Creative Writing Competition 2021

Creative Writing Competition 2021 Winners and Highly Commended

City of Rockingham

City of Rockingham Creative Writing Competition 2021

1. Chloe Hosking, Unghosted

2. Jason Vettoor, Wipeout

3. Rosanne Dingli, Young Franz

4. Nadia Heisler Walpole, How to Write Your Own Eulogy

5. Anya Cally, Undefined

6. Esther Kipchumba, Andy

7. Sam Cecins, Flavourless

8. David Firby, Rainy Daze

9. Shannon Meyerkort, Anti-metamorphosis

10. Nicki Blake, Children of the Mountain


Unghosted

1

Everything here, including my car, was going along just fine, ‘til the

saltwater got in all the graves. Then my old Gran, who we dead and buried a long

time ago, when I was just a girl, she came back up out of the dirt. Well, I can’t

say I was glad to see her again. She stuck her fingers in the light sockets and all

my power went out. It’s been bread and butter for dinner ever since.

My granddaughter, her name’s Lizzy, she said, “Nan, I told you this would

happen. You voted wrong and now the water’s come up.”

I always tell her, we can’t be saving the environment until the economy’s

fixed. I say this under my breath. Wells women have a temper like the sea breeze.

Sometimes it blows over and sometimes it blows you away. Anyway, I don’t

really see what voting has to do with this mess. It’s the erosion that’s the problem

and really. Whose idea was it to put the cemetery down there near the shore

anyway? Only other thing down that way is the surf club and by gosh who cares

if that’s underwater.

Now Lizzy’s mother, Katherine, she hasn’t come back up and good news

that is. I suppose she must be buried somewhere dry, over there on the mainland.

“Doesn’t it feel weird, having your Gran in the toaster?” asked Lizzy. I

tolc her no, not really, she’s not all that much the same now, what with being

mostly transparent and gliding around like a fish with boiled eyes.

***

Now, sad thing was, it seemed Gran was here to stay. I went to drive to

the shops, just to buy myself a bite more bread to eat, but she’d crawled into the

petrol hole and was looking out at me with one miserly spirit eye and those nasty

clawing spirit fingers that feel so cold when they run down your neck at night on

their way from your electric fan to your lamp bulb.


Unghosted

2

“Gran!” I told her, loudly, “a woman’s got to eat!”. She just looked at me

slowly and next thing her eye’s all gone but my car still won’t start. So I set off

for a walk to the shops for the first time in twenty years. To get there I had to go

past my neighbour’s place, and he was sitting outside on the porch, looking at his

lawn like a woebegone sea lion, all whiskery and down-mouthed.

My neighbour’s name is Tom and poor old bloke, he thought his wife was

gone five years ago and here she was back again, clogging up his lawnmower and

making the grass grow long.

We wandered along, side by side, up the path into town and as we walked,

the nine a.m. plane passed overhead. I’ve never got on one myself. Nasty things,

planes. Of course, Katherine Wells would tell you differently– if she could, that is.

“I guess that’s too high for ghosts to get at,” said Tom.

“But what are we going to do, Tom?” I asked, and he said, “Well… I

reckon I just have to let the yard go. It was getting a bit much to manage

anyway.”

“Are you going to sell that lawnmower?” I asked him.

“Who around here will buy a lawnmower now?” he said, and he was right.

Everywhere around this island were people who couldn’t boil a kettle, let alone

pull-start a noisy lawn-eating petrol-guzzler. Well, that’s what Lizzy would call it

anyway.

After some time my knees were creaking and down the hill we could see

tombstones sticking out the water like old grey teeth. The spirits only evacuated

six days before but already the shop shelves were looking skint.

We talked to Mim, who owns the shop. She said none of the boats can get

off the island on account of all the angry elders and even that Jones baby, who


Unghosted

3

died a hundred years ago but is back now, mewling in the dinghy outboards. Let

alone the ferry. Well! And no new supplies could come in either.

I was reminded of the day Katherine and I quarrelled last. The crossing

was a salt millpond, but if the waves had been up she might be here now too,

filling my television with her ghost-plasma.

Tom and I walked back up the hill to my little house and there was Lizzy.

“Nan,” she said, looking a picture in her old blue overalls, even though she’s cut

her lovely hair short again. “We need to start a garden.”

“Oh gosh,” I said. “Why’d we want to do a thing like that? God gave us

fingernails so we could keep them looking clean.”

Lizzy was not having a bar of it. She was ‘hangry’ I guess, as the young

people say.

So the very next day we and half the town were out in our front gardens hewing

up the nice green grass just to plant some vegetables. All I could think was, what

a pity the ocean had to rise up now, when the rains had just greened up my lawn.

***

A few days after we’d finished all the tinned beans, a boat arrived full of

men in suits. They came from the mainland to sort out all our problems. They

got almost all the way in to shore before the outboards cut and they had to swim

like sodden penguins, little briefcases balanced atop their heads. They spoke to

Mim because they thought she was the important one around here.

“Mim,” they said, “we haven’t heard from you in five days,” and what did

Mim say? “Well of course you haven’t, the bloody ghosts are in all the telephone

holes.”


Unghosted

4

“Well, Mim,” said the roundest one, importantly. “We should sort out

these here ghosts. Why don’cha show ’em to us?” It’s Tom who told me all this.

He was in store for another yarn with Mim when the children raced in to share

news of oversized seabirds on the approach.

“Those spirits got scurried out of their graves because the water came up,”

Mim told the men, “and the only way to fix things is to get the water back down

again. Spirits don’t like salt.”

Then, said Tom, the men were very quick to explain that the water is the

same height it’s always been, and even if it isn’t there’s nothing they can do to fix

it on account of it not being their fault. And, also, there’s no such things as ghosts

anyway.

So Mim told them, “Well, you just hop back on your boat and get off

home then, there’s nothing you can do here,” and her Dad made a point of

walking right through the man with the blackest suit and sticking his rude finger

up the man’s left nostril. The men pretended they couldn’t see anything, but when

their boat wouldn’t start Tom’s brother’s son did watch them have a little shout at

Miss Molly Clarke, permanent age seventeen, who was sitting in the engine with

her toes through the fuel line.

The men swam back in to shore again, by then very limp, almost crawling

up the beach. Mim put them up in the room above the shop. We saw them on the

balcony that afternoon. They were standing there holding their mobile telephones

above their heads and shouting a bit, doing some kind of special dance to appease

the spirits, I guess.

That isn’t going to work, I could’ve told them. There’s no way to flush

them out once they’ve a mind to settle somewhere. Our island was awfully quiet


Unghosted

5

by then, no radio or TV and no music except old Billy who played piano in the

town hall. All the young folk, Lizzy included, started to get a new interest in that

old-time music. A few of them even asked me to teach them to jive.

Well, I guess we learned not to mind so much about the spirits or

even having to grow things and walk everywhere, but then we found ourselves

three weeks below sea level and running out of places to put all the men in suits

who kept floating on over here and multiplying. So one night, after a dance, we

all sat around in the town hall and made noises so that others could tell we were

thinking hard.

“I quite like them,” said Tom in his unhurried way.

“We all know that, Tom,” said Mim sharply. “But we’re getting hungry

and we can’t eat bureaucrats. They’re too leathery.”

Lizzy lay on the floor in a dancing dress that once belonged to her mother.

I was reminded that she had wanted to leave again herself soon, on another of

those world tours she likes so much. Things must have been delayed, I suppose.

But, anyway, Lizzy always returns home eventually. Even when she was a baby,

she was returned to me.

“We never needed barges when I was a lad,” said Tom, heavily. “We just

grew our food and sometimes those fishermen would sail over and sell us olives.”

Lizzy sat up with a start, and grabbed the arm of Tom’s brother’s son,

Jeremy, his name is.

***

And so the next morning we trudged to the dock with barrows of

telephones and toasters and the like, so as to lump the ancestors all in one place.


Unghosted

6

The smallest barge was rigged with tarpaulins. Tom sat slumped on the

dock, chuffed but too worn out to carry even a small barrow-load. I sidled down

beside him. I’d quite enjoyed getting to know Tom, those quiet weeks.

Once we all got there, the wharf was swathed in fog and the whole

translucent mess shuddered a bit as we lined the dock, throwing our ghost-broken

rubbish across to the barge, which began to sit frightfully low in the salt water.

“Too bad, you lot,” called Lizzy to the barge. “Pull your cold bloody

fingers out and remember this is your doing too!” All the foggy miasma of spirits

wobbled a little bit and a strange not-noise blew out of it.

“It’s what’s going on out there that’s the problem,” said Lizzy. “There’s

petrol engines and plastic bottles and all sorts of things that make the oceans grow

and starve at the same time.”

The cloudy mob shifted, and the average age of the island climbed steeply

as our young, our adventurous and foolhardy, boarded the barge with oars and

loud mouths.

I nearly lost sight of Lizzy in the muddle of mist and rubbish and

bureaucrats, but then a short mess of brown hair, no longer than a boy’s, emerged

halfway up the mast and I saw her untangling tarpaulin from a line.

“Bye, Lizzy,” I shouted.

“I’ll be back, Nan,” she shouted back, as the sails filled into seashells or

gull wings, except blue and smudged with grease stains. The whole pile bobbed

out, the bald solid penguin men on top and translucent eyeballs peering out from

underneath. And Lizzy, a smudge herself in the distance.

“Bye Gran,” I murmured, waving. I’ll miss her a bit, but it’s like Lizzy

says, the mainland won’t be done any harm by a visit from our lot.


Unghosted

7

***

Two months after the barge took all our young people and ghosts away, I

stood out in my vegetable garden, eating sweet peas right off the plants. Tom was

walking down the hill in the distance, and everything was very quiet.

I wondered at the time, and looked up at the sun. My neck cricked

violently and I realised the morning was almost over. I’d been outside for hours.

