2020 darebin mayor’s writing awards for young people · entertaining read, with a twist in the...

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Secondary School Winners

2020 Darebin Mayor’s Writing Awards for Young People

Secondary School winners are...

Eva Gadsby The Smouldering Summer

Tess Baker Selachimorpha

Mila Guest Maybe When the Sun Comes Up

Maia Clisby de la PiedadHow Do You Kill A God?

Scarlett Clare Broken

Luke Ehlert The Arrival that Never Came

Mia Purcell It’s a Simple Thing

First Prize

Second Prize

Highly Commended

Highly Commended

Highly Commended

Highly Commended

Highly Commended


A word from our judges


About the Award as a whole:The judges were impressed by the enthusiasm and hard work of the many young writers who entered this competition. We found the submissions overall to be imaginative, well thought out, and executed with a great deal of care.

About the Primary Award:The secondary entries were a strong field, tackling sophisticated subject matter with subtlety and insight. Together, they made the judges very excited for the future of Darebin’s writers.

First Prize:In the Secondary School category, first prize was awarded to Eva Gadsby for ‘The Smouldering Summer’, an arresting prose poem evoking a group of families facing the threat and uncertainty of an approaching bushfire. With precise, compact language, Eva immerses her readers in a constantly moving kaleidoscope of moments and impressions, deftly balancing the menace and tension of the fire with snatches of play and distraction and with the intimate moments of family and community.

Second Prize:Second Prize in the Secondary School category was awarded to Tess Baker for ‘Selachimorpha’, narrated by a girl whose mother is not coping, and who endures the well-meaning pieties of a school guidance counsellor. Tess’s sharp voice and witty turn of phrase made this an engaging and entertaining read, with a twist in the end.

Highly Commendeds/ Award generally:In awarding the additional prizes for both the Primary and Secondary sections, the judges found it difficult to choose just five entries per section, as there were so many quality pieces in the competition. The pieces that we chose all showed imaginative flair, had a strong central idea and kept us turning the pages. Congratulations to the prize winners, and to everyone who entered!


First Prize

I wake up to a dry thunderstorm.

I hear a huge roll of thunder barrelling towards us.

It cracks directly above our tent.

Something feels weird.

I feel confused, nervous, homesick.

My mum and sisters are already awake and in the house.

Dad is next to me with the radio on.

It’s ABC emergency coverage. There’s a woman speaking.

She says there are bushfires in Bodalla.

“That’s ten k’s away.” Dad tells me, still listening to the woman.

I gulp and try not to freak out.

“Will we have to evacuate?” I ask.

Dad shrugs. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

I read Diary of a Wimpy Kid in an attempt to calm myself down.

It doesn’t work.

I need to know what’s going on.

I climb the ramp to the house where everyone else slept.

It’s New Years’ Eve.

We’re staying at our friends’ house in Dalmeny in New South Wales.

Yesterday, everyone was planning what to while we were here.

Go to the beach, the jewellery shop, go for walks, play lawn bowls and tennis.

It’s funny how things can change so suddenly.

No-one wants to do anything now.

The smoke from the bushfires is blocking the warmth of the sun.

It’s cold and grey.

Everything too unknown.

Everyone is listening to a woman on the TV reporting on the fires when I walk in.

Someone asks if I want pancakes.

I decline.

I’m too nervous to eat.

The TV goes black.

No electricity.

We hear the petrol pumps have stopped working in town.

The roads are blocked.

No-one can leave.

The generator at Woolies has run out of diesel.

Some people leave to stock up on food before Woolies closes.

The rest of us try to make the best of the situation.

Most people lounge on the deck eating cheese and drinking wine.

Talking but listening, always listening, to the radio.

Sometimes there are moments when that’s all we hear.

Us kids play Exploding Kittens.

So many rounds of Exploding Kittens.

First Prize

We swing in the hammocks.

We go fishing.

There are so many dead fish floating in the lake.

They come back from the shops.

They tell us stories of huge lines outside the IGA and public telephones.

“Someone told us off for buying too much bread and we said ‘look, there are about twenty-two of us staying at this one place.’”

Thousands of people have evacuated to Narooma, the neighbouring town.

People camping on football fields.

Locals welcoming evacuees into their homes.

It’s like an apocalypse.

It gets worse.

We are surrounded by fires.

Towns we’d driven through just days before now burnt to the ground.

Someone staying with us lost friends during Black Saturday.

