2012 Festival EBook

GOLD COAST WRITERS Festival www.goldcoastwritersfestival.com

Email:goldcoastwritersfestival@gmail.com

2012 Writing Competition Winners

Gift E-BOOK 1

Gold Coast Writers Festival 2012

Festival Organisers Julie Boyd

http://julieboyd.com.au/

Kathleen Stewart

http://authorsally.wordpress.com/

John Clark

http://johnclarkwriter.wordpress.com/

Judges Terry Spring

www.terryspring.com

Louise Pieper

http://gcbooks.wordpress.com/

CRITERIA FOR JUDGING INCLUDED: Presentation and Impact Structure and Content Writing Technique Motivation/Conflict Characters Show Don’t Tell

Note: Copyright remains with the respective authors. Stories contained in this ebook are unedited by the organisers.

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WINNER SCORN

by Alison Stegert

This story stood out from the rest because of its imagery. It was believable and descriptive, of a wife – a ‘beige’ older lady – endeavouring to visit her long-term husband in his hospital room after his accident. The strong visual setting and the ending surprise, resolved the motivation of all the characters in the story, and showed the reader why the title was so apt.’

The Judges

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SCORN

by Alison Stegert

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you in there."

She heard sounds, not words. She didn't notice the burly security guard standing next to the doorway to room 934. Worry ushered her, and dread was prodding her along from behind. A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth.

"M'am?" The guard put his hand on her shoulder. "I can't let anyone in."

The woman glanced at his hand and then his face. She hesitated, flustered. "I beg your pardon. You don't understand—that’s my husband in there." She reached for the knob.

"M'am, the doctors have specified, 'no visitors'."

"I'm his wife, for God's sake! Not a visitor."

The officer spread his feet and motioned across the corridor with his chin.

"There's a waiting area just over there."

"I'm taking note of your badge number." Her jaw jutted out, and she clasped her vinyl handbag to her chest. Muttering, she crossed to the row of orange plastic chairs and sat down on the edge of one. Her grey set hairdo sat helmetlike on her head, and the skin of her neck draped in pale folds. She kept her boucle coat buttoned, its dated mushroom colour clashing painfully with the vivid chairs.

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The door behind the policeman opened with a sigh, and a nurse darted out and scurried down the hall.

"Excuse me—" the old woman called to her back. She started to rise, but the nurse disappeared through a swinging door. She slumped back in the seat and drummed her fingers on her beige bag.

On the wall, the second hand clunked around the face of the clock in jerky steps.

Gurneys rolled past. Nurses in silent rubber-soled shoes strode by in both directions. The old woman waited, eventually unbuttoning the heavy coat. The guard yawned and stretched. An elderly man wearing baggy flannel pyjamas shuffled along, pushing a stand laden with hanging bags and tubes. His progress was so slow it pained the woman to watch him.

"For the love of God..." she said with a grimace.

The door opened again, and the woman shot to her feet. A balding dark-skinned man, stethoscope tucked into his pocket, backed out of the room, a mobile phone to his ear. He spoke in a lilting foreign tongue. The old woman approached and waited for him to finish his sentence.

"Doctor, please let me see my husband. I've been waiting patiently for hours..."

The doctor stuck his finger in the free ear and swooped away from the woman, speaking in his language. He avoided her eyes completely.

The woman's bag slid off her shoulder, and she stamped her foot. "Who hires these foreign doctors? So damned rude."

Another doctor emerged, and she bailed him up. "Doctor, please. That's my husband in there, and no one will give me any news."

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He looked down the corridor to the nurses' station, hoping to assign someone else the menial work of calming family members. Finding no one, he plastered a smile on his face. "Mrs Rabinowitz? Your husband's condition has been stabilised. We're waiting on some x-rays and a toxicology report. A detective is taking a statement right now before the sedative takes effect."

"Detectives? For a fender bender? I was told he lost control on a curve. Please, let me see my husband. You're scaring me."

"There's no need to worry. It shouldn't be too much longer."

