2011 Festival Short Story Winners

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers www.indieauthorsfestival.com

Email: indiewritersaus@gmail.com

2011 Short Story Competition Winners 1

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Festival Organisers Julie Boyd

http://julieboyd.com.au/

Kathleen Stewart

http://authorsally.wordpress.com/

Assisted by: John Clark

http://johnclarkwriter.wordpress.com/

Judges Terry Spring

www.terryspring.com

Jill Smith

www.authorjillsmith.wordpress.com

Louise Pieper

http://gcbooks.wordpress.com/

Judge’s General Comments ‘ We received forty-eight highly original short stories and found the standard and quality truly surprising – innovative and well thought-out plots, varied writing styles and points of view – which made the judging process all the more challenging.

In separate locations, we judges each used the same critique criteria and marking and, when we met to discuss the short list, this made it possible for us to clearly pick the stories we thought shone just a little brighter than the others. The following stories were the winners:

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

2

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

WINNER

Judge’s Comments LOST – by: Peter Smith We found this to be a compelling, and deceptively simple, 'everyman' story – memorable with well defined characters. It's a tale with a message and a whimsical air set in 'a world of heroes'. It shows a quirky glimpse into the future where caped crusaders are regular rescuers in times of crisis. Its fable-like setting allows the superhero to reveal his humanity, and the ordinary human, "one of the little people", to be the one to make a difference by helping the hero. It held our interest from beginning to end.

3

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Lost

by Peter Smith

We live in a world of heroes.

It wasn’t too long ago that Earth was a pretty unremarkable place. Nobody ever put on a mask or pinned a cape to their shoulders to fight crime. Then it happened, in town after town, right throughout Australia. Men and women in bright costumes banded together to fend off monsters, demons and alien tyrants. Some of them used extraordinary powers; others had amazing skills. But just by being here, they changed the world. After all, Pandora’s Box is notoriously difficult to close.

And the rest of us adapted, which says a lot about humanity’s infinite capacity for boredom. Whereas being late for work used to be about car trouble, these days, it’s more likely some jerk calling himself the Dragon Lord has unleashed a horde of fire-breathing monsters onto the expressway. So we stop, dodge the flaming debris, and get on with our lives, as the people who run and hide whenever the gods are fighting.

Me? I’m Jake Freeman, a third year engineering student at Springfield University. Just one of the little people.

I woke up early that Sunday morning to the noise of the television blaring in the kitchen. In those first few groggy moments, I remembered that my roommate

4

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Alex was an early-riser. I rolled over, tangled in the sheets, and tried to shut my eyes again. But it was no good. I was awake.

It was a nice apartment, a few blocks from campus with ample room for the two of us and a coffee shop on the ground floor. But stepping into the kitchen, I saw that I’d guessed right. With a mug of coffee beside him, Alex was staring at the TV. “Hey,” I murmured. He waved a greeting. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Alex shook his head, running a hand through his dark curls. “I’m watching the early news,” he said. “There was a fire last night. That hotel on Broad Street.”

“That’s only a few blocks away,” I said, and sat down beside him. As I watched, the screen cut from the news desk to amateur footage of the burning building captured by bystanders last night. The footage was shaky, but alongside the firemen and ambulance officers, dark figures were visible dragging people out of the fiery wreckage.

I stood up. “I think I’m gonna go for a jog.”

Alex smiled. “You’re allowed a break on a Sunday morning.”

“I’m up anyway,” I said. “I’m not about to save the world, but I might as well do something productive.”

“See you downstairs for breakfast?”

“I’ll be there,” I said, and disappeared inside to get changed.

5

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

*

*

*

Leaving home, I jogged over to the university, then followed my usual track around the campus. With its own post-code, Springfield University was one of the largest colleges in Australia, sitting on a bend in the mighty Springfield River. Across the water, the city was still dark. The sun was only just peeking above the horizon, throwing splashes of gold through the empty city streets. I loved this time of day.

Springfield was cool and peaceful, aside from the quiet hum of street cleaners and cafes opening for breakfast. It’s mornings like these when you almost feel like yourself again.

I’d just rounded a bend in the track approaching the colosseum, when I looked up and jogged to a stop. The colosseum is a tall stone arena overlooking the river, used by the college’s sport teams. It was usually empty this time of morning, but today, I could see a shadowy figure on the highest ledge. Someone was up there.

My brow fell. Whoever it was, they can’t have been up there for a good reason. The campus was deserted, but I had my phone if I wanted to call campus security. Maybe the person up there needed help? Taking a second to catch my breath, I jogged over to the colosseum and soon reached the top floor. The wind whistled past my ears as I climbed out over the railing, but glancing along the ledge, I could see they were still there, dangling their legs over the edge.