There was a little hole in my chest, right between my lungs. Something

was missing from the day.

“Ay!” Tom called out to me. I looked up and he was pointing at the sky.

“The plane didn’t go over today!” We laughed. I thought of Lizzy, and where

she might be, and how she might come home.


WIPEOUT

WIPEOUT

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1

Andrew Jacobson

I don’t remember hitting my head. I do, however, remember exploding a car.

The smoke bomb was supposed to stink up my crummy science teacher’s rickety old Ford, not set the entire contraption on fire. But it did.

So here I am, in a hospital room, with a killer headache, hoping that past twenty-four hours never happened.

Mum and Dad are somewhere to my right. Arguing, as usual. I must have dozed off. They sure were not here the last time I opened my eyes.

Time to face the music.

It takes several blinks for my eyes to adjust to harsh lighting. I can see them now, both in their designer suits and expensive leather briefcases. Typical of them to bring work to their son’s hospital room.

Snippets of conversation reaches me.

“Suspension is possible…”

“Not enough proof…”

“Can’t keep backing Andrew…”

“It’s arson. Police will be here…”

Police? Surely a small fire shouldn’t involve the police? And what do they mean that they can’t keep backing me up? They are high-end lawyers, filthy rich! My brain starts to work at twice the speed.

My dad runs a hand through his neatly combed hair. “You know what would have been convenient, that fall should have wiped out his-”

He pauses. A very long pause. I can basically see the cogs and gears working away in his lawyer brain. His eyes widen.

More frantic whispers. “Memory loss after head trauma…so common…”

Mum gets the same excited look on her face.

In a perfectly choregraphed move, they both turn to me, unholy glee on their faces. “Amnesia,” they chant in unison.

Huh!

In case you don’t know me, I am Andrew Jacobson. AJ to most. And looks like I am about to add misleading law to my growing list of felonies.


WIPEOUT

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

“Don’t slip up, Andrew. You need to make everyone believe that you have lost your memories. No more detentions. No more calls to Principal’s office. Keep a low profile. Until we come up with a plan to sort this mess.”

Mum’s words in the car this morning vibrate through my brain.

Easier said than done.

Pretending to be nice to these dimwits is harder than it looks.

For one, every single one of them hates me. For good reason. For the past two years, I made it my mission to make their lives miserable. Why? I have no respect for a bunch of nerds. They have done their fair share to make feel like a worm when the word got out that I am dyslexic. There were only two options before me then: Fight or flight. I decided to fight.

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2

Dr Sellini

Teaching science used to be my passion. Moulding young minds used to excite me.

After forty long years, the magic is gone beyond redemption.

Sure, I still love science, but its kids like Andrew Jacobson who make me wonder about my career path.

His latest stint dabbing in arson. Insurance Investigation. I just want to give up and go home.

Unfortunately, my mortgage does not give me that choice.

As I walk into the room, the class falls silent.

I pull out my laptop and begin the roll.

Halfway through, my nightmare walks into the room. A4 size paper clutched in his hand.

“Late again Andrew?”

He looks at me blankly. “Excuse me? Is this,” he reads out loud,” Ummm.. Dr Sell-me’s class?”

The class erupts in laughter.

My death stare takes care of it.

Word around staffroom is that Andrew has lost his memory. Head trauma. I do not think I am that unlucky.

I will get the truth out of him. One way or other.

“Whatever trick you’re playing boy, it won’t work.”


WIPEOUT

“I’m sorry sir,” he says, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

Is that a flicker of smirk?

Excited chatter. Gasps.

“Enough. Take a seat,” I growl.

I don’t miss the micro second pause as he approaches Nathan. His best mate. Partner in crime.

He finds the last empty spot.

Andrew is not fooling me. I’ve been a teacher long enough to see he is faking.

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

Parker Mulligan

Everyone’s laughing at me, Parker. Because I can’t read. Can you help me?

Memories of Andrew swirl inside me as I watch Andrew walk along the strip-lit school corridor, looking meek. Kids give him a wide berth.

The whole school is buzzing with the rumour that he lost his memory. Some say he is faking it to get out of the Sellini scandal. I don’t know what to believe.

Seeing Andrew makes me feel oddly sad. We used to be friends. Sort of.

That was before he turned Hulk and decided to smash those of us who belong to nerd community.

Hand on heart, I can swear that I have never once insulted him.

My thoughts interrupt when I see Callan run into him. I watch in horror as their bodies collide. Books fly. iPad hits ground.

Callan steps back, eyes filling with tears.

Here it comes.

The punch. The pain.

To my shock, Andrew does not do a thing.

He simply picks his books off the floor and walk away, mumbling an awkward sorry.

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 3

Dr Sellini

Three weeks since the incident. Nobody believes me.

Lack of evidence makes the arson investigators think I set fire to the car myself.


WIPEOUT

They know I’m a chemistry teacher, and the cause of fire are items regularly found in a chemistry lab. And the worst part is, they think I did it for the insurance money.

Overworked school teacher. Hefty mortgage. Closer to retirement.

To an arson investigator, I suppose it makes sense.

They don’t even hear me out when I tell them it’s Andrew.

Security camera and time stamp place him near the scene that night. But the trail goes cold.

Andrew, for his worth, is a great actor. Oscar worthy.

He is staying away from trouble.

To those who observe, he is giving a stellar performance.

To a point even I have begun to wonder if he really has amnesia.

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

Andrew Jacobson

I see him again, Parker, the nerd with thick rimmed glasses. He is sitting beside the water fountain, nursing a bump the size of fifty cent coin on his forehead. Comprehension dawns. Parker would have leaned down to have a drink from the fountain and someone, most probably Nate would have given him a shove.

My normal response- a guffaw at Parker’s misery. But today I do not feel like it. For one, he looks so miserable. Without meaning, my legs move forward. As I lean down to give him a hand, I see his eyes are red from crying.

“I’m sorry,” the words are out of my mouth before I can swallow them.

He waves a hand vaguely in the air as I settle him onto the bench in the quiet area. “You didn’t do it.”

A few kids passing by shoot panicked looks, seeing me with Parker. Their animosity shocks me.

When I speak, my voice is unusually subdued. “But I have. Hurt you. Like before.”

He looks surprised. “So, you do remember.”

Ah...don’t slip up, AJ.

“No. But it’s pretty easy to figure that I was not exactly popular around here.”

Yeah man...you were nothing but a bully. Parker doesn’t say it, but his expression says it all.

“Why don’t you fight back?” I cannot believe these words are coming out of my mouth. As I say it, my eyes roam to the skinny arms, tightly clenched fingers, wide-eyed innocent look on his baby face. Parker is prime picking for any bully.


WIPEOUT

“Guess people who bully me are trying to make themselves feel good by making me feel bad.”

I smile cynically. “Jeez, dude. Who taught you such baloney? They hurt because it’s fun. Plain and simple. And you Parker are an easy target.”

No eye contact. Just a sniffle. “What do I do then?” A soft murmur. Almost heartbreaking. At least enough break my black heart.

“I think I have an idea.”

He looks at me, suspicion and surprise in his eyes.

I really think there is something wrong with my brain.

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 4

Andrew Jacobson

Is it just me, or does everyone seem to like me more now?

Ever since Parker incident a few weeks back, things have shifted in my favour.

Parents. Smiles all around.

Even teachers. Less scowls and more nods.

Except Nate and the gang.

Now that I’m helping out the “wimpy kids”, they think I’m their enemy.

To be honest, even though this started out as a scam, I kind of like being the protector of the weak.

Most back off when they see me, feeling hurt that I’d abandoned them. I shrug it off though.

Playing referee to this match between Team nerds and Team old buddies is fun, but exhausting.

Who knew a spot of amnesia was all I needed to turn my life around.

I pause.

Actually, there is one more fence I need to mend.

Dr. Sellini.

My thoughts circle back to the conversation I had overheard between mum and dad last night.

“I feel sorry for the guy. Looks like he will go in for insurance fraud. Plus the heavy fines.”

As much as I hate Sellini, I never intended for this to happen. My prank might cost him his career, his life.


WIPEOUT

PA speaker crackles to life, jarring my thoughts. “Andrew Jacobson, report to the Principal’s office.”

This can’t be good.

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

Arson Investigator Jefferson Davis

I want to believe Dr. Sellini is telling the truth. I really do. But when there is so much evidence stacked against him, it is hard to tell anyone otherwise.

I look around the room. Dr Sellini, the social worker, Andrew’s parents. Everyone on edge.

Time to put this case to rest.

The door opens and in walks Andrew. Lanky, tall for a fourteen-year-old. Blue eyes wide with innocence.

He doesn’t look scared as I thought he would be. Confused maybe.

I look at him, “Hi Andrew, I am Arson Investigator Jefferson Davis. Please take a seat. I have a few questions for you.”

He sits next to his parents as I launch into the usual spiel. Why were you there? How did you get hit? What did you see? He did not answer much. But then again, the kid had a concussion. Knowing the attempt has been futile, I sigh.

The social worker intercepts. “No one is accusing you, Andrew. We know you have injured yourself and you may not remember much, but-”

“It was me,” he says, words so soft that I think it’s my imagination.

His father looks panicked, “He hit his head, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Andrew, now defiant, shakes his head. “Stop standing up for me, dad. I want to own up to my mistake. I did it!”

Now his father is sweating. Sellini looks ready to burst from excitement. Well this sure makes my case difficult.

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------

Andrew Jacobson

It’s been a week since the trial, and my parents are still mad at me.

“Why would you say that?”

“We had to pay a huge fine!”

But I don’t care. I ended up getting a caution from the judge. And better yet, I saved an innocent person from a fine, possibly, jail. It’s funny, during those first weeks, I didn’t even care how it would affect my teacher. I only thought about myself. But now, I’ve changed. I hang out with Parker. I help kids who get bullied. I’m even acing my tests!


