Get Writing
Prize 2016
usq.edu.au/get-writing
Junior Poetry
Winner
Where We Once Came
Angus Harrison Cronin
Highly Commended
Our Eternal Bond
Alexandria Walker
Where We Once Came
Angus Harrison Cronin
12 days away
From our destination.
The storm bellows in the background
From where we once came.
The captain's plan was tempting,
But now we regret it.
Our family reaches out,
From where we once came.
We're finally here
It's so different.
People everywhere,
But they're all clean...
"New clothes", is all that we hear,
"And then off to the pub!"
But all we want to do is go home
To where we once came.
Now we're on the inside
Where the snake eyes live.
Nobody here has seen us,
Like where we once came.
We scratch, scratch, scratch.
But can't get cool.
Like the heart of the white fella,
Who now rules.
And now we wonder,
"Will we be accepted?"
When we return to the place
From where we once came.
Our Eternal Bond
Alexandria Walker
Is it in the way a sapling sighs in the wind,
Or in the creaks of an old oak’s branches?
Is it in the way snow drifts gently to the ground,
Or in the huge roar of avalanches?
Is it in the way I tell you my silly jokes,
Or in the way you smile indulgently?
Is it in the way I flaunt the latest fashions,
Or in the way you gift them to me?
Overflowing with liveliness and excitement,
Young forget themselves in modern blunders.
Creating an extensive nest of contraptions,
Bright screens, shrill laughs and revealing wonders.
The sapling flourishes, the avalanche settles,
Becoming a great tree, a gentle snow.
We're intertwined, you and I; life's polarities,
A grandmother and granddaughter combo.
But you, with wisdom matured by seven decades,
You laugh softly and nod encouragingly,
Struggling to comprehend the new trends, but
Always loving unconditionally.
So much separates us and so much unites us,
Family, age, love and maturity.
We cherish each other's differences, and find
Our eternal bond a warm security.
Junior Short Story
Winner
Silence Until
Louisa Wildie
Highly Commended
Holding
Hannah Ostini
Silence Until
Louisa Wildie
The sand between the small boy’s little feet felt soft and light, almost like bouncing on a cloud. His hand was
clasped in an older boy’s hand. It was not hard for onlookers to tell that they were brothers. Their fair hair
fluttered in the gentle breeze while the sound of the waves hitting the shore roared in their ears. As they walked,
and toddled, the older boy gazed out at the horizon and sighed. It was a happy sigh. A contented sigh.
After spending time in the tossing waves the boys’ stomachs grumbled; they were a bear’s roar. Picking up the
sand­peppered knapsack, the older boy opened it and straight away a worried look formed on his face. He
frantically started tipping the contents of the bag out. Sunscreen fell out. Water­bottles. Sunhats. The spades
and buckets. The Go­Cards. But the carefully packed lunches were not to be found. The older boy began to
curse under his breath before he realised his baby brother, who hadn’t yet spoken, was watching. He didn’t
want his brother’s first words to be an expletive that he’d uttered in a time of desperation. Another grumble
escaped from the little boy’s stomach. It sounded almost apologetic. The child’s auburn eyes were wide and
innocent as he gazed hopefully at his brother. Their energy levels had lowered after spending all that time
playing in the surf. They needed replenishment. The older boy did not want to leave this sundrenched paradise
to travel all the way home, just because they forgot to pack lunch, however the options were few. Their mother
had ensured that they would not need money because they had all they would need with them. The older boy
mentally cursed himself for agreeing with her.
The eldest boy turned and shoved his hands in his hair whilst sinking to his knees in the soft sand. A groan of
exasperation escaped as he knelt amongst this shimmering golden landscape. He couldn’t bear to go home. He
couldn’t stand another moment with ‘The Replacement’ right now. He could hear his little brother shift behind him.