“Hey,” I called awkwardly. “I was just jogging and I saw you up here. I thought you might’ve been about to jump or something…”

6

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

They didn’t reply. But as my eyes adjusted to the shadows, I could soon make out the outline of a man, tall and athletic but lean, wearing a form-fitting outfit that covered him from head-to-toe. It was the colour of a shadow at midnight, almost invisible in the low light. His face was covered, his eyes protected by lenses that glowed with white fire. It took a second to click, but I suddenly gasped.

It was one of them.

You hear stories about people running into them, but you never believe it actually happens. I was just reaching for my phone when I realised that if I pulled out a camera, he’d either break it, or hit me. Probably both.

“Watch the ledge,” the shadowy figure called. His voice wasn’t what I thought it’d be. I expected him to sound commanding or inspiring, maybe even scary.

Instead, he sounded almost empty.

I replied without thinking. “Are you okay?”

The figure sighed. “Do you go to this college?”

This was a conversation I’d never expected to be having, but I sat down beside him on the ledge. “I’m a third year student. But I’m from way out of town.”

“And you jog?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s so nice first thing in the morning.” But I suddenly realised what it was I could smell, and more importantly, why. “Is that… smoke?

7

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

That was you at the fire, wasn’t it? And you haven’t gone home yet. Do you guys even have homes to go to?”

There was a long silence. “My… colleagues and I pulled thirty people out of that hotel last night.”

“Wow,” I breathed.

“Do you know how many people were staying there? Thirty-two.”

His tone suddenly made sense. I looked away. “I’m sorry,” I offered, immediately hating it. What else could you say?

“It’s one of the first things you hear,” he continued, without acknowledging the interruption. “You can’t save everybody. But when I started doing this, all those years ago, I always planned to do something special to remember them. The people I couldn’t reach. Send flowers down the river, or light a candle or something. But every Sunday morning, I sit here, and I can’t think of anything.”

“They sound like great ideas.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped. For the first time, I heard anger in his voice.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t directed at me. “It wouldn’t mean anything.

These are people’s lives and I want to honour them with something so trivial?”

“You want to talk about insignificant?” I asked. “At least your life means something. I earn minimum wage to pay for a college degree I might never use.

8

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

You actually matter.”

“Sure I do. Tell that to the two people who died last night waiting for me to save them.”

I shuffled closer along the ledge. “Can I tell you something?” I began. “In my first year, I lived in the campus dorms, and my roommate was a guy named Eli. He was a great guy. I was really homesick, and he took care of me. But at an end-ofsemester party, someone pressed a pill into Eli’s hand, and fifteen minutes later, he was convulsing and dying in front of me. A week later, they found the dealer who’d given it to him hanging upside down outside the admin hall. That was you, wasn’t it?”

He nodded in the shadows. “He was in a queue to get into another club when we got him.”

“But that’s what I mean,” I said. “You made sure another family wouldn’t have to suffer the way Eli’s family did. What I’m saying is, maybe you’re looking at this the wrong way. I don’t know, maybe instead of thinking about all the people you couldn’t help, you should focus on the ones you did?”

He didn’t reply for a minute. “I might give that a try,” he said softly.

Sirens in the distance suddenly reached us, police cars screaming through the streets to an emergency. I turned to look, but couldn’t see them. “I guess that’s you,” I said, and glanced back to him.

9

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

I’d only looked away for a second.

But he was gone. *

*

*

Alex was sitting outside the cafe when I jogged up towards him.

“Hey,” he called, and indicated his pancakes. “I waited, but you were forever.

Where were you?”

I pulled out a chair and sat down. “I ran into somebody who was a bit lost,” I replied.

“Did you help them find their way?”

I paused. “I’m not sure,” I said, and sat back in my chair. “But you know, I kinda hope I did. So, what’s the breakfast special?”

10

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Second Place

Judge’s Comments TEN TEN TEN MOMENT – by: Alan Tse Wei Heung An unusual, delightful story detailing what happens in just ten seconds.

We felt this story had been written in an extremely modern style – very NOW. From the first, the plot, characters and setting were carefully documented with a sensory immersion in the moment. Evocative sounds, scents and textures, enriched the narrative and the language used is nicely crafted, again moving the reader from the intimate to the sweep of time, science and the universe. We felt it ended beautifully with a perfect quote.

11

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

TEN TEN TEN – MOMENT

by Alan Tse Wei Heung

‘Can I get a double espresso take away, please?’

The barista tamps the shot, slides the filter home and starts the machine. Her movements are deft, economical and practised. She wipes off the counter, receives his money, makes change and turns her attention to the next in line.

Double Espresso pockets the coins and glances up at the clock above the bar: ten past ten precisely. He is a slight, angular young man in a crumpled blue T-shirt and jeans, a satchel containing a laptop slung bandolier-style across his body. If he were more alert, he might have noticed that the hour and minute hands form a perfect V, but he is too exhausted to recognize it, and he is late for work: his hair is tousled; his features are blurred and slack. He wears the same underwear he slept last night.

The second hand of the clock wobbles at the zenith, scythes down through six degrees of arc, and judders to a halt.