WIPEOUT

Mr Sellini is happy now that he got a new car, generously bought by the Jacobson family. He still hates me. But not as much as before.

I now have a reading specialist helping me out every week.

I have made up with Nate and the gang.

Life is good.

All because I wiped out.

------------------------------------------------------xxx------------------------------------------------------


1 Young Franz

He thought about it again, and then some more. It was perplexing.

It was a numbing mystery, a mystery couched in the words Boy, ungrateful

boy. In the words Cold unfeeling boy. In the words Go away, boy!

Moth

Butterflies

He rolled over, pulled blankets and crumpled sheet over his head; pulled

random inexplicable mind-words back in out of the chilly room and under

bedclothes that had started to take on his smell.

Butterflies? Three sisters, three. One had to live differently, when one was by

oneself. Vastly differently. Alone in a room, for a start. Now if Georg and Heinrich

had lived, it might have been ... it might be another story. But no, no. No more

boys. No boys; they were dead. When babies went, it was sadder, he could tell,

than if they perished when they grew up. Would he die when he grew up, or soon?

Mutti and Vater were always at the factory. He could not ask them. He could

not hold his mother’s hand and look into her eyes and form his words. ‘Mutti,

Mutti – listen. Will I grow into a big man?’


2 Young Franz

Asking Nanny Lange was useless. What did she know about death? Nothing.

She knew nothing except how to fold nappies, how to warm milk, how to take

down the hems of an outgrown pair of trousers. She was slow, and ugly, and

uneducated, not like Mutti. But she was strong, and took him piggyback all over

the house when the girls had a nap. She was not offended when they asked her to

cook as well as mind the children.

‘You never nap.’ Her accusation was practical, not resentful. She was full of

truths and facts, that nanny. Facts and figures derived from her narrow life, which

she lived mildly, armed with a wooden spoon in one hand, and a clockwork rabbit

in the other.

The children took to her instruction wrought of ignorance much better than

to that of their intelligent but taciturn governess. Taciturn? Brutal.

Teaching came naturally to Nanny Lange. ‘See? Twelve potatoes and two

carrots for four people. Fifteen potatoes, three carrots and three onions for six.

Count, Franz – count them. Count them, then please take a nap?’

He didn’t nap because he slept in on the long cold mornings, after listening

to rustling and mumbling when his parents prepared to leave the house. He would

go back to sleep and wake to noise in the street, or to cold silence before the girls

fought over ribbons or cried over their Haferbrei or slammed enamel porridge

bowls and jangled spoons on the scarred kitchen table. Three little sisters. Their

breakfast was a long messy affair. Valli, Elli, Ottla; so different. So the same.

Anyone sensible would stay in bed until they were done. Until their chins were

wiped and their hands washed. Until they sat with slates and chalk and picture


3 Young Franz

books and listened to Fraulein Schmidt rounding her vowels and slitting her

consonants. The front room and its oval table held them captive until lunch was

laid in the kitchen and Nanny Lange and the maid with bad skin, who came in

from goodness knew where, waited. Hands knotted in voluminous rough-dried

kitchen towels, they watched the girls eat.

‘Franz, what will you eat for lunch?’

‘Cheese. Bread. Bread. Sausage. Cheese. Um. Cheese.’

Laughter rocked chairs, swung the lantern over the table, set the pot-laden

rack above the range ringing. ‘If you don’t form sentences properly Fraulein will

lock you up.’ The girls hiccupped with mirth. More accusations from the mouths

of babes, even the sweet little pursed mouth of Ottla, who was – if you questioned

him closely and in private – his favourite. They repeated the threat. Fraulein will

lock you up.

Fraulein Schmidt will put you away under the stairs and lock the door. She

will! She will!

How long had he spent under those stairs? Smells of mould and mildew,

odours of ancient newspaper, mouse droppings, winter boots, umbrellas furled

with great dirty drops still in their folds. Smells of handkerchiefs and orange peel

and apple cores forgotten in coat pockets ... they were caught forever in his

nostrils. There were enough jokes about long noses in this family. Enough ridicule

and humiliation about red hands, long noses and bent backs.


4 Young Franz

Words crowded in when he was in the dark, crouched in the stair cupboard,

fighting for space among raincoats and walking sticks. ‘Stand up straight! Comb

your hair! Study your spelling!’

Spelling. Words. Hair. Nose.

Spelling

Spelling

Spelling

‘Cheese. Bread.’

‘Ha ha! You will never be good with words. It’s under the stairs with you for

the afternoon! Ha ha.’

It was dark there, dark. In the winter it was an icebox, and his toes curled

and froze. In the summer, it was close and scarier than ever; an airless place where

gasps and sobs faded to scared shallow inhalations. Cockroaches crackled over old

newspaper, under and in between creased pages, so he rolled into a ball, with

arms over his head, lips tightly shut. If a cockroach crawled into your mouth, you

turned into an insect. The governess told him that.

‘If you read properly, if you spell your words right, if you pronounce your

esses well, you will never be punished again. You won’t grow thin brown wings

and antennae. Hear me? Do you hear, Franz?’

But he was pushed often, with sickening regularity, into that small space

where the monsters were bigger than him, where the cockroaches were huge.

‘That’ll teach him.’ She dusted thin hands, wiped them down the sides of

that stiff black skirt and looked away from the maid’s eyes. ‘Don’t ask. Don’t even


5 Young Franz

ask. I cannot stand your pitiful questions. What did he do? What did he do?’ She

mimicked cruelly, avoiding the maid’s numb look.

She locked him away, and that night Vater boomed and blustered, pointed

his finger and brought downstairs his razor leather, thumping down landing to

landing. There was no escaping them – it was one or the other, but if he had to

choose between one castigator and another, it was plain which of them he feared

more. Would a friendly look, a nice word, perhaps a smile, be so alien to his

father’s concept of how to raise a boy?

‘See this? See this? Look here, boy.’

Where was he supposed to look?

Raving, ranting; his father’s thunderous voice bellowed. ‘Do you want it

stroked along your backside, son? If Fraulein Schmidt tells me once more you slur

your words and fail at spelling you will feel it across your poor thin measley

weasley pitiful awful bony bottom.’

Mutti was sweet and quiet, Mutti was consolation and relief. But Vater

reigned over them all with a resounding voice, a balled fist, and a cruel tongue.

What chance did he have against words like those?

He was only small, and his sisters were even tinier. Well, if truth were to be

told, they would soon all three be taller, and more robust. No one, though, none of

them, would have a bigger nose.

‘Stop snivelling! Stand straight. Stretch! Try to touch the ceiling with the top

of your head.’


6 Young Franz

Sometimes it was hard to think. Sometimes it was a misery, a mystery, a

puzzle to recall who abused him more. Who of them had said what. Which of

them had scolded harder. Vater and Fraulein Schmidt. Fraulein Schmidt and

Vater. Ah.

oOo

Late afternoon. Cold, freezing late afternoon. In the cupboard under the stairs

again; for spelling Schmetterling wrong. He crossed it out and wrote Motte

instead. Butterfly, moth – was there any important difference? Why was it always

insects? Is a moth an insect? A butterfly metamorphoses from a caterpillar. Is a

caterpillar an insect?

‘Of course it is! Of the order Lepidoptera. Go! Write all those words fifty

times each, now. Write, you lazy beggar.’ Fraulein Schmidt never looked him in

the eye. She pointed at him with one of her sharp pencils. She wiped her hands on

her stiff skirt and pulled her thin mouth down at the corners.

He disgusted her.

He made her spit her esses.

Writing on a new sheet of paper, scratching with pens and pencils, whose

points broke too often, he wrote and wrote.

Moth

Moth

Butterfly


7 Young Franz

Lepidop

Lepidoptera

Catterpiller Caterpillar

Moth

Butterfly

Caterpillar

Cockroach

Moth

Franz Kafka

Franz

Franz Kafka

Cokroach Cockroach

Cockroach

My name is

Moth

Cockroach

Kafka

After writing a word fifty times, it looked strange, and he started to doubt

the spelling. Fear knotted his stomach. Knitted his fingers. His head did not rise

until he sensed it was dark outside.

oOo


8 Young Franz

Dark, dark. He pulled at blankets and sheet.

Dark, darker, darkest; spell it right. Spell the words correctly.

Dark. Light. Light. It streamed in through a chink in the curtains and struck

the chest of drawers, leaving a slant on the carpet. A gold slant. Dust motes

danced in the air. In the air in his bedroom. It was no longer cold; something had

changed.

‘Franz.’ He spoke to himself. ‘Franz, get out of bed. Start your day.’

Sometimes, it was the only soft voice he heard all day. The little girls shrieked and

laughed. Nanny Lange sang rhymes in a shrill out-of-tune monotone. Fraulein

Schmidt scolded and shouted. Vater, home from the factory, bellowed and howled

all evening.

He rolled out of bed. How many lines would he have to write today? How

many hours would be spent in the cupboard under the stairs? Up, up, out.

Staggering to the window to pull at the curtains, he glimpsed something strange

and took one step back. One step.

One step and there he was, reflected in the full-length mirror on its swivel

stand.

Something had changed.

He had changed.

He was not a boy of ten.

Or eight.

He was not a cockroach.

Or a butterfly.


9 Young Franz

Or a caterpillar.

He was not a lazy beggar.

Or a moth.

He looked at himself in utter surprise. He was a grown man. Not tall, but

fully grown, an adult. A man, a man. What a transformation.

He had not died a child.

He ran a hand through hair that even squashed from sleep, looked like it

would grey soon. He ran fingers over his chin, and felt a night’s growth of beard.

