Award-winning writing

Young writer awards: The winners

This year, Byron Writers Festival hosted two writing competitions for young writers for a second time: The Susie Warrick Young Writers Award and The Jesse Blackadder Prize. These competitions celebrate the art of the short story, encouraging aspiring young writers in years 5-12 who reside within the Byron Writers Festival footprint to pursue and explore their talents. Students were asked to write a short story on any theme of between 500 and 1000 words, depending on the category. Judging was difficult with many competitive submissions. It is with great pleasure that we share the winning stories with you on the following pages. Susie Warrick Young Writers Award Susie Warrick was a much-loved staff member at the Northern Rivers Writers Centre (now Byron Writers Festival). This award celebrates the art of the short story and supports emerging young writers in furthering their career with a $500 cash prize for first place per category.

Prize Category 1 (year 10-12) First place: ‘Empty Promise’ by Misha Fligelman, Cape Byron Steiner School Prize Category 2 (year 7-9) First place: ‘Diamonds in the Sky’ by Diane Pineda, Dorrigo High School

Empty Promise

By Misha Fligelman

Judges’ comment 'This was a beautifully crafted piece that explored notions of identity and judgement from a mature perspective.’ ‘Mothers and daughters exist as wretched mirrors of one another: I am all you could have been and you are all I might be.’ – Author unknown

The air was cold and dry. The kind that burned your throat and splintered your eyes. Memories of my last outing here returned in fractures; drunken laughs, giggles bubbling up from stifled silence. Echoes of the freedom we’d felt. The relinquishment of responsibilities to parents who’d paid our way through life. We were just kids. Kids who secretly still slept with stuffies and clung desperately to the idea of true love. Freshly eighteen and legal, celebrating just for the fun of it, the fun of forgetting. In hindsight, we hadn't had much to forget about then. Not much to regret. Standing on the verandah, as lights danced over slick streets, I could taste the beer on his tongue. As stubble scratched my cheeks I remember thinking he needed a better razor. I briefly thought of recommending him the ‘Gillette Proglide’ I’d seen my dad use. An aggressive hand on my ass yanked me back to reality. I’d thought him mature, sensible, intelligent. Philosophical in the

patronising way he talked. Really, he was just a uni drop-out, wired on nicotine and Reddit forums. A man doting on girls half his age, not yet self-aware enough to realise they were the only ones stupid enough to fall for it.

Goosebumps poked their heads in long lines across my bare skin. Following diligently the arcs made by his fingertips. Buzzed from shoplifted vodka mixed with rebellion, I’d let him have me that night. Smiles charmed with lies of adoration. In love with the idea of love. The first of my adult regrets. The first that mattered. Mum took me to a new doctor’s office later that week. Our regular GP was booked out for months in advance. The hard plastic of the chairs left ribbed indents on my thighs, my foot toyed with the layers of peeling carpet. Next to me, in a voice hushed for the illusion of privacy, my mother read to me the new doctor’s qualifications. The pauses placed before each credential served as a reminder of her disappointment. The loud contrast between directions in our lives. I remember her pride when I announced my aspirations of becoming a doctor. At the ripe old age of five I was already fulfilling her dreams for me. Her smile used to be big and garish, with whoops that flushed me hot with embarrassment in school assemblies. The carpet flicked down again with a thud. The desk lady couldn't suppress her scowl. I tried to remember the last time I felt embarrassment like that. It was probably only yesterday, over something so insignificant it had already slipped my mind. We left the appointment that day with a packet of pills, and a stench of smug security encircling my mother. It was a bit pathetic really, getting Fem-tab at eighteen, with your mother. Yet this was her personal way of showing me she still cared. She wasn’t ready for grandchildren. Her lips tipped upwards at the corners, sacks of loose skin pulled taut around her cheekbones. It was sickening. Privately, I never saw myself passing thirty. I tugged at the wrinkles on my forehead. Maybe it was time for Baby Botox. Immediately, I could hear my mother’s reaction, disgust at my willingness to give into the ‘trap of attractiveness’, her rants about how women never get to age peacefully, always normalising men’s preferences towards youth. When I told her his age she was disgusted. “That’s a milder form of paedophilia!” she’d exclaimed. A line perfectly regurged from some purple-haired Feminazi on Instagram – someone who’d never experienced the guilty satisfaction of being desired.