10:10:01 a.m.

Across the room, silhouetted in armchairs by the window, three businesswomen hunker over laptops with screens of bright, bullet-pointed text. They use words like ‘synergy’ and ‘sharing’. A mother at the table in front of them calls to her toddler, who has achieved gleeful forward momentum by toppling over his centre of gravity

12

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

while his feet flap hopelessly behind. Nearer, perched on a stool by the credenza with the milk and sugar, a balding, middle-aged man divides his attention between a newspaper and his tea. Nearest of all, the next in line, a young woman, contemplates the pastry display and listens to her iPod. The young man registers none of this.

Time edges forward: the second hand lodges another six degrees lower; the young man’s heart beats another beat; the laptop nestled against the small of his back sleeps another cycle; the coffee giant in whose premises he stands rings up another $17 in pre-tax profit across the globe; the earth’s surface rotates another half kilometre east; the planet traces another 30 kilometres in its orbit; the sun moves another 250 kilometres around the galaxy; the galaxy swings another 600 kilometres through the universe. Just another second.

10:10:02 a.m.

Whirring, gurgling, shooshing sounds rise from the espresso machine. The bracing aroma of coffee assails the young man’s nostrils. He inhales and thinks of doughnuts.

Is he hungry? Should he have ordered one just now? He has not eaten since the night before when he had—what? He cannot remember. Something cold and greasy he found at the back of his fridge. He rubs his chin and realizes he forgot to shave.

The young woman, the one who is next in line, rests her right hand lightly on the curved glass of the pastry counter. Her left hand is raised unconsciously to brush

13

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

her long, dark hair away from her face—revealing a plain, expensive-looking watch; a freckled, upturned nose; a full, serious mouth; the nape of her neck.

10:10:03 a.m.

A shadow of a thought percolates up into his cerebellum. It is something about paleness and symmetry, waist to hip ratios and long flowing hair. Some associations spring into his mind: warmth, gentleness, the scent of citrus and vanilla. Some adjectives spring into his mind: elegance, poise, intelligence. Gracious, perhaps.

Another second ticks into history. A neuron fires.

10:10:04 a.m.

She is beautiful.

10:10:05 a.m.

He stops thinking about doughnuts. Precisely, stop thinking about whether he is hungry.

10:10:06 a.m.

Her hand against the glass is smooth and soft and loosely bangled at the wrist. To the pastries, trapped in sticky ranks below, it must seem that one of their own has broken free and ascended to a higher plane. The Sky Pastry gestures to them, its

14

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

silver halo chiming against the firmament, and they are awestruck. Enraptured and unworthy.

‘Come to me,’ intones the Sky Pastry, ‘be one with me as I am one with you.’

‘One what?’ the pastries ask, retreating into agnosticism in the face of the inexplicable.

The assembly line of time drops another widget off the conveyor.

10:10:07 a.m.

The young man is suddenly aware of the force with which his heart thumps in his chest; he is holding his breath but at the same time, telling himself not to be nervous; he is trying very hard not to stare at the young woman but at the same time, trying very hard to see her.

She stands still and straight, her hair brushing her back. She wears flats and pedal pushers and a loose but fitted tunic with three-quarter length sleeves and a round neckline that reveals her collarbone. It is made of a slubby, textured material. Linen or silk. She carries a tiny leather backpack, into which her earbud wires disappear.

Another second unwinds across the clock face.

10:10:08 a.m.

As if conscious of his gaze, she turns, and their eyes meet. Her eyes are big and brown and flecked with grey; the brows straight, black, quizzical. His eyes are wide, a little bloodshot, but honest, with a sense of sadness.

15

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Time stands still.

Sunlight streaming through the café window makes a rainbow in the archipelago of spilt cola rising from the toddler’s pudgy, outstretched hand, and a glowing nimbus in the young woman’s hair.

The young man is transfixed.

10:10:09 a.m.

He smiles at her. He managed to give an easy, friendly, not-creepy smile. The sort of smile he always tries but fails to smile, when he tries.

A split-second of panic and self-doubt: What was he thinking? What could someone like her possibly see in someone like him? What must he look like? Is he too brave to smile at her? What does it matter? He is weary and his guard is down. The remnants of sleep cling to him like a blanket of intimacy. It is as if they have already spent the night together and have come here in search of food, enjoying their romantic time.

The second hand lurches downward again, now eclipsed by the minute hand at the two o’clock position.

10:10:10 a.m.

They have completed one-tenth of a marathon together across the surface of the earth.

They have carved 8,800 kilometres together through space. They are more than half a world away from where they started: a universe away; a lifetime away.

16

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Ten minutes and ten seconds past ten in the sunny morning. They are two vertices of an equilateral triangle, the apex of which is 60 degrees of time separating before from ever after.

She smiles back.

At every tick of the clock, in every inhabited part of the world, an unimaginable richness and variety of ‘history’ falls off the world into total oblivion.

