Team is enthusiastic. Their knowledge of the mountains is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been assured that we’re in the best of care, but we all have our limits. The Norwegian language is frustrating, and despite my daily lessons I can still barely grasp it. From what my translators say, the foreign workers are nervous. Two men nearly died when one of our safety cables snapped. We’re all shaken, but today has invigorated me. Starting tomorrow, we begin taking samples of the structure, and hopefully find a way inside. Here’s to praying that the team stays in good health until we’re done with this place.
May 6th, 1973
Our venture has taken a drastic turn, for better or worse, I can’t yet say. Uneasy in this place as I am, I’m captivated by its splendour. Structure, consists of a large wall, wall’s embedded deep into the thick ice, made of a dark stone. Maybe meteorite. It’ll take at least three days for my team to properly identify its compounds, but the primitive’s symbols, the symbols on the structure are like nothing any of us have ever come across in all our combined years in the field. This is the big one. We have confirmation that these graphemes are not some ancient Norwegian or any Scandinavian derived language.
We’re documenting every with great care and this is going to take some time. Could this be a temple? A place of ancient worship?
Our second course of order is to open the door, if it can even be called one. The slab covering the wall is at least five tons, crossing the central expanse of the structure. Whoever laid it there didn’t want it removed easily. This cavern is far too enclosed for explosives, so we’ve resorted to pickaxes, chipping away at the side of the slab until we can make an entrance big enough.
As eager as I was yesterday, I’m exhausted. This place is draining. Team in disarray, all experiencing nightmares and the unrelenting cold. Equipment’s not made for these conditions, been failing since we descended. The workers have already gone through an entire set of picks, and their progress is minimal at best. The workers are unhappy, they talk about me, about my team. They don’t hide their contempt; they know the majority of us can’t understand. But I understand enough. None of my team will discuss it, but we all know that the workers don’t want to be here. Despite the possibilities, a part of me doesn’t want to be here. But I keep thinking to the near future, and the prospect of what this means. When this find is revealed to the world, my career will be set. The name I’ve worked for will be made. Food and supplies sufficient for at least two months but I fear the commitment I have made may keep me in this cavern much longer than that, perhaps years.
May 8th, 1973
Uninjured but today’s events have shaken me. Early hours, worker attacked one of the team with an ice axe. Nasty business. Dragged him off without fatal injury, but soon as we had him grounded, went into a fit of some sort. Medic says he’s perfectly healthy, strong, young, and such an outburst is unprecedented. Some sort of breakdown. Constantly mumbling as he drifts in and out, struggling against the bonds. Not ethical to tie him up but safe containment available. Helicopter impossible, no hope of radio contact in these blizzard conditions. Bogged in until this clears. When? None of us are sure. Took every bit of persuading to get the men to come down here, and now I can’t lead them out. Nightmares getting worse. For all of us, ever since we opened the portal in the structure. None of us have entered. Too deep. What we can see, inside stretches further than would seem possible. Last night, wind making sound inside the structure – alarming but a product of the blizzard, surely. Still, unsettling and echoes throughout the cavern. Come too far to turn around without the reward of documenting such a discovery. Nothing for it, tomorrow, I venture inside, got to find out why we’re all here.
May 9th, 1973
If you have found this journal then you must be here – right here, inside the temple. If you have read this far, please, I implore you, you and anyone else you are with, you are in grave danger, do not... DO NOT go any deeper into the temple! Turn around, there is still time, do not make the same mistakes I did. Go – leave now, go as far away from this accursed place as you can. Nothing good will come of this place. Seal it up for god’s sake. Something in here. Some thing, a living darkness. Whole team gone, I am alone.
Category Open: Honourable Mention
Cunnamulla by Pavle Radonic
Daryl didn't mind you getting his name wrong. It must have happened to him regular. Daryl, Terry, Greg – he was of that vintage and strata. “Call me Nipper,” he allowed immediately and a tad too rapid for comprehension.