"Well, if the detective can talk to him, why can't I?" "All in due time, Mrs Rabinowitz. Why don't you sit down?" He glanced at the guard near the door and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

The officer stepped forward, but the woman waved him off. "Don't bother," she said. She sat back down and sighed.

In the ensuing two hours, she'd leafed through all the dog-eared magazines on the side table. The rent-a-cop had pulled up a chair and was playing games on his smartphone, clearly bored. The old woman had taken to calling out as medical staff moved in and out of the room where her husband lay. "Hello? Does a wife of thirty-eight years count for nothing in this place?" When she got no response she muttered, "I thought as much."

Visitors waiting nearby found her abrasive and sought out other waiting areas.

The orange chairs were vacated as quickly as they filled. Even the guard stuck ear buds in to block her nagging voice.

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When he rose to go to the men's room around the corner, the old lady saw her chance. Still wearing her boucle coat, she slipped into her husband's room. All the medical personnel had gone, and the room was dim.

A gasp slipped out at the sight of the battered man dozing on the bed. His head was bandaged, and his hands were wrapped in gauze. The left side of his face was swollen, the eye pinched shut. A dark purple semicircle bloomed beneath. Monitors at his side blipped. A graph of green lights displayed the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

His wife picked up the clipboard at the end of the bed and scanned the list of injuries he sustained in the crash. "Punctured right lung, possible spleen rupture, fractured jaw, concussion, second-degree burns to both hands and feet..."

"Aw, Morty..." she cooed, laying her hand on his arm.

The eyelid without the swelling flickered, and the man winced as he focussed on his visitor. "Bernice..." he rasped.

"Don't move, darling," Bernice said, patting his hand. "My poor, sweet man. How could you end up half-dead like this?"

Morty tried to answer, but his mouth was too dry. He licked at his lips and swallowed.

"There, there. Let me get you a drink," Bernice said, pulling a flask from the pocket of her coat. She poured amber liquid into the plastic cup on the table nearby and held it to his lips. Morty struggled to swallow, and much of the drink dribbled down his chin. "It won't be long now. Just rest."

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The door swung open, and the security guard was standing there, hands on his hips. "M'am, I told you he couldn't have visitors. The detectives suspect foul play in your husband's accident. I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait out here. Doctor and police orders."

"You heard the man, Morty.� Bernice sighed. “Thirty-eight devoted years, and I'm treated like this." She skulked past the guard as he held the door for her. "Don't worry, officer, I'm leaving. My work here is done."

The door fell shut, leaving Morty to rest in peace beside the blipping monitors.

His good eyelid drooped shut, and his chest rose and fell.

In the hush of the room, a spike registered on the monitor, and at the same moment, Morty's battered body arched in a violent spasm. Sputum foamed from his mouth, and one eye flared open before rolling back to white. The spike darted across the monitor screen and dropped to a flat line. Alarms sounded, footfalls pattered toward the room, and door burst open in front of a torrent of medical staff who rushed to the patient's side.

Bernice Rabinowitz yawned at the back of the elevator. Slowly it made its descent through the hospital, doors opening and closing, dinging with each stop, taking in and letting out staff and visitors, until Bernice was alone. When the doors opened on the ground floor, a woman, face pinched with worry, got on and stabbed the button for the ninth floor repeatedly, but the doors wouldn't close. "Going down," Bernice informed her.

The woman mumbled and stepped out, clearly flustered. Through the closing gap, Bernice smirked at the woman, a tawdry blonde in too-tight clothes. Recognition and dismay registered on the blonde's face. Morty's girlfriend of the last twenty-five years

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watched helplessly from the lobby as the doors closed on the real Mrs Rabinowitz, the original, the rightful.

Finally, the lift reached the bottom floor. Bernice stepped out, dropped the flask in a trashcan, and headed for her car.

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Runner Up SPIDER

by Raymond C. Clarke

You’d expect a farm girl to cope with snakes, scorpions and cockroaches? No problem. I attacked a king brown with a broom once. Scared? Yes, I was, but really only one of God’s creatures can turn me into a complete quivering mess.