He says to put on long pants and closed-toe shoes.

My sisters look at me with concerned faces.

We tie our laces with shaking hands.

Ash is falling from the sky.

By four o’clock the sky is dark orange.

We light hundreds of candles.

We line them up along the deck.

5! 4! 3! 2! 1! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

Everyone has a good time.

But we go to bed uneasy.

Some of us don’t fall asleep.

The morning brings some relief.

The wind is pushing the fires away from us.

But tourists must evacuate before Saturday.

“Catastrophic fire conditions,” is what they say.

But we can’t leave.

Not enough petrol.

We go to swim at the beach.

It’s too cold.

In the water and out.

Piles of ash wash up onto the shore.

Gum leaves scorched black.

I think of the last time I was here.

Blue skies, warm breeze, jumping off the rocks. Spotting dolphins and seals.

My parents go shopping.

We wait in the car.

We dance to the radio.

We laugh at the lyrics of Pretty Fly (for a white guy).

“Uno, dos, tres, quattro, cinco, cinco, seis.”

We get back to the house and play more Exploding Kittens.

A local fireman comes past and gives us packets of face masks.

We play cricket.

Everyone joins in.


First Prize

The next morning, the electricity’s back on.

There are huge lines for petrol.

We eventually get some.

We hear the Princes Highway is finally open.

We leave for Sydney with another family.

They are hosing down the house when we drive away.

We didn’t leave early enough.

There’s a spot fire blocking the highway.

We slow to a crawl.

We see cars, trucks and caravans turn around.

It could take a couple of hours for the firefighters to get it under control.

Or it could take them days.

Us kids get out of the cars and play basketball on the side of the road.

We eventually roll into Burrill Lake and decide to camp there for the night.

We talk to other people who have evacuated.

Some of them have nowhere to stay.

Luckily, we have our tents.

We eat fish and chips.

We set up camp in the middle of some grass.

“You know the one good thing about this?” The 16-year-old son of the other family says. “We’re with the perfect people.”

We all laugh.

Locals come around with care packages and meals, asking if we’re ok.

The dad of the other family says, “You know what? This whole situation has given me faith in humanity.”

When we’re lying in our tents, the sons from the other family begin singing “I want it that way”.

“Tell me why?”

“Ain’t nothing but a heartache.”

We join in from our tent, laughing.

“Tell me why.”

“Ain’t nothing but a mistake.”

“Now number five.”

“I never wanna hear you say.”

“I want it that way!”

Mum’s alarm goes off in the morning.

The spot fire has been put out.

We rush to pack up.

We jump in our cars.

We pass through smouldering bush.

Many of the houses are saved.

It’s a long, slow journey to Grandma’s house in Sydney.

We make it.

We call everyone back in Dalmeny.

Most have gone home.

Some have decided to stay.

To defend the house.

Thankfully, it never came to that.


First Prize

We go to Bondi.

The water is smooth and cool.

“Under!” We yell to each other and dive under waves.

“Over!” We say and jump as high as we can so our bodies slap against the tip of the waves.

We grab our boogie boards and head into the deep blue to catch some gnarly waves.

This one! This one! This one! We scream to each other.

We head towards the shore, feet kicking and splashing like crazy.

I look back and see the wave traveling towards us.

It passes, gently lifting us up, then down.

“Oh,” we say, disappointed.

“Nah, nah, this is the one!” we say, pointing to the next wave forming.

It’s a big one.

Big and beautiful.

We catch it.

I feel the water rushing underneath me.

I try to dodge people on my way.

We ride then crash to shore in a heap of foam and sand.

We get back up, dazed and smiling at one another.

And we run back out into the deep.



“Well, it’s probably not your fault,” stated the dumpy man matter-of-factly. “In nature, it is not uncommon for mothers to abandon one of their offspring. Giant pandas are known to neglect the second, or insurance cub, to focus all their resources into the first cub. If mothers are stressed, or even-”

“I don’t have a sibling.” Nora muttered, wiping the simper off his face. She had lost respect for this man as soon as he started talking. He had started the appointment by insisting her father must’ve done something to her, then called her mother ‘governmooching and lazy.’ He was just another failed scholar flaunting his psychology prowess. Pushing the chair back, scraping it harshly on the education vinyl of the guidance office floor, she slung her bag over her shoulder and made for the door. Something about his face unsettled her. He looked almost like Father Christmas, his ruddy features arranged into an unchanging beam, even as she shared with him morsels of her past. Ideas that were usually only dredged up by cheap lagers with strangers outside seedy bars.