C S Lewis

17

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Highly Commended Head South for the Weekend

by Jane Blight

Crickets hum in the autumn air, sun fades in fits and starts while clouds scatter as I tend my orchard; then bring in quinces to poach and turn into jelly, upside down cakes and paste. I hear the peaceful snores of my hound, as I smell the aroma of warm roasting capsicums, slowly dissolving in the oven along with excess tomatoes a few herbs and more garlic than is necessary.

My orchard borders my herb and vegetable garden, designed decades ago by unknown men and women who worked the land with a quiet passion and determination. Let go in increments as servants and workers were lost over time.

Slowly fashions changed and people, on the whole, were too busy to worry about growing and preparing their own food, so I found a bargain hidden up a steep, unmade mountain road, concealed behind derelict sheds and fallen pine trees. A

18

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

once perfect driveway lined by cypress now looks like an old smiling face, toothless in parts but well lived and once, much loved.

Well I love it still, we match, my garden and I; a little bit worn, old-fashioned values smiling on our sleeves then, of course, the blowzy roses; overblown and extravagant, just like me. Did I say how I found it? Oh of course not, I was too busy thinking of rose scented passions. I swam in roses once, in Turkey, I have photos to prove it. It was heaven. Where was I? Oh yes, how I found her, my orchard of old one lovely autumn day.

Autumn always inspires me to travel. I want to banish the city and lose myself in the country, smell the air, watch the leaves fall, watch my dog play and watch the birds float overhead. So one weekend, early in March, some years ago, I set off for nowhere in particular, just to be in the country, amongst nature. I took a picnic, my camera and hound and off we sailed. No road was too insignificant, no track too small and before I knew it I was lost. Well not lost exactly as I didn’t have a destination, but certainly lost in the way that I didn’t know quite where I was.

In order to defray any panic, I thought it best as I was some way up a hill already, to continue heading upwards, that way, I reasoned I would be able to figure out where I was, or at least get a great panoramic shot for my collection. It didn’t look very far to the top, but somehow each time I thought I was getting close, the forest closed in, and I couldn’t tell any more. I knew or thought I did, that I was somewhere in the

19

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

national forest. That accounted for the lack of towns and farms along the way but as I wound further and further up the mountain I found myself wondering if I would ever find another human being. To my surprise sitting almost at the top of the mountain, hidden amongst the trees sat a beautiful village.

Village is rather a grand title for my humble settlement, one general store combined petrol station and a couple of houses. An old pub and a disused shop of sorts, once, I think a saddle shop of all things; that gives you an idea of the age of the place.

Anyway they served coffee with directions in the general store and told me of a great look out just down the road.

I may have omitted to tell you I’m not so good at map reading and directions and this was before all that sat-nav equipment was available to the masses. I happily headed off driving down a small track then branching off to the right and winding my way up another knoll heading to the mountaintop. Just before I reached the top my car suffered a flat tyre. Well muscles and technical know-how were never my strong suit so I walked a way up the road, hound in tow and there to my delight was this wonderful row of exotic trees curving away from the road in the most inviting way with a mass of huge old English trees and a smoking chimney stack in the distance. Here I thought I would find my saviour and indeed I did.

20

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Maisy was 89 and had lived there all her life. Her mother had lived and worked there thirty years ago but Maisy was hazy about any history of the property before that. Maisy never married, was stooped, wrinkled and proud. She chided me for my clumsy driving resulting in a flat and rang a friend to help me out. While we were waiting I was allowed to tour her garden. She told me “Mr Green didn’t come and do for her any more”, he was more arthritic than Maisy and had not been able to garden for years so she said thus the larger part of the garden was left to its own devices while Maisy just did her pots at the bottom of the veranda.

Maisy grew herbs, lettuce and tomatoes in pots. The tomatoes growing all the way from their pots up to the top of the veranda rails at least a meter and a half off the ground. At one point, on the far side of the house, she had planted a passion fruit vine, “quite recently” so she said. Well I have never seen anything so prolific. She said if she had time she would make me a passionfruit sponge, but she didn’t think it would take Alex (the help she had called, a neighbour), long to fix my flat so she asked me to come back another day for afternoon tea.

I don’t think Maisy saw too many people up here; she was lonely and clearly enjoyed a bit of unexpected female company. Alex fixed my flat but I didn’t make it to the look out that time, I just shared a coffee with Alex and Maisy, got written directions

21

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

with a map and headed home. Next weekend I found myself back there, and the weekend after that and the weekend after that.

It started out with me clearing the old orchard out, pruning dead limbs and tidying up a bit. Hector, my hound and I shared a ground floor apartment in the city and both longed for a garden. Maisy loved her garden and longed for a gardener, she didn’t mind a bit of female company either. Anyway before I knew it we were up there every Sunday come rain or shine. I would join the mass of traffic heading south out of the city each weekend and reluctantly return to the city on Sunday nights. This went on and on for seasons.