I don't think my mother ever saw me as anything other than her second chance. A re-do. My promise could erase every failure, every C, the unexceptional outcomes that plagued her childhood. She was determined that I was never going to be just someone’s wife, a Mrs. Like her. But her hopes for me, once so full of helium, were soon deflated and left to be filed alongside her own disappointments. She used to spend Sunday nights waiting on our living room sofa. Lights dimmed, back stiff, lips pursed. I don't even remember half the times I came home desperately crunching a packet of Tic-Tacs on the driveway, trying to hide the smell. My mother remembers every single time. A wretched mirror of her own adolescence.

The car park outside the Call Centre was tacky with summer heat, the skin between my toes slippery with sweat. 4:33pm. Earlier that morning, breath heavy with sleep, he’d whispered his grand plan, spit spraying in a way that made my stomach churn. A date on the beach, cheap champagne and chocolate strawberries. Meet him after his shift. “Just like those smutty romance books you love so much.” The accompanying sneer told me he was only half joking. 4:45pm. I blew the seeds from a dandelion plucked from the gravel. He wasn't coming. I don't know why I even showed up. Another empty promise masked by sickly sweet cologne – the stuff you buy killing time in the pitiful boyfriend section of Victoria's Secret. His charm only the result of my festering disbelief that anyone could ever find me attractive. Despite his transparent attempts to appear otherwise, he was still the unevolved f-boy, somehow still managing to fruitlessly grasp at the strings of superiority. We all still wanted his attention, his flattery, to feel like we were his to subdue. To our mother’s post-millennial, feminist disappointment, all their daughters wanted was to be desired. It's all we’ll ever want.

The scratch in my throat threatens to turn into a coughing fit. The pub inside looks just like it did when I was eighteen. The guy behind the bar catches my attention. I smell it before I see him. That same claustrophobic scent. Fine lines ringing his eyes, beard still not fully shaved. Too old now to pass as 2000s heroin chic. My skin crawls, tracing the arcs he once made. A girl clings to his jacket, mouth moving a hundred miles a minute. A flurry of bobby pins and hairspray, all closed lip smiles and tacky lip gloss. Her phone lights up. Clicks shut. Eyes hazed with a guilty conscience. And I know who’s waiting for her on the living room sofa. Lights dimmed, back stiff, lips pursed. A wretched mirror of my own adolescence.

Young writer awards: The winners

Diamonds in the Sky

By Diane Pineda

Judges’ comment ‘We were really impressed with how the story built, using ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ to pull the reader through to an emotional gut-punch of an ending.’

Jaime

Twinkle… Jaime perched warily on the roof of an old building, cold legs swayed over the edge. The stunning evening sky was busy with a familiar feeling, she inhaled the scent of fresh homemade cooking as a cold flurry blew against her thoughtful face.

Twinkle… “Mum... It’s my birthday. I wish you were still here.” “There you are!” Allen called, making Jaime jolt in surprise, the familiar voice coming from a silhouette. “Allen,” A kind smile lifted her lips as she glanced at him. The tall figure ambled towards her and sat down, “What are you doing up here?” His tone, soft-spoken. Jaime's smile deflated, the corners of her mouth turning down. “Just needed to think... ”

Allen didn't respond, his silence meant that he understood. That was one of the things she valued about him, he gave her time.

Little star… They gazed at the shining stars; one outshone the others.

“I don’t think I can hold on any longer. It hurts. The world is harsh Mum. I want to be with you…” Hours passed until the full moon towered over them. Allen looked down at his watch with a dimpled smile, looking back to meet her green eyes “Jaime, Happy Birthday." Her eyes watered; he was one of the reasons she didn’t want to give up.