She never really had faith in the school guidance system. She never would’ve considered going until yesterday. After her mother failed to get the mail for 3 weeks straight, missing several important forms, her home teacher had pulled her aside after class.

“Nora, is everything alright?” He asked, brows knit.

“What do you mean?” She had retorted.

“You know… at home?” He said. The dreaded two words. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His broad face was contorted into the most pathetic, concerned expression she had ever seen. She had made a compromise to talk to the guidance counsellor instead of him,

which at the time, she had gladly accepted. That was something that the guidance counsellor might call “textbook issue evasion.”

Nora hiked her bag up and started for home, walking as slowly as she could through sunlit, idyllic neighbourhoods, as if she could insert herself into their lives via mere proximity. They had freshly trimmed lawns, basketball hoops, pools, and were crawling with energy, community, life. Children shouted and played on each other’s lawns, parents sat on chiseled stone patios, with chiseled features and chiseled smiles, glowing with pride at their poster children. It made her own home look diseased, as if living in it would make her physically ill.

“No,” she said to herself. “Mentally ill.” A mum glared at her and shepherded her babbling toddler towards her. Nora stuck out her tongue at the child, who started to bawl.

She reached her street, and went towards her house. It was perhaps one of the largest in the block, a gorgeous Georgian abode, but it was far from its full and beautiful potential. Her ‘home life’ seemed to seep out of the bricks, once tan-coloured but now faded to a millstone grey, and drip into the gutters, a corrosive neon green. The lawn consisted of dandelions and bindis, and the house itself felt stiflingly warm, metallic and musty, like the boiler room of a ship. There was a time once, where she would mimic what she saw on TV. Her small pudgy hands would push open the heavy mahogany door and she would shout:

“Mama, I’m home!” But her call of affection would simply echo through the under-furnished house, bouncing back at her, unreciprocated by her sleeping mother.

Second Prize


Her mother wasn’t an addict, it was not even as though she was the second priority to booze or drugs, she was the second priority to sleeping all day. To getting up once every couple of days and shuffling off to the corner store and buying a couple of packets of Saladas, Vegemite, butter, some coffee, and frozen meals. To sitting in her armchair in front of the television, the weepy eyes and sad, sallow face fixed unseeingly onto a retro soap opera. Despite everything, Nora still feels a pang of sympathy (or is it pity?) for her mother. She must be depressed, or something. She isn’t choosing to live like this, is she?

There was a time when Nora was very young, where her mother would sit her on her lap in front of the television and brush her hair. Very occasionally, she would put her in the car and take her to a drive through cinema, and they’d share a packet of microwave popcorn. She could still smell the greasy butter. That was when her dad was around, a faceless figure who smelled of cheap cologne and bike grease. He had left twelve years ago, when Nora was 5. He must have hollowed her mother out, or perhaps her apathy was always under the surface.

There were times when she got older, very rarely, when her mother would come shuffling, sniffling to her room at night, sobbing.

“I’ve been a shit mother!” She would wail.

“I know” Nora would say, clinging to her frail body in hopes to preserve her sudden burst of tenderness. As if she could hold her mother’s mental state together with her bare hands. By the morning, Nora would look into those transparent eyes and find nothing once again. But times like that made it hard to hate her mother, because she wasn’t a bad person underneath.

“Damn it!” She yelled, throwing her bag down in a dusty corner. The bloody Santa shrink had got her thinking! Nora guessed she took after her mother, preferring not to reflect. Preparing what had become one of endless Vegemite worm sandwiches, she made her way up the plaster-dusted stairs to her room to start her homework. Biology. She was supposed to be working on microbiology, but she found herself skimming through the zoology pages.

“Sharks,” she muttered aloud, “Selachi-what?… do not tend to their babies after they are born. However, they do lay their eggs in a secure location.” Shaking her head, she flipped to Chapter 8: Eukaryotic and Prokaryotic cells.

Mr. Mosey waddled into his guidance office with coffee and a doughnut in hand. After the melancholy of his work, lunch was his favourite time of the day. He sank into his old but trusty office chair, sinking into the crevices which had become moulded into the foam. He kicked his legs up on the desk and let out a contented sigh. Suddenly, the door slammed open and banged into the adjacent wall. A bit of coffee dribbled onto his shirt, A young, familiar girl stormed in.