‘You transmute into a grown man, but your childhood never leaves you.’

ooooOOOoooo

1737 words


How to Write Your Own Eulogy

1

I walked towards the deserted historical building suspecting it had all been a prank. I

reminded myself Sundays are for sleeping in, for cooking pancakes-in-too-much-

butter, for Netflix binging, for making love – not that I have a partner, but still – to go

to church – not that God cares, but still – or, at least, for drinking beers with Adam at

the local. Instead, there I was in East Fremantle at 6.45am sharp on the thirteenth

Sunday of the year, as specified in the orientation e-mail. I knocked on the heavy

wooden door and got embraced by a cloud of dust and probably asbestos. I knocked

again, holding my breath, and the door moved.

‘Password, please.’ An ancient lady stood by the half-open door, dressed in black

from head to toe. The password! I had totally forgotten. The old lady sighed.

‘The name of the course, son.’

‘How to Write Your Own Eulogy,’ I said quickly, feeling stupid for shouting like I had

just scored bingo. Satisfied, the old lady guided me into a large room illuminated only

by the weak sunlight coming through the windows. A dozen or so students were

already obediently seated and ready to receive further instructions, just like a bunch

of well-trained Poodles.

‘I am your Master for today’s class,’ she said. ‘Take a seat. We will start soon.’ The

air in the classroom was thick with anticipation. The Master – she insisted on being

called that – skipped the icebreakers, ruining my chances to meet someone nice so

that the class wouldn’t be a complete waste of time. Not that my type went to a one-



2

day course on how to write eulogies, but still. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t into this

type of bullshit either. I had just been gifted the course through an Instagram

competition I had won about a game called Death Stranding.

‘By the end of today you all will be ready to die,’ the Master said confidently. The girl

beside me gasped, or maybe she farted – it was hard to tell, for the room smelled

like death already.

‘This does not mean that you die soon after the course,’ the Master continued, and a

few students exhaled in relief.

‘Perhaps you will. But death will be less scary to you because today you shall find

your purpose.’

What a load of crap, I thought, itching to get out.

The first exercise the Master gave us was to write what we wanted to do before

dying. I created quite a list then for what it proved to be not a bad exercise after all.

In my top three were:

1- Learn how to kitesurf

2- Meet someone

3- Apologise to Scott



3

The second exercise was to write down something we regretted doing and would

change if we could before we died. Easy!

1- To have supported Scott no matter what

The Master proceeded by giving us more exercises. By lunch time my hand ached

from too much writing. Food was then served: soggy carrots, a hard-boiled egg, and

steamed rice. The chef did really well in conceptualising the idea of death on a plate.

After lunch, the Master resumed, ‘You now have one hour to perform the hardest

task of the day. I want your heart, mind, and soul put into this, for now you may write

your own eulogy.’

That was a hard task indeed. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking of Scott and

his stupid new boyfriend, Etienne. His Instagram was full of photos of Parisian bars

and cafes, and of Etienne of course. I wondered how he pronounced his wimpy

name, and the thought of his lips made me miss him like crazy.

After his dad passed, he told me he wanted to go live overseas. He needed this, I

knew that; he was an adventurer, not a coward like me, content to live in a life full of

lies. I remember feeling like I was playing hide and seek when Scott and I were

together – if you can use this word, since we were never really together as a couple



4

– except we were the ones who were always hiding from our friends and family. The

funny thing is that I don’t even know if they were looking for us. Who were we really

hiding from? Them, or us? But back then it felt like they were indeed looking for us,

and, if they ever did find us out, we’d be both dead. Now that almost five years have

passed, I think everyone knew we fancied each other before high school even

started.

Scott hadn’t spoken to his dad since he decided to tell his old man he was gay.

Needless to say, the prick didn’t take it too well. The guy was a big fan of the whole

‘sex, drugs and rock’n’roll’ shite, let me tell you, minus the sex, most likely, since the

fella was always alone. We all knew he was on the gear even though school boys

aren’t meant to know such things. I wished I had spoken more to Scott about this.

So it came to me as no surprise when Scott packed his bags soon after we got the

news about the overdose. We were living in a tiny studio in Northbridge back then,

but it was enough for me. Why couldn’t this be good enough for him too? Why did he

always want more? I didn’t want to leave Perth, I’d been here my whole life. It wasn’t

perfect, but at least it was familiar. At the end, we had a massive fight and I told him

he was free to go to Mandurah, Canada, or to hell, for all I cared. I just wanted to

hurt him, because the mere thought of not having him was unbearable to deal with it

on my own – I needed him to feel the pain too.

Suddenly, after all this talk about death and regrets, the desire to talk to Scott got so

gigantic inside my chest that instead of writing my own eulogy, I wrote him a letter.



5

‘You may stop now.’ The Master stopped us half an hour earlier than expected, and

a few students murmured in disapproval. The Master then asked each of us to read

our lines in front of the room, as if we were the MC’s of our own funeral.

When my turn came, my armpits were damp with sweat and my hands were shaking

violently. Not because I cared about sharing about my sexuality with the whole class

– I was now very good at this – but because I thought I was about to make a fool of

myself. I read my letter, explaining I lied when I said I didn’t care if he left, because

the truth is it still hurts the fact he did. I told him I was glad he found someone and

was happy and free to be who he really is even though he was miles away from me.

‘No more hide and seek after all, huh?’ I joked. I think if life were kind enough to offer

us a second chance, maybe I’d be there with him. I still can’t believe I wrote all of

this. There were long pauses in between my sentences as I my throat felt all lumpy

and thick. Finally, I apologised to him, for the way things ended between us, not only

the romance, but the friendship too, it’s what I missed the most these days. When I

finished reading the last sentence, I caught the fart-girl smiling at me weirdly. The

whole thing was quite creepy if I’m honest.

After the readings, we were directed to a courtyard with a firepit placed on its centre.

We all formed a circle around the fire, and I feared I was being a part of a weird cult

that Netflix was sure to make a documentary about. The Master had all our



6

responses in hand, including my letter. With an abrupt gesture, she then threw

everything on fire, like one does with confetti at newlyweds, except no one was

laughing, or happy, or hopeful.

Some of the students got upset about the papers’ cremation; others were angry. I, on

the other hand, found it quite entertaining to see my wishes, regrets, and apologies

dancing in the flames, their ashes quickly ascending to the heavens even though

they probably didn’t fit there, their tiny particles being carried away by the wind and

becoming part of the air I was breathing, finally coming back to me after all. I wonder

now if a tiny particle has ever made its way to Paris. Has it?

‘Class dismissed,’ the Master shouted after everything had burned down. I left then,

having learned not much at all, for I was definitely not ready to die – at least not

before having a couple with Adam. That, and learning how to kitesurf.


[ Undefined ]

My throat constricts, my vision blackens.

1


[ Undefined ]

I can hear sirens. Someone has come to let me go.

2


[ Undefined ]

I wake up to the smell of disinfectant burning my throat. Another failure huh…

3


[ Undefined ]

I’ve been at the hospital for three days now. One person has come to visit me. My friend

Pastille. I wonder why he isn’t abroad still.

4


[ Undefined ]

Turns out, Pastille had come to visit me during the time of the… incident. He looks pretty

shaken up, but otherwise, I think he looks fine… kinda.

5


[ Undefined ]

I’ve been on watch for the past three weeks, and December is just about to come to an

end. My friend has been visiting non-stop lately, and it’s endearing. But he always looks

like he’s holding something back from me, and for once, I mind it. I really want to ask

about it since he’s been stressing out, but I don’t think I have to. He’s probably going to

break today.

I was right, unfortunately. My usually optimistic friend has gone through a kind of…

explosion today, lashing out at me. Telling me I’m an idiot. Asking me why I did it.

Apologising… hugging me… saying I was wanted and loved no matter what… I don’t

know how long we’ve been hugging for, but it’s long enough that he has to go once

we’re done.

6


[ Undefined ]

I think I’ve been crying for thirty minutes now, but the tears are starting to slow as I stare

up at the ceiling. I’ve been looking at it every night since I’ve been here, but this is the

first time I’ve been looking towards the window. There isn’t anything to see, with the city

lights glaring harshly and reflecting off the glass, but even then, it’s the most beautiful

thing I’ve seen.

7


[ Undefined ]

December 25th, a day for celebration. The day was quiet on my end. With no one to

hang out with often, I’m sort of just left on my own. Until Pastille went to drag me to his

place. We’ve been ripping into this one romance Christmas movie for the past two hours,

and I don’t remember the last time we were laughing like this. I really want to laugh like

this with him more often.

I’ve been starting to sew again. I forgot how much fun this was. Before, it was just

frustration and hating everything I had created. This time though, I could truly see this

time. The small creases and folds that cascade along the fabric, and the stitches that dot

the seams. How happy people look once they have their new set of pyjamas, and how

full my heart felt. I didn't realise I would miss this so much, but here I am.

8


[ Undefined ]

I can finally look at myself in the mirror. I still hate it, how I see myself. But I no longer

look at those scars with shame. Every cut, ever healed over scar, flashes of bruises that

previously would decorate my skin… they were proof. Evidence. They no longer were

mocking me. They were now fading into my skin, becoming a part of me. A reminder, but

it's no longer painful. I may not be completely fine right now, but I'm getting there. I'm

moving forward.

Therapy helps. I don't like the questions, but it helps. I now have a name to my condition.

Depression. I never thought it would apply to me, but all the signs were there. New

Years has long since gone, but it's only just sunk in now. I'm not fighting alone now. I

have Pastille by my side, and my family. I can finally breathe easily in my sleep, even if it

gets interrupted by an incoming nightmare. Those horrors and stresses are still there.

Some scars reopen from time to time. But now I can look up. Finally, I can rest.

9


[ Undefined ]

My name is Patrick Grace. I'm twenty six, and I like sewing. My best friend is Pastille

Minerva, and I live near the park, trees blooming in abundance. I go for walks there

often, and as I sit on the hill, overlooking the sunrise, I can tell that tomorrow is going to

be okay. Not good, far from perfect, but okay.