My first summer was a delight. The coolness of the mountain meant while I seared at home all week, I could relax and enjoy the sun and shade in Maisy’s garden on the weekend. All for the price of tending to her garden and having wonderful chats about life, love and plants. It took me a while to realise Maisy wasn’t quite as fit as when we first met. It happened so slowly. I don’t think I wanted to see it. Mild shakes, forgetfulness from one so precise. I asked about family but she had none; none that she was willing to speak of anyway. By some sort of osmosis, we agreed that I would resign my job, move in with Maisy and she would pay me to look after her. I offered to buy the property but she wouldn’t hear of it. She didn’t want me to be lonely and alone like she was. I said I never could be alone as she would always

22

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

be with me and after all I had Hector and Alex who was close by. But she would not budge. She said I would be too lonely there.

Maisy ordered her estate to be sold and the proceeds given to the local country fire authority. She left me her favourite chair and teapot together with all her pot plants.

I like to think that she would be happy knowing I live there now; and that she would be happier knowing that Alex and I share a deeper friendship than we shared when she was alive. I like to think it was Maisy who put us together and that Maisy is somehow supervising from above while we live and love down south in her orchard of old.

23

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Highly Commended Permanently Yours

by Janine Harrison

“Hi, I’m Melanie. The temp agency sent me to start the data entry job today.”

“Oh yes, we’ve been expecting you. I’m Estelle,” said the friendly young woman behind the reception desk. “Come this way and I’ll show you to your cubicle.”

The day passed quickly. The job was straightforward, the people seemed nice and there was a cake at morning tea for Tania’s birthday. Melanie had no idea who Tania was but she dutifully signed the card and scoffed down icing sugar and cream along with everyone else. The next few days passed by in a haze and by Thursday she had settled into a comfortable routine. It was not the most interesting job in the world but it would do for now, and maybe a little further down the track she might be given some additional responsibilities. Who knew, maybe this would turn out to the “the one”, the elusive job she had been searching for her whole adult life. When she found “the one” she could finally stop looking for something better and feel as though her life had some purpose.

It was on Friday that she got her first inkling that things might not be quite as straightforward as they seemed. She had emerged from the elevator in a fabulous

24

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

mood because the sun was shining and the weekend was only a day away. As soon as she stepped into the office she knew immediately that something was up. No one else was wearing jeans. Not one single person. Having worked in dozens of offices across the city Melanie had assumed that casual Friday was an established institution, but apparently not here. No one said anything directly to her about her attire but Melanie noticed a few disapproving looks cast in her direction. She decided to ask her supervisor what the policy was on casual Friday.

“Well it’s not officially banned, but it’s not officially condoned either.” Big help that was, she thought to herself. Since jeans were not “officially banned” on Fridays she decided to continue wearing them until otherwise instructed. Later she realized this decision might have saved her life.

Over the next few weeks she began to notice other subtle signs that this was not a normal workplace. For starters everyone was allotted the standard thirtyminute lunch break. There was nothing unusual in this, most offices officially allowed thirty minutes for lunch. The difference here was that people actually took thirty minutes. Even worse, they actively monitored each other to make sure that no one went over time. Melanie had assumed that every sane person on the planet recognized that thirty minutes was not long enough for lunch. No one could realistically walk to the nearest sandwich bar, line up, wait for their order, eat it and walk back to the office all within thirty minutes. Every other office she had worked in operated under LET (Lunch Equivalency Time) whereby thirty minutes of real time equated to at least forty-five minutes of lunch time.

25

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

No one ever said anything directly to her about her extended lunch breaks but after her timesheet mysteriously disappeared on a couple of occasions she got the hint and began bringing leftovers from home like everyone else. She heated them up in the microwave, being very careful to cover her food so as not to assault the delicate nostrils of her fellow workers. Estelle had sent her an email when she started outlining the lunchroom rules in detail and Melanie did her best to comply with kitchen etiquette.

She had been there for just over a month when the CEO, who was based overseas, made an unexpected visit to the branch. It was a Friday morning and to Melanie’s joy he told everyone they could pack up after lunch and go home early.

Melanie had returned from the lunchroom and was about to turn off her computer when she noticed that nobody else was making a move to leave.

“What’s going on?” she said to the other temp who had started a couple of weeks before her.

Brent cast her a frightened look. “Estelle said we can’t leave.”

“What? But the CEO told us we could.” She wasn’t sure exactly what Estelle’s role in the company was as she seemed to be involved in everything, but surely she couldn’t override the CEO? “You’re not seriously going to stay?” she said in disbelief.

“I have to,” whispered Brent. “There’s a permanent position coming up and they’ve asked me if I’m interested. I don’t want to rock the boat.” Melanie wondered why they hadn’t asked her if she was interested in the permanent role as she walked

26

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

out the door, trying to ignore the dirty look Estelle shot in her direction. She didn’t like her chances of advancing any further in the company now, but she didn’t think leaving early was a big deal either. She was only following the CEO’s instructions after all, but when she arrived on Monday morning it was clear she had made an enemy Estelle was waiting for her at her desk and as Melanie approached she glanced meaningfully at her watch to draw attention to the fact that Melanie was six minutes late.