I’d left my parent’s farm in a jovial mood. On the highway, I sat back, relaxed, as Mascagni’s magnificent intermezzo filtered throughout the car. I hummed in time as I sped down the bitumen, looking forward to home, with Jack and the children.

I’ve always been a sensitive type of person and my mother often said that I’m a natural physic, whatever that meant. I’d just flashed past Barney Foster’s sawmill when I sensed that something in the car didn’t feel normal. My vibes told me that I was not alone. I switched off the music to listen and to watch. The merest flicker of movement on the passenger’s side caught my attention and my gaze focused on the underside of the dash. I held my breath watching as a grey tendril emerged, a thing that twitched, and then another followed and then another and then all was revealed . . . an ugly bloated body that confirmed my greatest fear . . . a huge huntsman spider. The car veered to the left, tyres

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and I screaming in unison and I wrenched at the steering. A truck flashed by, the driver mouthing something uncomplimentary, the sound carried away by the wind.

I tore my gaze back to the spider ─ so big, like a dinner plate ─ and my heart raced crazily in my chest. The spider scurried along the top of the dash towards me. I froze, thinking only that I would die of shock if it jumped on me. I had to stop the car. I hunted for an exit, for a parking bay, my gaze flicking from the creature to the roadside. It had stopped, repulsive hairy legs gripping the cloth as if agitated. Was it watching me?

The road widened ahead and I swung onto the kerbing, flinging gravel into the air.

Stones ricocheted with a twang on the windscreen. The violent motion tossed the spider into a heap against the windscreen. It lay for a moment before clambering forward, over the edge of the dash and down . . . down to the top of the steering column. Tears trickled down my cheeks and I snatched at the buckle of the seat belt. Oh, God, it was stuck. I tore my gaze away from the creature hovering in front of me and tore frantically at the clasp.

The click came as music to my ears. I flung the belts apart, opened the door, and threw myself out, falling onto sharp stones that slashed at my knees. I levered myself up and wiped at the blood as the traffic raced by with a rush of wind.

I stood outside the car, chest heaving, knees bloody and tears falling. What could I do? I looked at the traffic that flashed past me at 100 kilometers plus. There was no help there. Nobody would stop. I had to get that creature out of my car somehow. The car keys swung in the ignition, a consequence of my hasty exit. I crouched at the doorway and

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cautiously peered into the interior. The spider could not be seen. Holding my breath, I snatched at the keys, dreading the nightmare of a hairy repulsive body coming in contact with my hand.

I opened the boot of the car with shaking fingers, seeking a weapon and found only a jack handle. I turned it over in my hand, feeling its weight and its length. Hopefully, it would be long enough to keep well clear of the monster, while delivering it a mortal blow.

I opened the passenger’s door, gaze intense, eyes burning from concentration. I wiped at my sodden cheeks, knowing there were so many crevices that the spider could hide in.

I shoved the jack handle under the seat, pushed and scraped. Nothing. I returned to the driver’s side and poked under the seat. Again, there was nothing, no reaction. Suddenly, in a far corner, a flicker of movement in the shadows. I returned to the passenger’s side of the car and pushed forward with tentative jabs into the gloom under the dash. Instant reaction made me rear back and out the thing came . . . clinging to the handle. I wrenched the handle back but it stuck on some obstruction. I yanked again and it freed. With the impetus, I flew backwards out of the doorway, petrified to see that the creature was coming along with the weapon. Spread-eagled on the ground, I threw aside the jack handle as the spider fell into my lap. I screamed and brushed frantically at my clothes.

The spider reared up from its position on my skirt and scooted onto my thigh. I went cold all over at the feather-touch of its legs on the bare skin and lashed at it with both hands. I knew I was screaming but heard no sounds. Everything in the world froze in time and

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meaning. The ogre ran up my arm and our eyes met in that one unforgettable moment before I lashed it again and it catapulted away into the air and I lay, inert and shattered, and watched it ever so slowly crawl away into the thick grass.