“I know you like to use biology analogies.” She breathed out, panting. She must’ve run all three flights of stairs to get here! he thought.

“But you’re wrong. My father never abused me. And my mother is not ‘governmooching,’ she’s sick. And she’s not a Giant panda.” Her voice quivered. She slammed down a piece of paper, and turned on her heel. After a few seconds, Mr Mosey leaned forward and turned the paper over. A section of text was highlighted in pink. He began to read it.

‘Chapter 4.2: Selachimorpha. Sharks (Selachimorpha) do not tend to their babies after they are born. However, they do lay their eggs in a secure location…’

Second Prize


I asked him twice, and then once more. His answer was always the same. The flower on my desk grew more and more every day, green, green and more green. “Maybe when the sun comes up,” he said. I curled into my blanket, patterned with little roses, bits of fuzz ripping themselves away to litter the carpet. I liked the carpet, it was good to sink into on the worst days, when he would start whistling and messing with the order of my candles. I could imagine I was floating on a mattress in the middle of a lake, kicking off rocks that rested below the surface and spinning until water sprayed onto my cotton pyjamas and seeped through into my skin. Then I’d retreat to my rosy blankets and watch him while he whistled.

I felt hollow when I watched him. It was like there was a balloon in my chest. It kept getting bigger and bigger, but still the hollow feeling increased. Maybe my flower would grow thorns and I could pop it.

Sometimes I’d sit and stare at the flower, aching for its colour to finally peek through all that green. Maybe then it wouldn’t matter that my candles were all out of order and his whistling was growing louder. Then I’d look past the flower, past the red curtains and through the window to the outside. And there were flowers everywhere, coloured blue, purple, pink and white. And an overwhelming green of grass and trees.

Sometimes people would come to my bedroom. With kind smiles and teary eyes. “The funeral is soon,” they would say, “at least come out for the funeral.” The words meant nothing to me. I wanted to scream, I wanted to hammer on the door and press my face against the window and say, “don’t you understand? He won’t let me leave! I want to, but he won’t let me!” But I just curled the rosy blanket around myself and waited for the sun to come up.

Sometimes when he whistled, I’d whistle back. The tune carried around the room and our eyes would lock, the same shade of brown, but not the same shape. The shape, he said, I got from my mother. The words didn’t mean anything to me. I just whistled until my throat hurt and my lips were dry, and I lay back down and began staring at the green flower on my desk. Its stalk was thin, and the leaves bent towards the ground, scraping the dirt and the orange flower pot it nestled in. It was getting bigger, reaching for the sky, except there was no sky in my room, just a white ceiling and blue walls. Maybe when he let me out, I’d watch the sky for hours on end until my eyes were sore and maybe I’d whistle too, until I couldn’t breathe. I asked him if he’d join me and he said, “maybe when the sun comes up.”

Whenever he rearranged the order of my candles, I’d glare at him and wouldn’t whistle with him for a long time. They always sat in rainbow order, first red like cherries, then orange and yellow and green like grass, and blue and purple like blueberries, and pink like the sky in the nice mornings. He’d always put yellow first, like the lemons from the lemon tree. Then orange and red, blue like the night sky, purple and pink, then green, like the flower sitting next to my window.

I asked him why. Why did he do this? To me? How could he? How dare he? He just shook his head sadly and whistled until I screamed in frustration and buried my head into my rosy blanket.

Highly Commended


There was a woman who sometimes visited, with square glasses and a notepad. She’d ask me questions, so many questions. Was I eating enough? That was a pretty sunflower I had there, did I know when it would bloom? Drinking enough water? Had I ever experienced grief before? Did I like the ribbons and flowers people were sending me? Could I leave my room, just for a moment?

When she asked this, I glanced at him. He was leaning against the wall in the corner, shadows gathering around him until I could barely make out the almost imperceptible shake of his head. I looked back at her helplessly, and she sighed and told me to drink more water.

I didn’t bother telling her that I couldn’t. I was saving all the water for the sunflower on my desk.

The people outside varied, there was almost always a slim girl with honey brown hair just like mine. She sat on the grass with her rabbit, a fluffy ball of grey and black. She didn’t build houses for it anymore. I guessed she just didn’t know how to use the hammer. Maybe when the sun came up, I could help her like I used to.