“Hi Melanie,” she said in her super nice way. “The rest of us will be doing team-building activities for most of the day so you’ll be on your own in here. It’s only for permanent staff.” Melanie noticed how she stressed the word “permanent.”

“That’s okay,” said Melanie, returning Estelle’s fake smile. Estelle clearly expected her to be upset she was excluded but she quite relished the prospect of having the office to herself. At precisely ten o’clock everyone filed past her desk and out the door in an orderly line, including Brent.

“Hey, where are you going? You’re not permanent yet.” Brent didn’t answer but stared straight ahead with a glassy-eyed expression. The morning passed by pleasantly enough. Melanie finished her work, and had a cup of coffee as she read the paper online. After checking her inbox she realized no more work had been left for her. This was becoming a regular occurrence and she often sat at her desk idly while Brent was given a wide variety of tasks. She’d thought about raising it with

27

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

her supervisor but he had made it abundantly clear he had a care factor of zero. To fill the time she read a couple of chapters of Twilight: Breaking Dawn then decided to go for a walk past the meeting room and maybe take a little peek to find out exactly what “team building activities” entailed.

Meeting Room three was down a long dark corridor and as she walked towards it her footsteps echoed loudly through the building. She had expected to hear a lot of noise and laughter coming from behind the door, but it was eerily silent.

“I must have the wrong room,” she said to herself, and was about to turn away when the silence was broken by what sounded like a muffled scream.

Intrigued she put her hand on the doorknob and then pulled it back in surprise. The handle was freezing cold. Something told her to turn around and go back to the office immediately, but Melanie couldn’t help herself. Slowly she turned the handle and eased the door open just a little so she could peer through the crack. The light was very dim in the room and at first she thought it was empty. It took her eyes a moment to adjust and then she stifled a scream as she took in the scene at the far end. Everyone from the office was there and they were arranged in two circles. The outer circle consisted of her co-workers, while the inner circle was made up of management. Right in the middle of it all stood Estelle and lying on a table in front of her was Brent. He seemed to be unconscious. His head was flung back and his throat was bared. Estelle was lowering her head towards his throat when the door slipped from Melanie’s hand and made a loud creaking sound. Estelle looked up sharply. For

28

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

one split second Melanie saw the exposed fangs and blood red eyes, then they were gone.

“Melanie, what are you doing here?” We’re just going through a first aid refresher. Brent volunteered to be our victim.” Everyone laughed in unison. “Now that you’re here you might as well join us.”

“No thanks,” said Melanie, stumbling as she backed out the door and bolted along the corridor. She didn’t wait around to put in her notice but before she left she took a long lunch break, heating up her leftover dinner in the microwave. She didn’t cover it over but let the fumes pervade the entire office and as she walked out the door for the last time she gave thanks that she’d gone extra heavy on the garlic the night before.

29

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Highly Commended Southerly Draught

by Linda Carter

My eyelids flutter. I try to keep them closed but it’s useless so I squint at the clock. 5.00am. Unbelievable. Only four hours’ rest, if that’s what you can call it. I don’t sleep well and never feel good when waking. I suppose I dream. Everyone does. But I don’t remember in the morning. Just feel sluggish like I’ve been dragged around and dumped somewhere and can’t work out what is happening. Or how to make it stop.

You see I’m not one of those lucky people who leap out of bed fully formed for the day. Especially up here where it’s bound to be a stinker and you know even a cold shower is useless because you’ll be sweating again a few minutes later. It’s all to do with humidity but I swear some people are luckier than others with their metabolic rate or skin ph or something. I can lie next to Lachie and his skin is cool and dry while mine feels as if I’ve just stepped out of a sauna. It’s been raining solidly for days but that doesn’t seem to make a difference.

30

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Hope your sleep deficit’s not contagious, Kate, my boyfriend grumbles regularly. And it’s been much worse since we travelled to Western Australia on a ‘let’s see where we end up’ kind of thing. Escaping from the southerly draught back home. Couldn’t wait to get away from that cold timber town in southwest Tasmania.

Funny, really. Now all I can think about – and probably dream about – is moss hanging from ancient trees in the subtle green light of the Tarkine. Those cool pockets of rainforest where the tourists don’t go but the locals know.

As a child I would crave the dappled shade of myrtle beech in our special place that I now know is linked to Gondwana, Patagonia, Antarctica. Prop on a mossy damp log of huon pine, felled before its time, and listen to old-timers talk about the tiger, the supposedly extinct thylacine. My father’s mate saw one up on that hill, says Harry from down the river. Swears to it, stripes and all. Certainly not a dog. I’d sit tight, ears pinned back, watching Harry’s faded eyes and wrinkled lips for signs of mischief. I’d hear tales of bounties placed on thylacine, branded a sheep killer. Of declining tiger numbers further decimated by distemper. My toes were always dirty, tracing patterns in mud next to small crayfish mounds. I’d sit quietly – Kitty-Kat was my nickname – wanting to believe the tiger might be out here, hiding and surviving in the dense horizontal puzzle of west coast bush. Because I was a local too, just like the old fella. Born and raised on this bumpy island south of the mainland.