I started the car, crunched the gears, and fled down the highway. As the shock wore off, fears suddenly returned. Did spiders come in pairs? Did it have a partner that was still in the car, hiding in some dark crevice, perhaps? My glances returned to that very same spot . . . under the lip of the dash. Was it my imagination or had something moved?

I never knew the car had veered off the road. I only remember a eucalyptus tree came into my sights . . . it was a pretty tree with lovely red flowers . . . before everything went black . . .

I woke in hospital to a splitting headache. The nurse who dressed my scratched knees and hands told me I may have concussion but there were no other injuries. ‘Your husband is coming soon,’ she soothed and offered me Panadol. Later, a police officer arrived, notebook in hand. He kept telling me how lucky I was and that I should take a ticket in the Lotto but he did say he was puzzled as to how I ran off a straight stretch of highway. I smiled shyly but I couldn't really tell him, could I?

My husband said we'll be getting a new car. I'm so happy about that. After all, there won’t be any spiders in a brand new car . . . but, then again, I do worry about it a bit. Do they always check to see what's lurking under the dash?

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hONOURABLE MENTION LATE BLOOMER

by Melissa Wray

It’s only Monday and I have already burnt the toast for breakfast, tripped over the cat on the way out the front door and managed to get the bus driver off side for forgetting my bus pass. Great start to the week Kit! I flush the toilet and hook my schoolbag over my shoulder. I wash my hands but avoid the reflection in the mirror. It’s the same that it’s always been, just zit free today. I still look like I’m ten not fourteen. Mum says we all develop at different rates and not to rush it. I don’t want to rush it, but it would be nice to at least get bumps on my chest in this lifetime.

The warning bell rings as I emerge into the corridor. I jostle past the other students to collect my books from the locker. I slam it shut and squeeze past the couple shoving their tongues down each other’s throat. You would think this is the last time they will see each other. Ever. It’s only two hours until the first break and they can drool all over one another again. I walk along the corridor and ignore the sniggers circulating around me. My paranoia must be joining me early today. I make it to the classroom and 14 Gold Coast Writers Festival 2012

enter just before the final bell rings. All the seats are filled, with only the one on the far side remaining. I cross quickly and again a ripple of gasps and snorts follow. I look behind me and they immediately cease. I plonk onto the chair and get my books out.

‘All right everybody, settle down,’ Mr. Hampson says.

The noise quietens and he begins talking about the math work we were supposed to finish over the weekend. I peek sideways at the rest of the class. As I do, a flurry of eyes looks away from me. I try to ignore the unsettled feeling seeping into my nerves.

Instead I focus on the textbook in front of me. I flip to the page Mr. Hampson is talking about. Before long I can feel eyes staring at me again. I want to look around and make sure I’m imaging things. But I can’t bring myself to turn my head, in case I’m wrong.

Whack! Something hits me in the back and I turn around. The entire class is looking at me. I notice a scrunched up ball of paper has dropped on to my seat.

‘Nice look,’ Shane sneers from behind me.

I scowl at him and pick up the ball of paper. Like that weirdo can talk with his oily black hair sticking up all over the place. I try to un-scrunch the wad of paper quietly.

I flatten it against the table to read.

‘Miss. Mornington?’

I look up to find Mr. Hampson standing right beside me. My heartbeat quickens and I know this is not good. Mr. Hampson does not take to disruptions kindly.

‘Care to read out your secret note?’

My lip twitches as I try to avoid his death gaze.

‘Make sure you use a loud voice,’ he encourages, sarcasm dripping off.

I haven’t read the note yet so I cross my fingers it’s something innocent.

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‘Sh … short skirts are b … back,’ I whisper ‘Sorry I didn’t quite hear that.’

Mr Hampson has moved to the front of the room.

I clear my throat. ‘Short skirts are back.’

An eruption of laughter echoes around the room. Mr. Hampson’s cheeks blow out like a puffer fish. He stomps across to my desk and swipes up the note. His eyes scan across it. He glares at me because he knows I’ve spoken the truth. I don’t know why he’s mad at me. I didn’t write the stupid thing. I don’t even understand what it means.