There followed the whisper of a zip, a tap on the shoulder and the utter of a word. “Josh.” Still on his knees, the
teenage boy turned. His brother had just said his name! This word, which generally seemed ordinary to Josh, instantly
transformed into the most incredible sound he had ever heard. The sound of his brother’s joyful exclamations filled the child’s ears as his brother reached out towards him and pulled
him in for a celebratory cuddle. Josh held him close and silently promised himself that he would never forget this
magical moment. It wasn’t difficult to do. He knew it would be as easy as breathing to call upon this moment later. It
was then that the teenager realised there was something in the young boy’s hand; the hand that was becoming
increasingly crushed as Josh held the boy tight to him. Josh gently released his brother from his ecstatic grip and held
the child’s shoulders lightly, at half an arms distance away. In offering to his older brother, the bright eyed boy opened
his small, scrunched hand. A crumpled twenty dollar note was revealed. It was more than plenty to buy food and
snacks. This meant they could stay for the rest of the day! An enormous smile bloomed on Josh’s face and a
matching one began to form on the younger version of himself. As glad as Josh was, he had to wonder where his sibling had gotten the money from. He searched the bag more
carefully this time and realised that there was a zip pocket in the bag. He felt inside the pocket and saw a note. It was
in ‘The Replacement’s’ handwriting. Disgust filled Josh and he was just about ready to throw it as far as he could
when he caught a glimpse of one of the lines. It mentioned that ‘The Replacement’ had put that money in there just in
case. The moody teen silently admitted to himself that maybe his stepfather wasn’t so bad after all… Holding
Hannah Ostini
He stood, nestled in the trees, watching the world go by. He was old and oh, so tired. When the harsh winds blew,
his bones creaked in protest. His once­fine attire was old and worn and he worried the next winter would be his last.
Who was that? Someone was walking down the road towards him. As they neared, he saw it was a man; clean­
shaven, pointy shoes, dressed well. The smell of his cologne preceded his arrival. Behind him hurried Mrs Jeremy
Lewin, wife of the parish. Her protestations floated towards him.
"Sir, I must insist..."
He cut her off. "This could be a splendid opportunity. It has everything! Location, country appeal, everything; and it
could make you quite a tidy little packet. Mrs Lewin, you can’t let this chance pass.”
Mrs Lewin fell silent. Money was something of which her family had little. If they sold the place, they could move
into the village, get a house whose roof didn't leak. They could send their children to a private school. They would
be close to their friends and family.
He felt her indecision. He sighed deeply, the weathervane on his roof creaking gently. “Please don’t sell me” he
sighed, his voice a breath of wind.
A refreshing breeze blew through the wood, bringing with it the smell of summer honeysuckle. It reminded her of
all her holidays spent cooking for the children in her cosy kitchen. She remembered standing on the porch with
her fresh baking, reading the names carved into the wood while the children raced in from the forest. The place
had so many memories. How could she lose them all for a perfect, impersonal village house?
"Mr Necovski, I’m very sorry, but it is not for sale. Not under any circumstances. If we sold it, we would be losing
a piece of village history!"
He let out his confined breath, and his timbers groaned gently.
The man with the cologne was livid. His face turned an ugly shade of puce and he was clenching his fists.
"It's a blessed church and an old house that leaks! It's not a piece of 'village history', it's a piece of village junk.
Take my advice and sell it to me before someone decides to buy it for scrap.”
He grabbed her arm and turned her to face the buildings.
“Look at it! The roof is covered in disgusting tiles from centuries ago. The door; tarnished fittings. And the
statues – everything’s wrong with them! They’re cracking, disgusting relics of forgotten guys. And don’t get me
started on the house.”
“If I were you, Mrs Lewin…” He left the sentence hanging.
“Be strong, Mother Lewin! Hold fast! Don’t lose me!”
Mrs Lewin stood up straight. A sudden gust of wind made her mousy brown hair come out of its bun and her
dress was patched and old. She was short and plump, yet suddenly, Mr Necovski felt small and very
insignificant.
“Good sir” she said, her voice shaking angrily, each syllable suggesting she thought the opposite, “Are you
threatening me? This property is not for sale. Please leave, you are not welcome here.”
Mr Necovski paled visibly. He was a weak, cowardly character, used to bullying and browbeating simple
country folk. Mrs Lewin’s eyes flashed.
“Are you leaving, Mr Necovski?”
He hurried away. Mrs Lewin turned and entered the church, nestled in the trees. She paused outside and saw that in the
gathering dusk, the red tiles glowed with an inner light. She felt a wave of peace wash over her, like the
rainbow light from the stained glass windows that lapped across the pews.