Many of our friends went to Europe for a year before uni but Lachie hadn’t saved much so it became a case of ‘Yeah, let’s buy a cheap van and travel round Australia.’ And that van turns out to have a use-by-date only long enough to get us to

31

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

one of those remote northwest coastal towns before it claps out with nasty clunks and smoky oil fumes. I go a bit crazy about repair costs but Lachie works his charm, one thing leads to another. A ‘new best friend’, contacts here and there and we talk our way into a bit of casual work.

It’s been three months and the van’s ready. It’s been ready a long time and we’re still here but whenever I bring up the topic Lachie just shrugs. He’s happy enough. Money’s good. Getting extra shifts. What’s the problem, Kate? Let’s stay for a bit. So here I am lying on wrinkled sheets that I promise you were only washed a few days ago but feel as if they haven’t seen a laundry for weeks. At least it’s a Sunday and I’m not rostered on so I have another go at returning to sleep.

Lachie snores. He says he doesn’t but how would he know? It’s sort of reassuring. I turn and listen. Gentle breathing. Fluttery noises. Quiet grumbles. At least he doesn’t have that sleep apnoea thing I read about where you stop breathing then start again with a kind of scary snort. I place a hand on his hip then take my hand away because I’m leaving hot slippery prints on his skin. He worked much later than me last night. Needs to sleep.

Earphones squished in firmly, I listen to the portable radio with volume so low it’s just a buzz. The white noise is barely decipherable but every now and then I catch a few words. Weather warnings. A low pressure build-up off the northwest coast. Flood alert for low-lying districts. The summer months are quite different here. Cyclones. Tropical rain storms. Stuff I know nothing about and don’t want to

32

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

experience. I want to head south and get home. I’ll talk to Lachie when he wakes.

The curtains flutter then flap and slap against the mouldy wall.

I wake in the damp hollow where Lachie should be. My eyes are still shut and for once I don’t feel hot and sweaty just kind of drowsy. There’s no sound of the shower.

I guess Lachie is making breakfast. That’ll be a nice change. He’s been moody for three weeks. Wandering off after work. Going for a walk down the river. Yeah, it’s time to leave this place. Before that seasonal weather curtain flips open and catches everyone by surprise. I went to the community meeting about preparing for cyclones but Lachie didn’t. Said he’d been offered extra hours. And we needed the money, didn’t we. I smile, remembering his words. Fall asleep again, deeply this time.

Yawn and open one eye. 10.00am. Can’t be. That never happens. The room is muggy, full of steamy air and red dust. I clatter over to look out. Our dingy bedsit is on the second floor in an old block. The street is empty, the sea dirty grey. There’s a weird feeling like watching a black and white sci-fi movie where everyone’s left town, you’ve missed all the messages and are left alone to fend off aliens and save the world. Those dreams I never remember must be pretty bad for that wacky thought to emerge out of nowhere.

Rain sheets over the sheeny oil-patch where we park the van. Perhaps Lachie’s driven down to the store to buy something. I flip idly through the community

33

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

brochure, following the street map in my head. It’s not far away. Plenty of time to get there if necessary. Don’t want to stay in this flimsy building if the weather turns really nasty. We’ll be heading home soon anyway, well before cyclones set in.

I try to turn the volume up but the power’s off. The storm that’s been building while I sleep accelerates furiously – no warning – and rainwater crashes into the room. I struggle to close the window, find spare batteries for the radio. Listen as the wind squeals. The world changes from normal to insane in just hours.

I can’t get out of the habit I had as a child of thinking north on a map is ‘up’ and south is ‘down’. The paper shivers and crackles in my hands as the road out of town and the dangerously flooded river crossings are pointed out. My vision cartwheels in despair. Someone saw our van driving out that way early this morning, Lachie and a passenger, apparently. Thought it was you, one of our neighbour says, watching me closely.

The community centre is filled with locals and travelers, emergency workers and officials. Strangers become supportive friends within minutes. We’re here to sit it out in the relative protection of our ‘safe place’ until the danger has passed and it’s all clear to go out and investigate the damage or find missing people. That will be hours. I have no idea where Lachie is, how far he’s gone, what’s happened. And part of me – the cold angry abandoned part – does not want to know.

The glass doors wheeze open, inhaling a bitter draught from outside. A huddle of wet figures tumbles in, gasping exhausted explanations, alarming descriptions.

34

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Heads turn, bodies lean forward, trying to understand. Messages fly round the crowded hall.