That's fine to me.

Fin

10


Andy

I

There’s an old, tired train that snakes around the loneliest city.

There are people around me. I’m stating the obvious.

They feel like flesh and blood and organs. This nobody can see.

I woke up like I was grabbling for life inside a womb. Like I was tearing apart lungs and veins, lungs and

veins, parasitically, trying to feel for something beyond me. The walls were living, cold, white, swimming

things, rippling like the disturbed surface of still water, and in the middle of them, a stiff, gaunt figure

anchored to a bed with wrists that were too thin and eyes that were too dark. Here I was, I thought, and there

he was beside me, and maybe in spite of me: the man, middle aged, greying beard and eyes red-tinged like he’d

been crying or drinking, or both.

Andy. Can she hear me? Andy.

Andy… watch the way the words fall off his tongue and sound them out and breathe them in. I enjoyed the

way they sounded, held gentle against the arms of his voice; vulnerable, left wide-open, and loved and beaten

and earth-shattering. The man smelled of cigarette smoke and brandy. He drove back to the house not much

longer after the night when the doctor had pumped his lungs full of grief—of the whole tragedy, the whole

honest and terrible truth. The man had started to cry despite himself, and all that remained was left there in

the disarranged, understood realm of unspoken things: the waiting. He knew. The dealing with.

I watched the trees outside the window from the backseat and imagined they were watching me watching

them and slowly trying to make some sense of me. The man pushed a CD in the radio and a voice was strung

out, clear, despite its melancholy. Look at me, look at me, look at me. He was singing about attention.

“This one was your mother’s favourite,” Paul said. I said nothing.

Eventually, the city fell away. Reddish dust floated around everywhere and some clung to the man’s old jeans

as he stepped out of the car. They seemed to make him heavier, and I noticed then that he walked like he’d

been carrying something around with him for a long time. There was a Christmas wreath still hung up on the

door, despite the bitter June chill that nipped on neck and nose and bony wrists, and the living room still

smelled like cinnamon.


It was a nice house, with photographs. Oakwood floors and cedar French doors and a small hole peering out

under one of the wall-hung frames. White walls and blue flowers on the dinner table and wide-open windows

with sheer curtains that rippled and ballooned when the wind came—like they were saying, “here I am, here I

am!”—and the kid, now considerably older, used to run under them and squeal. Allie. The man’s name was

Paul. Sound them out. Breathe in, and hold. The room they’d given me smelled like citrus and looked like it

had gone untouched for months, years even.

Allie snuck out after dinner. It was part of a routine, like how Paul would go out for a run before breakfast.

How he would disappear behind the shed after he put Violet down for her midday nap and come back smelling

like smoke. How Allie would go out and come back home at four, and he would ask how her day had been and

she would say fine. At the table, they would exchange mediocrities; Paul would talk about work, Allie would

talk about school most of the time, and some days, they would barely say anything at all. After dinner, Allie

would go out again.

From the furthest corner of her doorframe, I watched her turn in her black dress, fix her strawberry lipstick,

consider her reflection, force a grin, prod at her waist, pick at her legs, tug at her hair. She threw herself onto a

chair and sighed. Picked up her notebook and scribbled furiously for a while and then held it up to the soft

light of a lampshade. She read what she’d written aloud to herself theatrically.

ALLIE’S “ESSAY”

The boy wrote a letter to his lost lover, and the letter began, I hope these words find you in good health, which

was to say, I wish I could forget you, which was to say, don’t forget me, don’t forget me, don’t forget me.

Her voice fell away as she read on, bit by bit, until it was lonelier and more lost than an empty lifeboat floating

on the Pacific’s edge. She ripped out her words and balled them up, then threw them in a trashcan sitting at

the corner of her room.

II

There’s an old, tired train that snakes around the loneliest city. I watch people file in

until there’s only a few of them left on the platform.

Some waiting to be passengers

on the next train, some just waiting.


In a good mood, Paul would tell stories about all the paintings he used to make when Allie was just a kid. He’d

go out on the porch and paint whatever mood he was feeling. Sometimes, he’d paint landscapes, sometimes

people walking out on the street. Paul’s most successful paintings were the ones he put no effort into.

Sometimes they were shapes, sometimes anomalous objects, misshapen and by themselves and therefore—art.

None of them ever sold as quickly, but they sold, nonetheless. He didn’t do it often, though. They weren’t

anything to him, so devoid of the pleasure and freedom that he found in painting, but they seemed to be

something to other people. He supposed it was all in the nature of us, to find meaning where there wasn’t any.

Paul never painted much anymore. Every Sunday, he’d put on a blue-spotted tie and go to church. When he’d

come back, he’d stare at the photographs for a while, and eventually he’d go back to the shed.

One more thing: the graveyard. People called this one the Garden. I figured it was intended to be ironic. Every

Sunday, after church, Paul would visit the Garden. He would walk to the same headstone and stand over it

with his head bent.

“You know, I never told you said about this boy in my class,” he would say, or something along those lines.

“About seventeen. He meets a girl over the summer. They mess around and fall in love. But she wasn’t from

here, and when the summer was over, she had to leave. The boy and the girl, they get into this huge fight over

it, long distance this and long distance that, and the neighbours come calling once, and the whole town’s

holding its breath because nothing this good’s happened in years, believe it or not. The girl goes away. They

never speak to each other again.

“But she loved him. Hell, she cried for him. And the boy grows into a man, and he’s driving back home from a

service. Nothing’s really worked out for him, some ten years later, except maybe one thing. See, his wife’s

singing her favourite song, but he’s so lost in his thoughts, thinking about why the things that could’ve been

make him so angry, and he’s not paying attention to the road at all.”

He made a strangled noise somewhere deep in his throat and then he was silent for a while.

“Don’t you ever wonder?” he said, eventually. “You sit there, and you wonder… maybe if you’d tried harder or

become a better person or the world had been kinder to you, things would’ve been different.”

“Sometimes,” Mama whispered, instead of always. I heard a silent continuation, an unsaid but that stalked into

an incomplete sentence; a quiet acceptance in the dead that the living lived to look for.

And yet, and yet. There was the soft ache at the base of my throat for the same air that he shared with

everyone else. There was the metamorphosis of grief, and living, and my staying the same.


ANDY’S CONFESSION

I watched them grieve for the comfort of being remembered. Dead and gone, stripped bare, and at the core of

me— still this god-awful desire to be cared for.

This is what I noticed about the Garden: The headstones were lined up row by row like soldiers waiting

tolerantly for orders that they knew would never come. When the wind blew especially, the tall blades of grass

seemed to sweep and reach as people passed, like beggars. In Paul’s front yard, there was a red mailbox with

chipped paint, stuffed full to the brim with letters nobody had the time or energy for; Here, there was a sombre

abundance of time and silence, like the bare white consequence of the gluttonous thing of living, of taking in

too many colours at once.

Paul seemed surprised. Allie had walked up beside him. Saltwater tears bled into her cheeks like coffee stains

and the clouds that followed her breathing came out fast and short and he was tracing lop-sided circles on her

back with an outstretched arm.

“I’m sorry,” she admitted. It was the most honest thing she’d said in a long time.

“You’re alright, kid,” he told her.

“I think about them all the time,” she said. “Every second of every day, it’s just like…”

“Feels like drowning. I understand. Me too.”

After a while she said, “I don’t want you to be sad like this forever.”

“Forever is a long time,” he said. I wasn’t sure what point he was trying to prove.

He put his arm around her shoulder, and they stood there for some moments or hours. Eventually, she pulled a

blue flower out of her coat pocket and placed it gently on the dirt, and Paul was turning his attention to the

empty plot beside Mama’s gravestone.

“Funeral’s this Sunday,” he said weakly.

“I know,” said Allie. “Finally get past this purgatory.”

“Guess so.”

She tapped him on the back.

“You’re alright, kid,” she said. He managed half a smile.

They started to walk away. I called out, like I always did. Screamed until I rubbed my throat red raw. Mama

wrapped her arms around me in a firm but warm embrace as I collapsed to the floor, breathing hard and heavy.


She whispered, “you’re safe here, my little girl.”

I asked her, “do you think they’ll remember me forever?”

Forever is a long time, said Paul inside my head.

Just far away enough so I could make out the outlines of her face, Allie turned suddenly.

“Andy,” I read from her strawberry lips. She looked almost hopeful.

IV

The train stops at the hospital.

Here she is, a stiff, gaunt figure anchored to a bed, with wrists that are too thin, and eyes that are too dark. I crawl beside

my cold body and fall asleep. This is what I am saying about dying: There are people around me. I’m stating the obvious.

They feel like flesh and blood and organs. This nobody can see. I wake up like I’m grabbling for life inside a womb. The

man starts to cry despite himself. They drive back to the house. He pushes a CD in the radio, and the voice is not singing

about attention at all, but the sort of profound, harrowing love that dulls the glitter and glamour of both dying and living

equally. The city falls away, reddish dust makes the man heavier, and the living room smells like cinnamon year-round.

When the man got home seven nights after the accident, he punched a hole in the wall. Still, it’s a nice house, with

photographs. White walls and blue flowers. Sheer curtains that ripple and balloon when the wind comes, like us all. Here

I am, here I am, which is to say, don’t forget me, don’t forget me.


1 Flavourless

1

Catastrophe came for Graham so quietly, its arrival slipped

entirely beneath his notice.

There was no flare or sound or pain. It wormed its way inside

him through neurons and nerve ends, while he drank at the bar of the

Whitefield Tavern. Discreet as a midnight mistress and just as

devastating.

Graham watched as the bartender drew his first beer, chin

resting upon steepled hands. Glass tilted 45 degrees. Straightened as

the beer foamed. He nodded with approval as the young man placed

the full glass down on a felt coaster.