He was old, and oh, so tired. His once­fine attire was cracked and worn and his roof needed retiling ­ yet he
knew he would be cared for. He was content.
Senior Poetry
Winner
Torn
Jordan Frith
Highly Commended
Integrity
Alli Purtill
Torn
Jordan Frith
She gnaws her lip with the absent­minded
determination of the quietly distracted ­
she'll bite straight through her pale pink mouth
with the worry of her teeth
and the cleft of her palette.
She is soft­spoken in her pain,
whispered words and hushed laughs,
giggling in a breathy rush,
another quiet distraction
as she cradles the peach­blossom bruise of her calf.
Her gaze streams in falling abstraction
beneath lowered lashes fixed, so surely, opaquely,
on the mess of her ankle
and the break in the graceful line of her tattered soleus.
She lifts long nails to the shadowed grooves
that line long feet,
the remnants of her dancer's shoes,
and her teeth that wear at bitten pink lips
break free of their heavy curtain
and draw the crimson corps to centre stage.
Integrity
Alli Purtill
red lines encompass the expanse of her brains floor.
cluttered mass of scholastic yo­yos
telling her what sounds like her
potted plants of paper shrouded in crumpled ink
condemned to the wire flytrap
for in the eyes of blurred out rights and wrongs
you are nothing more than a punctuation error
it doesn’t matter what feels real to her
because real doesn’t earn you an A
and learning is the pathway to jobhubbykid
keep your man happy
with words you clearly learned
when you repressed everything you felt
feed him bowls of author’s notes and
rejection letters
drink from sippy cups of
poetic disillusionment
because writing is not expression
it is repression
they say my integrity’s in jeopardy
and that all I need to do
to suit them
Is change it.
Senior Short Story
Winner
Savannah
Marina Bishop
Highly Commended
What Mercy
Ellen Vickerman
Savannah
Marina Bishop
Everyone knows Savannah is the school slut.
She’s been fucked by every guy on the football team­ every guy except me, it seems. She wears
lipstick shades named Russian Red and Audacious on a mouth that has done who knows what. Her
hair falls to her waist in a mass of blonde extensions. Her school skirt is three inches shorter than the
mandated length, exposing her taut, spray­tanned thighs.
That’s why no one cared about what happened at the party on Friday night, I suppose.
Savannah was stumbling all over the place, drunk as anything, her black dress riding up her hips and
her hands grabbing at the air for something to hold onto. She was mumbling, but no one could make
out her slurred words over the music blasting through the speaker system. She was trying to make her
way to the door, I think, but I couldn’t tell for sure because she wasn’t walking straight in any direction.
That’s when Gary came up behind her and grabbed her waist with his meaty hands.
A conversation in the football team’s locker room that morning popped into my mind. An emergency
assembly had just been announced and we were trying to figure out why.
“What if they finally found the weed in Johnny David’s locker?”
“D’you think they caught a couple rooting behind the sports shed again?”
“Hey Gary, you been fucking any chicks behind the sports shed?”
We all laughed, because Gary has a face full of craters and a beer gut at sixteen. If anyone was doing
any fucking, it wasn’t him.
“Nah, everyone knows Gary’s a faggot,” one of the boys retorted.
We all laughed again, because it was funny and because Gary’s face was turning the colour of
beetroot.
Anyway, Gary was holding her waist, and he started to grind on her. She was just standing there, or
rather, he was holding her up because she could barely support herself. Then he guided her into a
bedroom, and the guys smirked at each other because we knew what Gary was doing. When Gary
came out, we all cheered and clapped him on the back. Gary’s eyes had a manic glint in them, and he
puffed out his chest out with the confidence of a peacock.
“She’s free, if you want a ride,” he joked, nudging his head towards the door he’d just exited, which was
slightly ajar. I looked into the bedroom, and suddenly, unwillingly, I locked eyes with Savannah. There was
something in her eyes that caught me off­guard. She suddenly looked so… so vulnerable. She was in
the middle of trying to get off the bed. Her lacy black undies were around her ankles, and her bra
strap was halfway down her arm. Her eyeliner had smudged into dark streaks under her eyes.