Then I see him, wet and shivering, with that girl from work wrapped in his arms, distraught, clinging. Lachie looks over her head and sees me. Knows it is me despite people sitting and standing between us. Eyes me like a stranger, then turns away to hold the girl’s face. They stand close, circled by care and concern.

Later I see Lachie sitting alone in the corner, wrapped in a grey blanket. Dank hair flattens his features and his pale face shuts me out. I cannot walk the wooden ocean that separates us. I cradle a steaming cup of tea with cold hands. Close my eyes and face south.

35

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Highly Commended Soup for Supper

by Maureen Fries

He’s upstairs in bed now, finally asleep poor love. It’s all been a bit much for him the last 24 hours. I just had a peek and he’s all tucked up, his glass of water smiling at him safely from the dresser.

What a night it was last night!

We’d just finished a big bowl of soup and damper in front of the telly. We had to have something soft, nothing chewy for dinner ‘cause of Harold’s new top teeth.

They’ve been hurting him for a week now but will he go and see about it? Oh no.

Typical man! Thinks if he buries his head the problem will just go away… Nice though to have soup for a change, a good night for it. It just started raining when a big flash of lightning made the telly go all funny. Next there was a loud pounding on the door. Thought it was thunder at first. Can’t remember the last time somebody knocked on the door let alone pounded so hard it rattled the hinges.

Harold begrudgingly heaved himself off the sofa and was heading to the door.

‘Harold,’ I called after him, ‘put your teeth in! You don’t want to give whoever it is a fright.’

36

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

He came back and proceeded to rearrange the side table looking for them.

Meanwhile the pounding on the door continues. Well he moved the soup bowl, the scrunched up serviette, the plate the damper had been on and finally found them grinning up at him from under the newspaper. Very hygienic! I followed him over to the door.

It was Edith Blackmore from next door. ‘Edith whatever is the matter?’ I said. ‘Come in dear your dripping wet. You’ll catch your death.’ With that she practically fell into my arms wailing.

‘He’s dead. He’s dead.’

‘Who’s dead dear?’ I ask. More sobs but then the poor thing wails again.

‘Mister Whiskers! He’s on my verandah.’ More wailing! ‘I can’t do it. Harold could you? Could you take care of him for me?’

So of course Harold had to see to it right there and then. I made Edith a nice hot cup of sweet tea and got her a towel to dry off. She was near hysterical poor woman.

Mister Whiskers, a very large marmalade tomcat has been with Edith for as long as I can remember. ‘Mister Whiskers, din-din,’ she would call as regular as clockwork at 8.00 in the morning and 5.00 at night. You could set your watch by it.

Just Edith and the cat rattling around in that big old house since her mother had passed on. ‘Harold, Harold’. He was just pulling on his other boot. ‘Edith asked if you

37

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

could put Mister Whiskers under the Magnolia tree around the back.’ His favourite spot apparently.’

After Mister Whiskers had been planted so to speak and Harold had seen a still sobbing Edith Blackmore home, we settled down again in front of the telly. Then Harold starts fidgeting, looking under the cushions, searching the side table, patting down his pockets. ‘Whatever’s the matter Harold? What have you lost?’ He mumbled something. ‘Put your teeth in love I can’t understand you.’ He just looked at me like Kermit the frog, all gummy and pointed to his mouth.

Apparently he had taken his teeth out during the um… burial and had put them in the top pocket of his jacket. What with all the bending over they must have fallen out while he was digging.

‘Well no, you can’t dig him up again in the morning. What will that do to poor Edith Blackmore? You’ll have to wait a while and when she is asleep go back over.’

By torchlight the resurrection of Mister Whiskers began. I held the torch and Harold used the shovel. Thank goodness the rain had stopped. Harold kept digging, wielding the shovel until he reached the occupant. A grizzly sight I can tell you.

‘Do be careful Harold. You don’t want to cause Mister Whiskers any more damage.’

There they were underneath the limp bundle inside my old floral pillowcase

38

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

‘He must have felt a bit like the Princess and the pea.’ I whispered to Harold but I don’t think he had a clue what I meant.

We were just closing Edith’s side gate when light flashed through the trees. I thought it was the lightning coming back.

‘Stop there! Drop your weapon and put your hands above your head.’

Well I never! Gave me such a turn! Harold dropped the shovel and I shone my torchlight right into the officer’s face.

We ended up back in here and explained the whole situation over a nice hot cup of tea. Turns out it was Phyllis Bignall from over the fence apparently, reported suspicious goings-on in the back yard of number 34. The Bignalls had recently put on a new top storey addition. Command post central I call it, only had it built to spy on everyone. Still nothing came of it. I think the officer found the whole episode a little amusing. Harold didn’t!

*** Time to start writing for next year’s competition.

*** 39

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011

Next Year If you are interested in being a featured author at the 2012 Festival please contact us on indiewritersaus@gmail.com

40

Festival of Independent Writers and Publishers 2011