‘Who wrote this?’ he asks, swirling on the class.

One by one the snickers stop. No-one owns up to the ridiculous note.

‘Miss. Mornington?’

I shrug my shoulders. I’m just as confused as he is.

‘Well maybe an hour in the time out room will help.’

My jaw drops open. He can’t be serious. I didn’t do anything.

‘Now Miss. Mornington.’ He drops the note and points toward the door.

I look around the room but this time nobody meets my eyes. I push the chair out and shove my books and pencil case into my school bag. I stand up and as soon as I do a fresh chorus of laughter erupts. I take no notice and stomp out of the room. The trails of laughter follow me and I ignore the repeated calls back from Mr. Hampson.

I make it to the time out room and enter to find it empty, except for the teacher and one other. My best friend Burra is splayed back in the chair. He spends a lot of time in here. Surprise spreads across his face when he sees me. But quickly he ducks his head before the teacher catches him.

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‘Mr. Hampson,’ I explain to the supervising teacher.

She nods and records it in the creased notebook. It’s full of all the other naughty boys and girls in the school. I don’t have as many offences as Burra but there are a few with my name attached. I’m not naughty as such, but things just seem to go against me sometimes. I pull my textbook out of the bag and start working. After about ten minutes the teacher stands.

‘Right you two. I am going to trust that you will behave whilst I go and get something from my desk.’

She gives us the stare that is supposed to frighten us into submission. We both nod and watch her leave. Once she’s gone Burra strolls over to my desk and sits on it.

‘Well this is a new sight.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Not from where I’m sitting.’

He doubles over in mock laughter.

‘Seriously Kit, how did you get in here?’

‘I didn’t even do anything. Some idiot threw this note at me and Mr. Hampson went off his tree.’

I retrieve the note from my bag and pass it to Burra. He reads over it and raises an eyebrow. I snatch if off him and stand up to throw it in the bin.

‘Oh Kit, short skirts are back,’ he says with a smirk.

I stare at him with a screwed up face. I pat my hand down my school dress and that’s when my blood runs cold. I rewind through the morning so far. Leaving the toilet, the sniggers along the corridor and the snorts in the classroom, the stupid note that got me sent here. It all makes sense.

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‘ARGH!’ I pluck my dress out from my knickers.

I pat the material down repeatedly until I’m sure there is nothing stuck where it shouldn’t be.

‘Nice underwear by the way,’ says Burra.

‘Shut up!’ I punch him in the arm.

‘No seriously, polka dots are definitely your style.’

I shove him off the table. ‘Not helping Burra.’

I cover my face with my hands. I can feel the heat radiating from my cheeks. I drop into my chair.

‘This is so embarrassing. The whole school must have seen my backside hanging out my undies.’

‘You’re such a drama queen. I doubt the whole school …’

Burra’s voice trails off as he looks at me with a toothy grin.

‘What! You doubt the whole school what?’

‘I doubt the whole school saw you, unless someone got it on their phone. Then they sure will.’

The blood rushes from my face. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

I push the chair back and lay my head on the desk. I try to take in deep breaths but it’s not helping.

‘Kit I’m kidding! It’s not like your dress has been hooked up all day. It was just before school.’

I peek up at Burra. ‘Do you really think that?’

‘Sure, besides you’ve been sitting on your butt most of the time.’

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‘Yeah, I only walked to my first class and then here.’ I nod, trying to reassure myself.

‘That’s right,’ Burra encourages. ‘It was only a few guys from your class.’

I nod and think about it. There’s not much difference between underwear and bather bottoms. I can live with a handful of classmates seeing my polka dot hipsters.

‘You’re right, there was only a few.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘No biggie.’

‘That’s the girl,’ he pats my back. ‘Besides, what’s the chance of it ending up on YouTube?’

‘Nooooo!’

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hONOURABLE MENTION EMPTY NEST

by Alison Stegert

The newlyweds’ car pulled away to the clatter and bang of strings of empty beer cans thoughtfully provided by the wedding party. Their crudely painted sign, “Just Married!