Nipper? It looked a good while since Daryl had ever nipped.
The day before he’d discharged himself. Some trouble with his ticker. A stent had been put in. Drugs for opening up the little veins around the heart. Drugs to thin the blood. More drugs to control blood pressure. Then they’d run some tests for pancreatitis, Hep C and liver damage. But in the end, Nipper left hospital with a chest infection and the tests for nasties on the pancreas and liver, couldn't be conducted because Nipper couldn't very well be put under if didn’t reckon he’d come through.
Greg could meet Nipper halfway – or some part of the way – in blackfella talk. They bounced off each other and evidently knew and liked each other well enough, though Greg had never mentioned Nipper, or Daryl. The blackfella talk was full of smiles and bright eyes – a completely unexpected vaudeville performed in Greg’s dingy digs.
Nipper hailed from Cunnnamulla. He left on December 17, 19--. The year was a problem for a while. Nipper was stuck in the 90s, which he knew was wrong. Eventually 1976 definitively returned.
A few weeks short of his seventeenth birthday. The apprenticeship papers for a diesel mechanic had just come through. And so on December 17, 1976, Nipper came home and while his mother looked on, he pulled out his drawers and emptied his belongings into his kit.
“Brisbane!” She screeched. “You'll get y’rself killed in Brisbane.... You never seen a traffic light, an’ you're off to Brisbane.”
Cunnamulla was seventy miles north and a thousand kilometres west –Nipper thumbed for inland in a single jerk. Cunnamulla wasn't on the coast, No and nowhere near the Gold Coast or Surfers. Nipper thumbed rides in those days.
Since 1976 he had been back to see the old lady three times. The last time he’d been, he’d been in thirteen fights in twelve weeks. These numbers came to him immediately and unimpeded.
Greg's black jokes went down without a problem. Nipper's large hands, raised knuckles, tattoos visible – even rugged up against the sudden winter blast – stayed put. No cause for alarm. Greg's other black jokes on the state of Nipper's health and his mental balance went down likewise. Nipper gave back to Greg's cracks, but without nimbleness. “May as well put a gun to his head.”
To this last there was no protest.
Working in the mines, drink and substances were tricky even on days off. Each morning you had to blow. Not just .05, even .01 got you a window seat. On the aircraft to the mainland.
Talk of work on the islands brought out Greg's familiar story about Hamilton. How the head honcho, who’ll remain shameless here, was called ‘God’ by his minions and wore a pith helmet and monocle. In his office, a large plaque on the wall declared, You Can Tell the Size of the Boys by the Size of their Toys. That didn't stop Greg dropping his strides and brown-eyeing the monocle when he got fired. You could forgive Greg for returning to the story over the years. Finally it was the repetition of detail that confirmed its veracity.
The Achilles was the name of God's runabout, a former mine-sweeper. When some Arab sheiks were being entertained by God and given a tour of the islands, $98,000 of diesel went into the jaunt. Later, God bull-dozed a mountain to extend the runway for direct flights to his resort. The runabout had a waterbed in the sleeping cabin, mirrors on the ceiling – Greg poking one of the lasses where God alone had the prerogative. Nipper might have heard the story before too. It was hard to tell. Had it been a first-listening, Greg’s fragmentary delivery would have made it almost impos
sible to follow.
Nipper may even have worked on the island himself. Either way, in Nipper's hearing no added bullshit would have gone down in such a story. Through the hour or so, Nipper remained on his feet, arms crossed on his chest like the quiet guy in the bar who needed to be monitored for the good order of proceedings.
More than strange to catch Nipper/Daryl, up close like this. On Fitzroy Street you could often see him with a couple of pals nursing a stubby. The same round in Gertie on the Koorie gym corner. Nipper roomed nearby. In Nipper’s time there were no gyms in Cunnamulla – you be sure of that. Not many Marquis de Queensberry’ lads would’ve made a round with Nipper in his day.