Allen Everything appeared fine, until it wasn't… After sixteen lonely years, there was never a moment where he imagined Jaime would consider leaving. Allen would never forget how his heart throbbed with guilt and pain, always wanting to be her support. He guarded all the good memories in his heart, and she would stay there safely locked away. After five years of repeated attempts, he was restless. Stress, over time, had formed on his face, lines were drawn along his forehead like the creased pieces of paper. He ran his fingers through his white-blonde hair, wiping off the beads of sweat that formed along his forehead. A fly buzzed around the room, landing on a piece of metal that was positioned in the time machine; the TIMESCAPE. “Rick-kick-kaka- BANG!” Dust flew in different directions, a piece of the half-made time machine discarded. A ragged cough resonated from him, swatting away the smoke that filled the dreary laboratory. The large, tinted windows flew open, drawing out the thick vapour. He picked up the metal chip that lay on his table, waiting to be picked up. “When? When will I see you again?” Allen sighed and inspected the overcast weather. Rain poured on the neighbour’s large

capsule house roof, formulating a brown noise. Allen turned around, grey eyes locked on the TIMESCAPE, within a second it started ticking loudly. His breath halted, heartbeat quickening as he stood before the machine. It rested proudly against the wall, upright and glimmering as if welcoming him in embrace. “Year. Date. Location. Time...” He secured the clock face, making the last arrangements. Stepping back, Allen drew in a breath and stepped into the large opening. “Jaime, I did it!” Goosebumps ran along his spine, every nerve alert whilst at the same time, numb as he anxiously entered the TIMESCAPE.

A dim light crept through the open windows, blurring his sight, squinting as he felt his feet touch the ground. The air was fresh, the wind blowing against his clothes, sweeping past his skin. The slow tip tap of footsteps echoed through the old building. Allen gaped, at what stood before him as if he witnessed his own re-enactment. He watched closely as a younger version of himself blinked, mirroring shocked expressions.

How I wonder what you are... “Allen, it’s me. Well, you,” He nervously chuckled, observing the younger Allen. “You must think you’re dreaming, huh?” “What… Who are you?” The younger boy scanned the corridors, before he turned to him again. “You do look like me, but older?” Allen hastily explained about how he arrived by time travelling, “I’m here because of Jaime. We must save her.”

Up above the world so high... “There you are!” young Allen exclaimed, breathless. Jaime’s figure expresses so many things in so many ways, by the way her head is always tilted down at the ground, how her posture is slumped and the tone in her voice… “Allen...” The cold wind blew against her face, fluttering her purple and black hair. Allen sat beside her, greatly troubled by the news he now knew. “Can I talk to you? Why don’t we go somewhere else?” Their footsteps were in sync as they walked along the wide concrete path. Older Allen followed closely, still in shock. The murmurs of by-passers made Jaime’s ears ring until the voices were blocked out. Her blue eyes glazed with restrained tears, she felt a small droplet of rain on her face, as if persuading her to say the unspoken words she needed to say. Young Allen stopped in his tracks, looking down at Jaime beside him, ready to listen. She finally looked up, “If I.. told you about the darkness inside of me would you still see me like I’m the sun?”

Like a diamond in the sky... Young Allen sighed, his heart ached, and his throat suffocated with emotions, “You’re like a diamond in the sky Jaime. Precious and beautiful at heart, the one I love and the person I can’t live without.” Behind them, older Allen’s lips quivered as he glanced at the sky as the rain started to shower. “Sometimes we have to take risks for those we love.” He gazed at younger Allen and Jaime; their conversation converted from whisper to a mumble. His vision flashed before him, becoming a blur.

Twinkle, twinkle little star... New memories were added to his old ones, a little happier. Her sweet voice, “Allen, where’s the cats’ food?” Jaime peeped over the door frame with a questioning look, a glistening diamond ring on her third finger. “On the bottom shelf, love.” Allen looked up from his book, his loving eyes meeting hers. How I wonder what you are…

Young writer awards: The winners

The Jesse Blackadder Prize The Jesse Blackadder Prize was created in 2020 in memory of Jesse Blackadder, cherished board member, author, and founder of Byron Writers Festival’s StoryBoard program. The prize celebrates creativity and imagination in Stage 3 writers with a $300 cash prize for first place. Prize Category 1 (year 5-6) First place: ‘Eric and Oropos’ by Freddie Breen

Judges’ comment ‘The writer’s voice in this quirky, timeless tale was wonderfully confident.’