“Enjoy, Mister Adams,” the bartender said.

Graham lowered his eyes to study the beer. It was light and

clear. The colour of hay. Fizzy carbonation rising in twisting streams.

The spongy lather of head holding firm. Very nice.

He took out his pen and writing pad from his jacket pocket and

scribbled a few notes on the bartop.

The chief brewer Ramone was standing in the doorway of his

office, dabbing his brow with a linen cloth. Graham did not think he was

sweating from the heat. Ramone’s sidelong glances were lingering just

a little too long.

Graham breathed in the beer’s aroma. It was tropical. Mangos

and peach. He took his first sip. There was fruit, certainly, but the

backbone of the flavour was the pinesap bitterness of the hops. He

swallowed and nodded to himself as he jotted down more notes.


2 Flavourless

2

Ramone, evidently, could no longer bear the anxiety. He

sashayed up to the bar.

“Mister Adams, I’m dying to know your thoughts on our Imperial

I.P.A.”

Graham took another sip and smacked his lips. “It’s nice,” he

said. “Very tart.”

“Double hopped,” Ramone said. “We add the first batch early to

boost the bitterness.” His gaze flickered down to the open notepad on

the bar.

Graham flipped the cover shut with an apologetic smile. “Sorry,

Ramone. You’ll have to read the review on the blog, like everyone

else.”

Ramone looked sheepish. “Would you like to try one of our

seasonal brews as well?” he said. “Something different. A Sour,

perhaps?”

“I’m not one to turn down temptation,” Graham said, flashing a

grin.

“Fantastic. I’ll order you a slice of red velvet too.”

“Red velvet?”

“Trust me,” Ramone insisted.

“Cake and beer,” Graham said. “It’s a hard life, isn’t it?”

Ramone poured the Sour in a tall frosted glass. Frothy lacing

clung to the inside. He set it on the bar with the cake and Graham

leaned forward to smell the fragrance. He paused and sniffed again.

There was no discernible scent.


3 Flavourless

3

Graham wrinkled his nose. No matter how deeply he inhaled, he

could detect not a whiff of citrus or vinegar as he had expected. He

tasted a mouthful.

Flat. Flavourless. The Sour might as well have been soda. He

masked his disappointment with a thoughtful expression.

“How do you like it?” Ramone asked.

“Well,” Graham paused as he searched for words. “It’s certainly

different.”

“Try it after the cake,” Ramone urged. “The contrast really brings

out the funk.”

Graham spooned a morsel of the red sponge into his mouth. It

was bland and pasty, like glue. He looked down at the rich crimson

dessert. The berries practically bursting with ripeness. The cream, light

and buoyant. This didn’t make any sense.

He ate another spoonful and washed it down with a gulp of beer.

It was like his tongue was coated in wax. Even if the beer was

off, he should have tasted something.

“So? Am I right?” Ramone cajoled.

“Umm,” Graham said. Ramone was staring at him. Concern

creeping into his eyes.

“Delicious,” Graham spurted. “They compliment each other

perfectly. Those spicy notes in the Sour…” he trailed off, sensing that

his lies were snowballing.


4 Flavourless

4

Ramone beamed. “Thank you, Mister Adams! Thank you!” he

crooned. “You know, they say when it comes to beer, your palate is the

very best.”

Graham returned the smile, but his mouth was barren as an

ashen wasteland.

***

When Graham arrived back at his apartment, his terrier Hazel

greeted him excitedly at the door. He marched straight past her into the

kitchen.

There were fresh lemons in the fruit bowl. He took one and

deftly sliced it into wedges on the chopping board. He picked one up,

juice squeezing out and wetting his fingers.

Hazel watched him curiously from the floor. Doe-eyed and tail

swishing.

“Am I insane?” he said to her.

Then he bit into the flesh of the wedge. Liquid burst in his

mouth. He tore the flesh off the rind with his teeth and chewed.

Nothing.

He licked his lips and swallowed.

No tang. No acidity. Like eating a slippery wad of paper.

He hauled open the fridge door and snatched up a carton of

milk. He poured it straight from the spout into his open mouth. Some

spilled down his chin and onto his shirt.

His back molars ached as the cold milk lapped around them, but

he tasted no creaminess. No flavour. He slapped the milk carton down


5 Flavourless

5

onto the kitchen counter and grabbed the next item in the fridge. He

examined its label. Habanero hot sauce.

“Here’s goes,” he said, twisting off the cap.

He shook the bottle, dashing the sauce directly into the back of

his throat. He swilled the paste over his tongue and the roof of his

mouth.

Then he counted. One. Two. Three.

He flung the small bottle at the floor. It shattered, shards of glass

tinkling across the tiles. Hazel spun with her tail between her legs and

scrambled to the safety of the bedroom. Graham stood there staring at

the mess. A bloody smear of bright sauce at its centre.

What was a beer critic who could not taste beer?

Who could not taste anything?

***

The doctors told him the condition was called Ageusia. But what

it was called mattered less to Graham than what it meant. And it meant

those blissful afternoons of cake and beer were over.

His first gambit was a woman named Amber. A student of

Cowan University’s brewing short course. She came along to all of

Graham’s tastings and even sat beside him on panels at festivals. His

assistant, he told people.

Every time he was served a beer, so too was Amber. She would

sip hers first, like a medieval cupbearer testing for poison, and then

whisper her impressions in his ear. Tastebuds for hire.

Unfortunately, Amber was less than eloquent with her words.


6 Flavourless

6

“It tastes really long,” she whispered at one tasting.

“What?”

“Yeah, long. Tastes like flowers smell, but later its different. Like

a Cherry Ripe.”

“The flavour evolves on your palate?”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s much better.”

“It’s flirtatious. It charms your tastebuds with a bouquet of roses.

Then surprises them with a picnic of cherries and chocolate.”

“Cute,” Amber said. “You’re pretty good at this.”

But if Amber was rambling while sober, she was downright

incomprehensible drunk. And she proved perfectly happy getting

sloshed on Graham’s payroll. He cancelled their arrangement after just

one month.

Graham found his next recourse in technology. The machine

was surprisingly small, the size of a smartphone. Easily concealed in

his shirtpocket. The researcher who sold him the device insisted it

could analyse the chemical composition of any beverage and

determine the flavours with scientific precision.

He would feed this mechanical mouth through a little rubber

tube. Stealthily spitting his beer dregs down the straw like a seabird

feeding her chicks. But there was little nuance to be learned from the

device’s gages. Graham was renowned for sophistication, not for a

simple score out of ten.

And so he found himself pondering a final resort in the sterile,

overbright office of Doctor Manstrom.


7 Flavourless

7

Manstrom was a private surgeon. His teeth were somehow too

white, seeming to glow with their own light as he explained the

procedure.

He laid a chart over his desk. A cross section of a human head.

The skin and flesh peeled away to reveal the spongy nasal passages.

The cavity of a sinus. The long curve of a pink tongue.

“All of this tissue would be removed surgically,” Manstrom

explained. “And then replaced and sculpted into a new gustatory

system.”

“Where would this new tongue come from?” Graham asked.

“Your own cells,” Manstrom said. “It’s not a transplant. It’s a

reconstruction. We can recreate your tongue exactly as it was before

the Ageusia.”

“And you’ve done this before?”

“No, Mister Adams. You could be making history. Patient zero,”

Manstrom’s teeth glittered beneath the florescent light. “Of course, I will

need you to sign a preliminary waiver for such a ground breaking

operation.”

“A waiver?”

“This isn’t technically a necessary procedure,” Manstrom said.

“And as with many elective surgeries, there are risks.”

“Such as?”

“Well there’s no guarantee that you’ll actually be able to taste

and smell again,” Manstrom said nonchalantly. “And you may lose your

ability to talk, or at least your speech could be severely impaired.”


8 Flavourless

8

“I see.”

When Manstrom fetched the waiver forms, the stack was a

hundred pages thick. He dropped it on the desk with a thud.

Graham licked his thumb and began flicking through. After the

first three pages, he turned to the end. The dotted line.

“Why the hell, not,” he said as he signed.

I’ve already lost everything that mattered.

***

There was a final flavourless tasting before Graham’s

procedure. A full stop to this phase of his life before… whatever came

next.

It was a competition. Graham gloomily sipped the anaemic ales

and mumbled platitudes into his microphone. Voted the same way as

the other judges. The winners were announced to applause and pint

glasses tinkled in celebration.

Afterward, he sought out the winner as a matter of habit. Garage

Kettle Brewing. A moustachioed hipster, if Graham had to guess.

The brewer had retreated to the venue’s staff room, away from

the crowd. When Graham found them, he pulled up. Looked away

when he realised he was staring.

She stood crooked in the doorway, leaning against the frame

with her shoulder. Her left leg was gone from the knee down. The

stump bound with a pressure sleeve.

Graham cleared his throat. “Are you the brewer from Garage

Kettle?” he asked.


9 Flavourless

9

“That’s right,” she said. “Stephanie Wilcox.”

“I’m Graham Adams, one of the judges, I wanted to congratulate

you.”

“Adams,” she said. “The beer blog guy.”

“That’s me.”

“I heard you used to be feared around here,” she said.

“Everyone held their breath when you scribbled on that pad.”

“Used to,” Graham said. He was trying not to look down at the

gap where her leg should have been.

She caught his gaze. “You want to know what happened?” she

asked.

“No, no. Sorry,” Graham said. “I don’t mean to pry.”

“Helicopter crash,” she said with a dramatic hand flourish.

Graham choked on his own words. “What?” he managed to

sputter.

She laughed. “Shocking right? But true. I used to be an

aeronautical engineer in the A.D.F. Twelve years of service.”

“Wow,” Graham said. He shook his head. “A helicopter crash?”

“I don’t actually remember anything,” Stephanie said. “I passed

out as we went down. Woke up in a hospital bed in Timor. And…” she

pointed down at the stump.