On the street, Nipper was always a little dauntingly squint-eyed, like now in Greg’s bed-sit. Squint-eyed, hollow-cheeked, gap-toothed, heavily creased, in his winter clobber, cap pulled over his eyes, none of the signs of illness visible.
You couldn’t imagine Nipper submitting to a medical regime, tests and pills, palliative care. So it was decided they’d pass round the hat for Nipper’s fare. “Ride to Culla’ take as long again as Brisbane almos’,” one of them reckoned with some kind of wry truth that produced nods.
Category Open: Honourable Mention
There Is Never Enough Time, For Anyone by Chris Rowley
When most people look into the future they see happiness. Their future-selves holding a baby or posing for the next tabloid photograph. For some it's both. A futile attempt to make the present seem better. If only they knew, then perhaps they would give up on their dreams of becoming a movie star or the next famous vampire novelist. I too had dreams once. Each night, I would stare beyond the stars at the endless void that was space and wish that I could go back to before the world died. I flipped the empty pint glass in my palm before slamming it down on the bar. Even though she’d noticed me, the lady bartender had to finish tweeting her precious status update; 'my life is shit.' It will be, just not today.
As she poured a new pint into the same glass, I watched my reflection in the mirror behind the sprits. A face like someone had scraped a piece of barbwire across it years before. My pale, freckled skin didn't match the emerald colour of my eyes.
The pint was placed on a serviette before me, the head frothed over the rim and drops of beer trickled down the dirty glass. I took another sip, felt the warm breath of someone behind me. A pretty woman circled to my side and leaned against the oak bar. Her long, dark red dress touched her knees. A huge improvement over the extreme miniskirts the rest of the women wore.
"Hi," she said.
My eyes met hers, at least I could look her in the face. "Hello," I replied, before turning away.
"Amelia," she said. Persistent.
"Lack."
Amelia took a seat beside me and ordered a cocktail. I wasn't sure if she was interested or simply trying to score a free drink. Amelia's eyes were like mine but had a amber tint around her pupils. Her auburn hair flowed over her shoulders.
"I work so much, it's nice to sit and relax," she said.
For now.
"I don’t get much of a chance to meet guys I don't work with. Where are you from?"
I took a swig of my beer before setting it down perfectly in the ring on the serviette. "Here," I nodded.
“You're not," Amelia replied. "I'd know if you were."
''Not yet," I mumbled.
"So, where are you from?"
"Here," I replied. Her eyes rolled back.
"I travelled back from the future."
A big grin appeared on her lips and she burst into laughter. "So why are you here, Mr Future-Lack?" She gently tapped me on my drinking shoulder. "Have you come to change my future?"
"Can't change the future." Where I come from the Earth has gone to hell. Whether an asteroid hit the planet, war or climate change, never learnt the cause - the world’s dying or it’s already dead, hard to tell.
"Then why are you here?" Her smile disappeared.
"Because I thought it would be better," I replied. How wrong I was. All those that resided in the bar scurried about as if the only important thing in life was what beverage they were going to order next. "A part of me misses the barren wastelands."
Her gaze followed my arm and locked onto the bracelet fused against my right forearm. The engraved hourglasses and clock symbols intrigued her and she leaned closer, gently moving her index finger along the steel. Her touch shot a sharp, agonising pain up my bone and I yanked my arm away.
"Sorry," she said.
I nodded and watched her reflection. Amelia remained for a few moments before she slipped off her stool as demurely as she could, leaving her Mojito untouched. I shifted the cocktail further away in the hope that she wouldn't waste a precious beverage – I knew how hard it was to get any form of fluid.
When I finished my own drink, I looked at the reflections, not myself, and caught sight of Amelia’s. Some leather-clad biker snatched at her wrist.
She pulled back but the man was strong. Slowly and harshly, he dragged her in. The look of terror on her face was horrifying, even for me. I leapt off my stool and charged in.