Eric and Oropos

By Freddie Breen

Once upon a time, in the largest apple tree in the largest apple orchard in Tasmania, there lived an elf. Not one of those tall, man-sized elves. He was only about two feet high, and he had long, glossy black hair and he wore a forest-green robe which swept about his bare ankles whenever he was running around his treehouse in a passionate frenzy. His name was Eric, and he was a potion-maker by nature. He was always boiling up a solution or a paste of some sort, sending thick wafts of steam and smoke up into the air, much to the puzzlement of the apple-pickers. Often they would set up ladders and climb up the mighty trunk to see what was happening. They would appear at the top, at which point a spell, placed very cleverly by Eric would go off, causing the apple-picker to forget the purpose of going up there in the first place. Eric lived a quiet and peaceful life in his tree. He never had any shortage of food, for apples were always sprouting from the branches, and if he wanted bread or cheese, he could make a Deli Draught, which provided Eric with delicious smoked cheddar and warm sourdough bread. But the one thing that pained Eric the most was the fact that he had no friends living with him up so high in the treehouse. No elf friends, that is. Elves are very social creatures, like humans, and if there are no other living creatures to interact and make friends with, they become very gloomy. So one day, Eric decided to make himself a friend. The art of golem-creating is a fine one, and only the wisest and the patient can learn it. Eric was a very knowledgeable elf and not a bad spell-caster either, but he was not experienced in the conjuring arts, as one should be when creating something as intricate as a nature golem. Still, Eric desperately wanted a friend, even if it was not an elf. So he set about planning what it was he would create, and how he would do it. ‘A leafling,’ he muttered to himself, ‘is probably the easiest nature golem to conjure up. Yes, I think that is what I will do. And I have all the items required to do such a task!’

For Eric possessed a very heavy and dusty book, which he had inherited from his father called Golems and How to Create Them, by Aggleside Frumptoss, a world-

famed mage and an expert in the conjuring-arts. Eric flipped to the page about nature golems (sending up a great cloud of dust as he did so). He saw clay, fire, ice, stone and even moss golems before he found the leaf variety. He read the list of items required for the ritual, and then he set the book down on his kitchen bench, before going to his store-cupboard, which was where he kept his ingredients for potion-making and spell-casting. He withdrew from the cupboard four eucalyptus leaves, ten gum-nuts and three owlfeathers. Then he went back to the book.

He read the next paragraph, which told him how to lay out the special items. He followed the instructions, then he rubbed his hands together. ‘Now the fun begins,’ he said to himself. ‘Now I speak the incantations.’ Eric drew himself up, gazing around at his handiwork with the leaves, the gum-nuts and the owl-feathers which were laid about his kitchen-floor. He smiled and began the verses:

“The summoning ritual has begun, I wish to speak as one, I desire a golem, a leafling so kind, Thoust shall listen when I speak my mind. I summon thee, you leafling yea, And you will see, you will see.”

Eric heard a great WHOOSH! and a WHIZZ! He fell to the floor in a daze, scattering the gum-nuts everywhere. Eric heard an owl hoot, a pig squeal and suddenly— THUMP. Eric looked up. Standing in the middle of the kitchen floor was a—thing. A three-foot, pure black, humanoid thing. Eric couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Y-you’re not a leafling,’ he stuttered. ‘State your name, creature!’ The thing stared at him with shining white eyes. ‘I am Oropos,’ it spoke with a voice like the wind. It whistled and it wailed, it hissed and it hurrrrred. With every word it would alter its volume. ‘Well, Oropos,’ said Eric briskly, ‘I did not go to effort of practicing the conjuring arts to create you. Now, be off!’ Oropos’s shining marble eyes flickered. Slowly it turned away from Eric and looked up at the store-cupboard, which was still wide open. Suddenly it took a great leap and landed right in the cupboard. It grabbed the nearest jar (which contained ground bunyip teeth) and threw it out of the cupboard and onto the kitchen floor, where it exploded, in a cloud of glass fragments and white powder. ‘No!’ cried Eric as Oropos turned around to pick up a bowl of dried sage, ‘no, no, no, NO!’ But Oropos was not listening. He was too busy grasping every item in Eric’s store-cupboard, stacking them up, and then throwing them onto the floor, where they would SHATTER.

Eric burst into tears as the malevolent creature broke his possessions. ‘I’m sorry!’ he cried out. ‘I’m sorry I ever conjured you in the first place! That was foolish of me! I’m a potionmaker, not a conjurer!’ Oropos stopped in the stacking of many jars and pots. It leapt down from the store-cupboard and walked towards Eric. It rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s a first time for everything. You’ll get there in the end,’ it said. Eric glanced up quickly. Oropos was gone. The shattered plates were gone. He saw that sun was shining through the top leaves of his tree. Eric smiled.