“I’m so sorry,” Graham said.

She shrugged.

“How on earth did you go from that life to brewing saisons?”


10 Flavourless

10

“Pretty easily,” she said. “I was laying around at home feeling

sorry for myself. I knew how to build stuff and I loved beer. So I built my

first kettle in my garage.”

“Garage kettle,” Graham said. “The brewery name.”

“Yup.”

“Incredible.”

“Well, I hope you use that word to describe the beer.”

“Right.”

And so as silent as catastrophe had come, so too came

reinvention. There was no penny drop. No lightbulb. Just the seed of

an idea, ripe to bloom.

“Listen,” Graham said. “You wouldn’t happen to be interested in

an interview, would you?”

“Like for an article?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I’m going to try something new.”


Rainy Daze

Epileptic neon flickers from Lowry’s industrial streetscapes plagiarised scenes from plagiarised movies Endless drizzle rolls down the outside of steamed up windows she peers outward through the Bangladeshi café warmth Silhouettes of mackintosh and brolly plastic bags on grateful heads, origami caps adorn tattered hats and shopping trolleys, briskly ply midst traffic horns

Liquid carpark shines, reflecting dancing colours stygian flow… carries jetsam down old kerbstone gutters Another Manchester jet black…wet slate midwinter opera just another mindless shopping mart oasis meme Remembering her regular vacations to Mediterranean Spain she gave herself strength to mix and match her memories to hatch variables of past montage into her new role play

Jenny looked into her toddler’s eyes should I swap you for past good times... my halcyon days? or will we journey together, mother daughter entwined transfigure our lives in mindful ways Drizzle eases, thick bulbous clouds choke the dank bronchial night Toddling outside together, young Heather in her pet harness Jenny smiled and cried… her umbilical tethered child.


Anti-metamorphosis 1

Anti-metamorphosis

Peter is looking at himself in the glass of the bus shelter wall. It reminds him of the

reflection he sees in the morning mirror when it is still misted with steam. Younger, less

defined. It makes him look like the profile picture he uses on all his socials. It is the

image he wants to see on the back cover of his upcoming book.

A middling famous author once commented that the photo made him look like Truman

Capote; surely a statement of his literary prowess rather than a reference to his sexuality.

Regardless, he tries to maintain this image to make it easier for readers to spot him. He

wears an argyle sweater vest, one of five on rotation. A plain, well-tailored shirt. Dressy

jeans. Leather loafers. Plastic glasses. (He’s aware of the irony). He pulls a small

notebook from his breast pocket.

Plastic glasses. Paper towel. Old news. Oxymoronic conundrums of the modern man.

Pleased with himself for having chosen the topic of his next blog post (it’s not even eight

o’clock), Peter lays a small pile of books next to him on the bench. On top, he places his

notebook and fountain pen, a gift from the middling famous author after their single night

together.

Then he waits.

He has no bus to catch, no place to be. He is working. A wright. A wordwright. A waiting

wordwright.

He takes up the pen.

Wright. Shipwright. Playwright. A person who constructs and builds. Change website tag

line.



The morning sun crests a large jacaranda, sending an arrow of light into his left eye.

Blinking, Peter shuffles sideways on the bench sending his carefully stacked books

toppling to the ground. As he crouches to pick them up he becomes aware of a pair of

light brown worker’s boots, scuffed on the toe, thick black tradie socks. Peter tracks up

the hairy, well-formed calves, past the well-stocked stubbies, to an outstretched hand.

Given the rest of the outfit, the nails are remarkably clean.

‘Looks like a challenging read.’

Peter is used to his intellect intimidating people. He accepts the book graciously, hauling

himself back up onto the bench. Peter rearranges himself self-consciously and waits for

the inevitable recognition.

The young man is quiet. He does not have buds in his ears or pull a phone from his

pocket. Peter knows it is unusual for a young person to be disconnected, to have empty

hands (the tools of connection are usually palm-sized) yet the tradie sits easily, legs

stretching forward, hands resting on his thighs. Peter uncrosses his legs, spreads his knees

a little wider. He glances at his own hands.

Book manicure for Thursday.

Unsettled by the silence, Peter reaches for a book. His short story is on page 46,

published in 2011 to positive reviews and heralding him an upcoming talent, one to

watch. It even warranted a few lines in the Herald. Such a long time ago. Are people still

watching?

‘Are you okay?’

Peter looks over at the young man, taking in his brown eyes, the well-trimmed beard.



‘I’m perfectly well, thank you.’ Being on the receiving end of unwarranted concern feels

slightly damp and uncomfortable, like a mask that has been worn too long. ‘Why do you

ask?’

The tradie smiles; his teeth are very white. They are pleasing to look at. Peter’s fingers

inch towards his notebook.

Look into teeth whitening.

‘You were making groaning sounds and clenching your fists. I thought you might be in

pain.’

Suddenly Peter feels quite naked and shivers as though his pasty body is exposed and not

covered by an argyle sweater vest and well-tailored shirt. Dressy jeans.

A hiss at the corner announces the arrival of the 93. The engine races as it pulls to a stop,

disgorging a young mother and her sour-faced child. The tradie and Peter regard each

other for a moment, each expecting the other to stand and board the bus. The bus driver

clearly shares this expectation, eventually taking off in a crunch of gears and reportable

language.

‘I’m waiting for the 91,’ the man says by way of explanation.

‘It only comes every forty minutes,’ says Peter, who knows these things.

The young man looks disappointed, glances at his watch. ‘I’m in enough trouble as it is;

being late for work will really cap off a shit month.’

Detecting a story, Peter sits a little taller.

‘Are you a writer?’ the man suddenly asks, as though just noticing.



Peter assumes the appropriate expression, that of modest pride. ‘You recognise me.’ It’s a

statement of fact, not a question.

Pause. ‘No… I don’t think so. But you look like a writer. Perhaps I have heard of you.’

Peter waves his hand. ‘Have you read Masticating Without My Mouth? Or The Master’s

Tale?’

The man’s expression gives Peter his answer. A chill wind seems to blow right through

Peter. His very bones are cold.

‘Well, those are short literary works, perhaps before your time. Maybe you have read my

blog Musings on Thought? Seen my opinion piece in The Age? I was a judge for the 2013

Darville Awards?’

The man shakes his head without shame, oblivious to how ignorant he is revealing

himself to be. ‘Have you published any novels lately?’

Peter’s chin lifts as he looks down his nose at the hirsute young man next to him.

Society’s desperate need to link the production of sole-authored, long-form fictional

books (which are actually published) to the worth of authors is tiresome. The morning

wind sends the fine hairs on Peter’s chest into a state and he spasms. His fine Argyle

sweater vest is useless; it may as well be mesh.

‘I am working on my upcoming book,’ Peter announces grandly, trying to recover some

of the pride he felt earlier. ‘I’ve been told by a panel of my contemporaries it will be the

Great Australian Novel.’

The tradie’s eyebrows rise and Peter thinks he looks suitably impressed, but then he

opens his mouth and there are those white teeth again.

‘I thought Jasper Jones was the Great Australian Novel. I’ve read that one.’



Peter clenches his jaw so tight it sends a current of pain through his back molar. The one

with the hole. It feels like an expensive hole, one Peter cannot afford to fall through right

now. He scrabbles for his notebook.

Why the Great Australian Novel must be adult fiction and cannot be YA.

The fine pen slashes through the page. Ink bleeds through the paper. There is a strange

sensation in Peter’s chest. He looks down to see a gaping wound in his torso where the

triangles used to be on his sweater. His fingers trace the edge of the hole. There is no

blood, just nothing. His heart has vanished.

But the young man continues as though he hasn’t ripped out Peter’s very core.

‘I actually read that book to my girlfriend, she was pregnant.’ He smiles with the

memory. ‘Every night by seven o’clock she’d be so tired after work she would be ready

for bed, so I would lie next to her and read her a few pages of Jasper Jones. I think Jasper

is a great name.’ His voice trails off and he looks down the empty road.

‘I really am going to be in trouble if I’m late.’

‘You don’t have a car?’ (It’s unusual for young people not to have cars these days).

‘Oh I have a car,’ the tradie says. ‘A Holden V8 ute. She’s a beaut.’

‘Then why…?’ Peter gestures at the space surrounding them. The glass walls with posters

spruiking fried chicken, the cold metal bench that Peter can feel in his muscles as though

he no longer has skin. Or clothes.

‘I lost my licence. DUI.’ The man rubs his beard, so neatly trimmed. ‘I never drink and

drive but two months ago, I was at my mate’s place watching the footy, had a few beers,

then my girlfriend called. The baby was coming early. I needed to be with her, so I

jumped in the ute and drove to the hospital to meet her. Almost made it.’



‘Why not wait for an Uber?’ Peter wanted to know, losing interest in the story. Another

irresponsible youth. It would be much more interesting if he was an alcoholic. Trapped in

a world of dependency and shame.

Remember to be a recovering alcoholic. Capote. Kerouac. Tennessee Williams. Research

downward spiral. Write short memoir piece about my courageous fight against the

darkness. Create a pithy quote ie. F. Scott Fitzgerald: ‘First you take a drink, then a

drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.’ Self-created prison of glass and vapours.

YES!

Peter curls his hands around his notebook. Everything he is, every thought he has, the

building blocks of his upcoming book – his only book – lays on the pages. The notebook

is Peter.

He places the end of the fountain pen against his lip, assumes a posture of thoughtful

contemplation like the picture on his socials. This is usually when he hears small gasps of

recognition. It feeds him.

But the only sound Peter can hear is the wind whistling through the hole in his chest. His

feet have disappeared too.

In desperation, Peter tries to take back the tradie’s attention. ‘What did you have?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The baby. Was it a boy or a girl?’

The tradie stands abruptly, shoving his hands deep inside his pockets. His back is to

Peter.