Something glistened on her cheek. Tears? Couldn’t be, must have just been the lighting. Suddenly I
remembered sitting next to her in math class last week. I asked her if I could borrow a pencil, and she
gave me two. Then, when I had trouble with a question, her manicured hands patiently graphed
polynomials on my page until I understood how to draw them myself.
But then my friends, laughing, filed into the bedroom and closed the door, and the moment passed.
Like, they didn’t rape her or anything. That happens to women who walk alone down deserted
alleyways in the middle of the night, or to little girls on the news who get stolen by creepy sickos. This
was different. If she didn’t want it, she shouldn’t have dressed like that. Or drunk that much. She was
practically asking for it. Besides, I know my friends. They’re nice guys. The kind of guys who
volunteer at the homeless shelter and help old women cross the street. Not rapist kind of guys. No, of
course it wasn’t rape, it was just boys being boys. I felt a bit uneasy, that’s all.
Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Savannah at school this week. Maybe she’s sick or something?
Anyway, there’s no point worrying. It wasn’t my responsibility. She brought it on herself. Right?
What Mercy
Ellen Vickerman
His ears are drowning in the sounds of breathing, as dread and air are exhaled by those around
him. He feels their fear pressing wetly against his skin, feels it choking them as it fills the tunnel, the
stealthy carbon monoxide of tragedy.
He flicks his gaze across the buffet of pale, drawn faces that belong to those huddled on the
Underground platform with him, all bundled in thick, shapeless coats. His fellow rats in the sewer.
He stares upwards as powdered grout trickles down in dusty streams from the curved ceiling, like
the last sand in an hourglass, as the bricks begin to suffer under the burden of the unrelenting
bombs. They are not Atlas, and were not built to hold the weight of the sky. The hollow expressions
harshly carved into the sunken faces surrounding him whisper that they, too, have realised that
none of them will leave these tracks, that this is the end of the line.
But there are still the children. Tiny specimens of innocence, not yet understanding endings that are
not the last page of the book.
He sighs, looking away, his fingers dancing intricately with the withered, smouldering corpse of his
cigarette before tapping it to extinction on the rubber sole of his boot.
Reaching out, deft hands caress the burnished copper catches on the guitar case beside him, gently
lulling the mechanisms into submission as he draws the instrument from its slumber. He brings its
empty stomach to rest against his chest for a moment, inhaling the smell of wood and smoke and
grease to settle in his lungs.
It was his weapon of choice, all those years ago in Italy, where he left his right leg in the war to end
all wars (the bitter irony of that name under the cacophony of explosions now assaulting them does
not slip by him). Gently, he strums the first note, savouring the way the echo licks the walls of the
tunnel before loyally retreating back into his arms. His callouses burrow deep into the whorls of his
fingertips, old friends, leaching the music from his veins out onto the strings, such humble little
ferrymen.
It is an old song he plays, and he watches as the long tendrils of achingly familiar sound reach into
the others’ eyes sockets, clawing around in their brains to seek out some summery nostalgia to glow
amongst the fear.
A few people start to sing (in the cracked, chalky tones of those who have been silent for hours), and
in these moments it can almost be ignored that just a few layers of dilapidated masonry is the last
line of defence between them and the fury of Germany.
He gazes at the two hundred nestled with him in this almost­tomb. The little ones gape back at him,
eyes wide and mouths open, as if hoping to catch his chords on their tongues, sweet and
evanescent as snowflakes. Even the adults are hungry for the song’s goodness and calmness,
starving for the feeling of yellow paint on canvas, salivating for youth and ignorance and a distant
time when it seemed mortality could not outrun their winged feet.
They swallow desperately the hope he feeds them, and so he plays on against the cracking whip of
a baby crying, against the arthritis digging its teeth into his knuckles, against the thickness of the air
and the sound of London falling. He thinks about the goddamn futility of it all, and he wants to reach in between history’s ribs and
grab its still­beating heart, and squeeze until the ventricles pop and the blood makes an abstract
painting of his fingers, so that fickle beast will not forget what it did to these people and him.
Finally, the tunnel shakes and exhales after all, and they drown in bricks and mortar, just as his
finger kisses the fifth fret.