you is an inch of brown water in the bottom of the bath.”
We pull up on a road wide and tired.
Though paddocks stretch out behind it, the land adjacent to our perfunctory dwelling hasn’t been cleared. Grey box and red stringy bark rise into the air, their roots choked by mallee bush-pea and common fringe-myrtle. The ground’s a graveyard of undeveloped pods, stripped-off bark and dry leaves that have suicided in the heat.
“Claire!” my mother calls. “Come inside and unpack your room!”
But I don’t want a room. I want a Eucalyptus tee-pee under the stars. And in the morning, I will go hunting for snakes.
“Don’t get into trouble,” my mother warns absently, her mind on the baby’s crying in the poorly assembled cot.
Outside, the country morning has its own melody: the mournful, even aggressive chants of sheep, magpies, tractors. The grass is jaundiced and I watch sheep stumble frantically after a lone green ute that is spilling grain in a wide arc from its tray.
I head into the bush.
The quiet shadows of Eucalyptus meet the persistent resonating hum of cicadas. I carelessly traverse the grey, spindly limbs of saplings when a twig snaps crisply on my left.
Snake? I listen intently for the swish-swish of taut scales, pushing forward in an ‘s’ movement through the undergrowth.
Nothing. It might have been a rabbit.
The track winds purposefully towards the back of the allotment, there I reach a clearing and on the far side, the skeletal frames of a new estate being erected – the boring beginnings of country suburbia. Inbetween is a vast expanse of tall, wild grass as bleached and desiccated as straw.
The whisper of a breeze reveals a ridiculous encampment of tarpaulins. Perched on a stump, this camp’s owner fluidly slices a blade through a switch. Though watching with the quiet caution of a hunted doe, he speaks, barely ceasing the slick paring of his knife along the smooth, young wood.
“I heard you blundering through the bush.” Scrape. “Lucky for you, so did the snakes.”
I curse every careless footfall.
The stranger laughs.
“What’s your name?”
“Claire.”
“Didn’t your parents tell you not to talk to strangers, Claire-bear?” He is shearing off elongated coils; one, two, they fall carelessly to the ground. “You like snakes, Claire-bear?” A third shaving drifts to my feet. I want to pick it up. “I could find you one.”
Snatches my arm he drags me roughly into a tee-pee of grass. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.
I’m surrounded by grass; a tall, serrated prison.
“Do you like my hidey hole,” he asks.
“I have to go home.” His hand constricts my arm. “My mum gets worried.”
“Oh come on Claire,” he hisses. “You just got here.”
Yet the clasp loosens, only to snatch my jaw in a vice – a prisoner for the fangs that lash out of the air, the slurping, biting suck that tastes like sour sweat.
“I could teach you a thing or two about catching snakes,” he whistles. “Too right I could.”
But he’s indolent, witless and I spring and lurch blindly out through the grass.
My arm aches from the giant’s pinch, and my mouth feels anaesthetized. There is an imprint of red soil on the back of my shorts. My mother will be furious.
I almost miss it – almost trip over it – a long and slender rope of mottled brown in a window of sunshine.
The tiger snake whips its head, and I get it – not a bite, but the certainty and shocking realisation that they will bite.
I trip backwards, and it strikes; the powerful, swift flight of an arrow head through the air, then the slithering violently into the mallee bush-pea.
My muscles liquefy at the crisp snap of a twig somewhere to my right, which could be snake. Or beast.
The baby is still crying when I stagger in, my mother listless.
“Wash your hands!” she snaps. “And don’t leave the tap running.”
In a shallow bath, I inspect bruises and angry welts that violate my milky chin. Dirt on my bottom, even my feet are black with it, and my ears throb with my heartbeat. Water laps over the evidence of grit, sweat and tears. My sullied shorts require stealthy concealment.
But no sharp perforations. No blood. A long snake of wood-shaving has caught in my hair. I don’t want to touch it. I shake it violently out where it falls to the floor.
And there on the cool tiles, a window of sunlight.
And a barely perceptible puncture in my left thong.
Category Open: Honourable Mention
Frozen Teeth In A Sunken Face by Jack Waghorn
May 5th, 1973
This journal will have to stand until we can get properly document our find. These notes will stay with me until the new season and our journey home. Even after all this time, these frozen wastes remain foreign to me, but today id one of jubilation, today, everything has paid off. We found it roughly two hundred kilometres into the tundra, about ten metres below the ice. How anyone could build a structure on this scale, so deep into the frost is beyond me. Mountains made this area virtually unreachable for us, how to imagine another, older culture got here is incomprehensible. I’ll venture a guess that the deep structure was an escape from the surface blizzards prevalent to this area. Bu the people who built this are beyond the label of primitive. This find will define me, define us all.
Time To Write: 2013 short story prize Page 5