‘The baby died. It was too soon, she was too little. Angie was all alone in that hospital

room, giving birth to our tiny dead baby girl and I was in the back of a paddy wagon.

Stupid. STUPID.’

The tradie kicks at the glass wall with his steel-capped boots. A web of cracks blooms in

the glass.

Avoid mixing metaphors.

There is a rumble from the opposite direction and a deep purple ute slows. The window is

down, a tattooed arm casually dropped over the door.

‘Mate,’ the driver calls. ‘I heard you got done. Really sorry to hear about Ang too.’

The tradie nods, takes a few steps towards the kerb. ‘Thanks mate.’

‘You want a lift?’

The young man shakes his head, ‘m’going in the opposite direction.’

Peter has sat taller on the bench, but the man in the ute does not even flick his eyes in

Peter’s direction. He may as well not even exist.

The silver veil. Becoming invisible as we age.

But that is just for nobodies, Peter tells himself. He is a famous writer. He has over four

thousand followers. He was interviewed last year on Community Radio about his

upcoming book.

Besides, his hair is not silver. He keeps it a youthful shade of sandy blonde. Like Capote.

He reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ear, to find he no longer has a hand.

‘Those your books?’ The man in the ute is pointing at Peter’s neatly stacked pile of texts.

‘Na mate, there was someone here before. Old bloke. He must have left them.’



‘I was gonna say,’ the man laughs. ‘Life’s not that desperate.’

Even from this distance, Peter can see the yellowed smile, the missing tooth. He is

repulsive yet relatable. He would make a fantastic character in a short story about the

failures of the education system.

Peter tries to reach for his notebook. It is difficult with no hands.

A rumble in the distance.

‘That’s me,’ says the tradie.

‘Right then.’ The man lifts his hand in farewell and leaves in a roar. A smudge of rubber

defiles the road.

The tradie has his hand out, calling the bus. It hisses to a stop.

The tradie pauses on the lower step of the bus, looking back at the shelter. All he sees is

the pile of books. Sitting on top is the notebook, its now blank pages flapping in the

breeze.

Shrugging, he swings himself onto the bus.


Children of the Mountain

1


In the months leading up to his death, my grandfather gradually became blue.

Most of the men in our village being miners, life expectancy was low and few lived to

experience grandfatherhood. This meant that while having a grandfather was unusual,

having a grandfather who was also blue conferred an odd celebrity upon my brother and

myself among our schoolfriends. For a small fee, we used to let them onto our property

to peek through the window into his bedroom and view him where he sat like an ancient

deity, propped up against a pile of white bolsters - eyes half-closed, head slumped, chin

resting on his chest.

He was not the bright blue of the summer sky above the mountain but the deep purple-

blue of bruises and brinjal. In the beginning the hue was just faint tinge upon his

fingertips, but, as time went on and his breathing grew more laboured, his coffee-coloured

skin became completely suffused, like brown paper soaking up ink.

“What happened to him?’ our friends would ask. We claimed he was magical, relying on

them to spread the rumour so we’d make more pocket-money. Our parents had asked the

same question of the local doctor. They’d guessed there was a problem with his lungs for

respiratory ailments were commonplace in our community, but skin darkening to indigo

wasn’t something anyone in the village had seen before.

“It’s affecting grandfather in a different way,” our mother told us, “There are black trees

growing inside him that steal his air. The lack of air affects his skin.”



2

Her attempt to explain his condition in a way our young minds could understand only

added to the myth of grandfather. In our eyes, he became part god, part tree. We reworked

our schoolyard sales-pitch and started charging an extra coin to anyone who wanted to

have a look at him.

“Who are all those people?” he asked in one of his lucid moments, as he glanced towards

the window that framed a cluster of small, wide-eyed faces.

We liked it when he was awake and could talk to us. Our parents were always busy; father

spending long hours at the mine, mother occupied with housework, our baby sister, and

grandfather’s care. Grandfather, however, had nothing to do but sit, and, when he was

conscious, he seemed to like our company.

His yellowed teeth flashed in his blue face when we told him of our money-making

scheme and he whispered – for he always spoke in a whisper now – how pleased he was

to be useful. Then, when he playfully demanded a cut, asking if there was enough coin

for cigarettes, my brother ran all the way to the village to buy the cheap fragrant beedi

sticks he loved, and which my mother refused to get him because the doctor had forbidden

them.

“It cannot matter now,” said Grandfather, as he tried to pincer a cigarette. But the hands

which once swung a pickaxe for twelve hours a day and prised rubies straight from cavern

walls, were too frail to lift the tobacco to his mouth, and, as soon became apparent when

we put the cigarette to his lips, the body which had endured the harshest working



3

conditions was too weak to properly inhale the smoke. In the end, I lit one and waved it

around the room like an incense stick. Grandfather sniffed the sweet cinnamon- and

clove-scented air, and was happy.

It became our little ritual, when we noticed he was awake, to burn a cigarette and perch

on the edge of his bed to talk to him. He seemed less strange, less blue, in those moments

when he was whispering stories of his life underground – the long pauses as he struggled

for breath adding to the drama of the tales. He’d been twelve when he first descended

into the mine beside his own father.

“You cannot imagine how absolute the darkness is,” he murmured, “Not if you shut your

eyes tight and cover them with your hands. Not if you hide beneath the bedcovers. You,”

he nodded at my brother, “you’ll see what I mean, in time.”

My brother, who was nine, grinned and said he couldn’t wait. Then he turned and mocked

me, because I was a girl who had to stay above ground and keep house for my husband.

When I protested that I wanted to go to the mines too, Grandfather shushed me, assuring

me I had the better fate, though, when he told of the great explosions the miners set to

blast away chunks of rock and reveal new seams of gems, I felt envious that I’d never

experience this excitement for myself, even if it was as dangerous as he claimed.

“Once you go underground, you become part of the mountain,” he told us, “You eat away

at its insides and it takes revenge by eating yours. You become more mountain than man.”



4

“Is it blue underground, grandfather?” my brother asked, “Did the mountain make you

blue?”

Grandfather smiled a little.

“In a way it did. But underground is not blue. When you light a lantern, the walls are

white like roti and the gems are the colour of persimmons.”

“What makes the gems, grandfather?” continued my brother, whose eyes had grown wide

at the thought of caves that looked like bread and fruit.

But grandfather had fallen asleep.

I took up the story which we’d heard so many times before.

“The mountain presses down with its whole weight. It is so heavy and so hot, hotter than

the hottest summer day. Then, after a long, long time of constant weight and heat, the

rock turns to rubies, and emeralds, and sapphires.”

We’d seen polished gems only once before when Father had taken us on a rare trip to the

city. In the gold bazaar we’d been dazzled by the array of jewellery, deep buttery gold

chains studded with tiny twinkling stones which were so unlike the jagged lumps of rock

that emerged from the mines and which Father explained were the reason for his life

underground. We stared at the glittering displays and asked him why he never brought

any home, then discovered the end-product of his labours was not for people like us.



5

“Sapphires!” my brother echoed with a sigh, “Those are the ones that are blue. Like

Grandfather.”

“They are the children of the mountain,” I said, because that was exactly how Grandfather

always finished that tale.

The next time Grandfather opened his eyes was the day the mine caved in. We were

sitting on the floor next to his bed, dividing our small hoard of coins into a pile for us and

a pile for cigarettes, when the rumbling sound started. We leapt to our feet, ran to the

window, looked out towards the mountain. Through the shimmer of summer’s humidity,

we saw an ash cloud blooming above the mine-site as the groaning in the earth grew

louder.

We were transfixed until a loud coughing made us turn around. Grandfather was

struggling to move.

“I know that sound,” he wheezed, “Help me up! Help me look!”

The two of us were trying to lift his skinny frame when my mother ran in, pushing baby

sister into my arms and shouting at us to stay in the house. We saw her running through

the pasture, towards the mountain which had a new stark crater pock-marking its southern

face. We stood together, me holding my sister, my brother propping up Grandfather’s

gasping form. The baby was weeping as if even she knew what an enormous tragedy was



6

taking place. Grandfather was weeping too, the tears glazing his cheeks to polished

turquoise.

In the days leading up to his death my grandfather was fully-conscious, his eyes open and

onyx-bright in his wrinkled cobalt face. While my mother grieved along with the other

widows, we stayed beside Grandfather who, gently, quietly, and with many ragged

breaths which had nothing to do with the black trees in his lungs, explained why we

would not be seeing our father again.

“The way in has been lost,” he said, “and it’s too dangerous for anyone to clear a path to

where the men were working.”

“But what will happen to Father?” sobbed my brother, “Mother said we can’t even bring

him to the cremation grounds.”

“Remember what I told you about the weight and the heat of the mountain upon the

underground?” Grandfather said, “They work the same upon your father and make him

part of the mountain. I am sure he has become a gemstone by now. Think of him as a

ruby - the biggest, brightest ruby you can imagine.”

“A child of the mountain?” asked my brother.

“Exactly,” whispered my grandfather, sounding exhausted, “Exactly.”



7

So only one journey was made to the cremation grounds - for Grandfather a week later.

His dark blue skin was hidden under the wrappings of a shroud into which my brother

and I tucked a single beedi cigarette. As a girl, I wasn’t allowed to go with the men when

they carried him from the house, but later I crept out and went to see where the pyre had

been. I took a stick and poked around the site, expecting to find sapphires, and was

disappointed that my magical grandfather, whose own son had become the biggest ruby

in the mountain, had himself transformed into nothing more than a patch of scorched

earth.

His ashes were thrown into the river. We told our schoolfriends that he’d become a grey

cloud which floated away down the valley, but, as evidenced by our now empty palms

and pockets, this was not the kind of story which would bring us any coins at all.


Creative Writing Competition 2021

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Transcript of Creative Writing Competition 2021