Good luck Hunter and Claire!” fell off on the first curve of the country property’s long drive.

George, the rather oily second-cousin of the maid of honour’s neighbour, was manning the camcorder. He had been only too happy to offer his services. Besides the usual enticements of free food and grog, this particular wedding, the first of its kind, had held the promise of capturing something tabloid-worthy. With a little luck, some grist for the conspiracy mill.

So far it had been an uneventful affair, and George was ready to get stuck into the bar. He captured a close-up of the bride’s father’s quivering chin and the red glow of the

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tail lights fading into the swirling dust. One last scene to end the video and he'd crack a coldie.

Mopping his brow, George toyed with the idea of interviewing merrymakers from both parties. Guests were streaming back to the entertainment area and their lethallooking cocktails, leaving only the bride’s mother, eyes fixed on the horizon that had swallowed her only child. George raised the camera and focused it on her, but a hand reached over the lens and gently pushed it down. He looked up, startled.

“Show’s over, mate.” It was Derek Bower, the bride’s father. He loosened his bow tie and unbuttoned his collar.

A tide of hot red spread quickly up George’s neck. He scuttled back to the pool area, where he helped himself to some flat champagne and a plateful of lank sausage rolls and lopsided cheese cubes. Guests eyed him as he lowered his hefty frame into a rattan chair. Two females glanced in his direction and whispered in their alien tongue behind their hands. George threw them a lewd look and raised his now empty champagne flute.

When one winked at him, George's eyebrows shot up. He leant back in the creaking seat, oozing suavity and pheromones, and ran his eyes up the spindly length of her legs.

Across the yard guests of the groom's family, big-wigs in their community, huddled around Senator David Perez, shaking hands and congratulating him on his handling of immigration and integration policy. Catching Derek’s eye, the senator strode over and held out a hand.

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“Mr Bower! Congratulations--lovely ceremony. Just what is needed at this time of transition, the embrace of cultures.” Then quietly, with brassy empathy, “It’s tough watching them fly the coop.” With a pat on the shoulder, the schmoozing was over. He headed for his limo.

Derek muttered, “As if you’d know anything about it. Bloody sell-out.”

Derek approached his wife, fixed to the same spot. “I guess this is what an empty nest feels like,” he said with a grimace.

She heaved a sigh. “Will we ever see her again?"

Derek kicked at the gravel. “That’s how it usually works, isn’t it? Shared holidays; occasional phone calls…” He stopped himself just short of speculating about grandchildren.

They stood side by side in the fading light. Stars brightened in the indigo sky.

“I hate him, you know.”

“Paula, stop. This doesn’t help anyone."

“I don’t care about ‘anyone’. I care about Claire.” Paula was shaking, the day’s checked emotions tumbling out in spurts. She dodged her husband's embrace. “You should have stopped this. You should have refused permission.” A trill of laughter rang out from the veranda where the groom’s odd family and friends lingered. Paula continued in a whisper. “You should have told them to take their stupid culture and shove it.”

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Derek sighed. “Honey, what choice do we have, really?”

Paula stomped down the sandstone stairs to the pool patio straight to the bar. She poured herself a bourbon and knocked it back. Wiping her mouth, she turned and faced the Guests, who, having perceived her emotional state, quieted.

“Well. To thank you for coming today would be dishonest. 'Thankful' is far from how I'm feeling right now. We have just said good-bye to our only daughter, who’s fallen in—into the clutches of one of your type…"

Derek stepped forward. Under his breath, he warned, “Paula, please.” He forced a smile. “Guests, thank you for coming. After a momentous day, I’m afraid it’s time to call it a night.”

The Guests murmured. George, greedy to catch a scene on tape, perked up and grabbed his camcorder. He ducked around the corner of the house and waited.

Paula stepped in front of her husband. “To hell with this. You lot are not welcome here. Your ‘son’ stole my daughter and has taken her to God-only-knows-where."

“Paula..." Derek laughed nervously.

Guests cocked their heads; their nostrils wriggled, detecting scents--fear, anger, and a random note of lust. The two females who had eyed George smirked and winked.