Before the biker knew, I had hooked him in the jaw. Years of survival training had taught me a valuable lesson; never let your opponent rise. I lunged, pressed my knee against the biker's chest and blood splattered my fists as they smashed his face, repeatedly. Sickening crunches and snaps came from his head until the biker's face was unrecognisable; his nose, both cheeks, jaw and an eye socket bloodied and broken. Finally my eyes rose and took in the rest of the patrons standing in horror. Even Amelia was frozen as the man pleaded for his pathetic life.
I studied those watching me. Not Amelia, I couldn't look at her. I grabbed a used serviette off the adjacent table and wiped the blood off my raw knuckles. "He needs an ambulance," I said. "There's not much time" for any of you.
I walked out of the fire escape and stood in the dark, damp alleyway with the dumpsters and trash. It felt like home. And I really wanted to go home.
Category NMIT Students: Winner
The Wedding Cake by Matthew Latham-Black
I watched as Kate stood over him. Vows of a forgotten time, written in a shaky hand lay next to his head. She was no devil, she would allow him time to understand why he was being punished. She looked for something to sit on. The beanbag in the corner was not the image she wanted him to awaken to. “Fuck,” Kate laughed, “I need a drink.”
She sauntered off to the cabinet. There on it’s own little shelf, an untouched bottle of champagne. It had been bought just after the honeymoon. She polished dust from it’s label.
Returning with a full flute of giddiness. She perched herself against the kitchen counter, and began her stare from where she left off.
He stirred in his drugged sleep.
“Why couldn’t you have been like this all the time?” She asked, “Quiet and pretty, I could have lived with that.” She knelt next to him, checked that her silk scarf was securing his hands to the table. And as she was thus engaged, I pulled at my own bonds – but if anything they grew tighter.
Eight years she’d been stuck with him. A man who lied about his personality until the day they were married. Then there was The Event, as Kate had come to call it. When the pretty new girl arrived in his office, and that little bitch had somehow managed to change him. But what stung Kate more than his philandering, was that for eight years she had been a wife to him, putting up with their life of repetitive, mind-numbing boredom, and then in just two months, he’d changed himself for that little whore. Oh he would pay, Kate thought.
Her black cocktail dress fit snugly, and her grip on the champagne tightened.
“Why don’t you just wake up,” she screamed. I jumped in my seat, terrified of the sudden swing to violent outburst. Kate had already told me what she was going to do. I could see her hatred burning but she was brought back from her rage by the ringing of the phone.
“Hello, Hempstead residence,” Kate a
nswered, choking on the name Hampstead. From the other end came the wispy voice of her husband’s mother:
“Hello Kate, good to hear you in good spirits.”
Bethany had always been kind to Kate; they had an affinity with each other. Both had been married to men that had driven them to insanity.
“Yes, last time we talked, I turned my frown upside down,” said Kate.
Her husband began to stir.
“Sorry Beth, do you mind if I put you down for a second, I just need to wrap something up.”
“Of course dear,” laughed Beth, “go ahead.”
Kate snatched a roll of duct tape and began to wrap it around her husband’s head. When she was done, he looked like a silver mummy.
“Sorry about that,” said Kate picking up the phone, “I just knew that if I didn’t act now I would forget about it.”
“I know the feeling,” said Beth.
“Sorry, but why did you ring?” asked Kate. There was a slight pause from Beth.
“Err… oh I was hoping to talk to my son?”
“Oh… you just missed him, he went out to play golf, twenty minutes ago.”
His eyes flew open. Tied down, spread-eagle he bounced around like a madman on the oak table. Kate looked down at the receiver, surprised that Bethany had hung up without so much as a how-do-you-do.
Kate seated herself on the matching oak chairs and began to unwrap the anniversary presents. The first one was a necklace. Kate looked at her husband.
“How kind of you,” she said.
Time To Write: 2013 short story prize Page 6