At the far end of the veranda, a Guest rose, the mother of the groom. It was the Supreme One, their leader whose name was impossible for humans to pronounce. She

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moved down to the patio with spider-like agility, her gossamer robes billowing around her. She stopped across from Paula. At six-foot-eight, she was a glistening, golden tower.

Huddled in the shadows George was salivating at the prospect of catching the Human-Guest showdown on video. He licked his lips in anticipation of the bidding war for the footage. Six-figure sums swelled to seven, flitting behind his pupils like fireflies.

Steadying his shaking hands, he pressed ‘record’ as the drama unfolded.

Paula stared up at her foe. “I want to know what you intend to do with my daughter.”

The groom's mother blinked. Titters of laughter rose from the assembled Guests, but settled instantly when Claire's mother-in-law unfurled her armour hide.

“Ka-ching!” George uttered. “Let the wild rumpus begin!” He focussed on the Guest’s neck and chest, which had hardened over from the usual dense golden plush covering to a carapace. Biting his lower lip, he zoomed in to her rock-hard cleavage.

"Come to Papa..."

Before George could squeak, a rough cord twined itself around his fleshy neck.

The camcorder crashed to the floor and George’s hands pulled at the thing tightening around his throat. The tendrille, a cat-tongue-textured filament, had issued from the wrist

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of the female Guest who had earlier winked at George. Slowly she reeled him around the corner, his purpling face frozen in an expression of terror and a wet stain spreading across his khaki pants. Reeking of sweat and urine, George arrived in front of the pair, dropped to his knees and fell over unconscious.

The attacking female recoiled her tendrille with the ease of vacuum cord. The second female’s eyes glowed amber as she enarmoured, her supple plush hardening. In movements too quick for the primitive human eye to register, she consumed George’s flesh, leaving a nearly bare skeleton and beside it a steaming pile of regurgitated clothing, accessories, and two condoms, wrappers intact. The whole act took a matter of seconds before the pair was seated back on the patio, one prying at her teeth with a toothpick.

From Derek’s vantage point, he could see up the side of the house. His jaw dropped while the two wedding party mothers faced off.

“You don’t threaten me with your hide. I want to know what you intend to do with my daughter.”

The Supreme One sighed and relaxed, her armour plating dissolving. “I might ask you the same question regarding my son, but in our culture it is highly irregular to refer to the matter.” Her eyes widened.

Paula threw up her hands, perplexed.

Derek stammered, “Um, honey...”

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“Derek, shut up. Claire’s in this predicament because of you.”

“But, Paula…”

The Supreme One scowled and shook her head. "I can’t understand for the life of me why you haven’t, you know…”

“I haven’t WHAT?” The Guests seated nearby area began clearing their throats and glancing sideways.

“Oh, for goodness sake!” the Supreme One spluttered. “Eaten your mate. Why on earth haven’t you eaten the reprehensible little sod?” She cocked her head. “Our females…eat,” she said with a certain delicate intensity, “their mate.”

Derek, bug-eyed, stepped close behind Paula.

“When I kissed Hunter goodbye,” she continued, “it was for the last time.

Genetically speaking, we don’t attach to our male offspring.”

Derek peeked over his wife’s shoulder and looked around at the assembled Guests. How hadn’t he noticed the lack of adult males of their species? The pubescent males amongst them shifted awkwardly, lower lips sticking out.

Paula gasped. “I assure you, Claire does not have that kind of…appetite.”

“Ah, well, what a clever boy my son is then in marrying out of his class. Perhaps he will be the first of his type to advance beyond adolescence. Who knows,” she said

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Gold Coast Writers Festival 2012

with eyebrows raised, “what the future holds for our species if we can devour your mates instead?” The being’s eyes flared amber and orange and a tendrille launched straight past Paula's shoulder.

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Gold Coast Writers Festival 2012

Thank you to all who entered the competition. There were a terrific number of entries, and we wish you success with your writing in future.

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Gold Coast Writers Festival 2012