Sometimes there would be others. Their faces were familiar, but they never stuck to me like she did. I wanted so badly to join her.

I wanted to teach her how to use a hammer and help her build a house for her little furry rabbit. I wanted to see the sky again. I wanted to leave the prison of candles and red curtains and go to the green garden with the flowers and the people.

The flower was bigger now, his whistling was getting louder. I didn’t whistle with him anymore. I was busy, I told him. Busy waiting for the sun.

One day I woke up and it was there, the sun peeking out from behind all the green of the flower. Yellow petals slipped through the cages of the bud. I watched as, over hours, it bloomed.

“Can I leave now?” I asked him but he wasn’t there. The whistling had stopped. All the candles were out of order but for the first time I didn’t care.

I hesitated for a second before slipping out of the rosy blanket. The heavy oak door loomed before me. It had seemed so much smaller from my bed. I gripped the handle, wondering if it would come off in my hands.

When I tugged it, a creaking echoed through the house. I gritted my teeth and pulled hard. The door slammed into the wall and stayed there as I slipped out of my room. My eyes burned as they adjusted to the flood of colour.

The girl with the honey brown hair stood there with a hammer in her hand. The brown eyes were the same shade and shape and mine. I couldn’t decipher the expression she held. It seemed… reproachful. Wary. Surprised?

Hopeful?

I tried for a smile. I barely knew her, hadn’t for a long time, but I wanted to.

“Do you…” I cleared my throat, “do you want to come watch the sky with me?” I asked. I spoke softly, and my voice sounded like sandpaper on metal, but it was okay.

She hesitated, then nodded and smiled a little.

And then we watched the sun come up.

Highly Commended

Maia Clisby de la Piedad How Do You Kill A God?

“How do you kill a god?”

The nymph’s eyes are wide and curious as she utters the question. Ares narrows his eyes. Dining with the gods is not to be taken lightly, but the nymph is young and she is naïve. It is Ares’ job to sense evil intention. He sees none in her.

“You can’t,” Ares says. He straightens his back and tosses his head proudly. “We are eternal. Nothing can take life from us. We will be here before everyone arrives and after everyone leaves. It is a blessing.”

“You strip them of their wisdom, their knowledge,” Athena says. She casts her brother a scornful look as she continues. “Living forever is nothing if not learning. It is nothing if your mind has nothing to show for it. What is the point of existing for millennia when each year you are as stupid as the last?”

“But that is not death,” Zeus says. He takes a bite of ambrosia. “You take their power. It is a curse to exist forever with control over nothing, to be subservient for every moment. Without their power, a god is only a mortal living the same life over and over again.”

“That isn’t death either,” Artemis says fiercely. “Take my power so long as I have my freedom. To kill a god, you tie them down. Let them keep their knowledge and their power. It is worse to have it when it cannot be used than to not have it at all. And you let them see what is happening, knowing that they can never take part in it. By taking their freedom, you are stripping them of what even mortals have. Without free will, a god is less than a man.”

“You have some of the right ideas, Artemis,” Poseidon says. “But it is not death. You let them keep their knowledge and their power, so they know what they once were, and what they could have been. But the worst fate is uncertainty, and nothingness. Take a god’s senses, their sight, their hearing, their touch, smell and taste. Let them wander in the darkness, and wonder what they are missing. With nothing but their thoughts to accompany them, they are driven insane.”

“That isn’t death,” Demeter says. “Life can never be taken from a god, because we never truly live. Life is death and what comes after it. Even as we see mortals and plants die, we know that fresh life will replace them. We live off others. To kill a god, you must kill everything else first.”

“Ah, you old fools!” Dionysus slurs, waving his glass of wine in the air. He’s purple-faced. “Life isn’t death, Demeter, that makes no sense. No, life is what it is and what it has always been. Survival. And when a god has no need to survive, the best you can do is the illusion of survival. So take that. Take their food, and their drink, and let them starve.”

Hestia gives a soft smile and tilts her head. She is the first of the gods to look right at the young nymph as she answers. “I suppose that life is what it is to the owner,” she says. “There is no one thing that can kill all the gods. If I were to try, though, I would take their family. I would take smiles and warmth around the fire. I would take the togetherness that we feel. I think Demeter is right in that we never truly live, as gods, but the closest we get is each other.”

Highly Commended

Maia Clisby de la Piedad How Do You Kill A God?

“That isn’t death,” Hephaestus says. He fiddles with a small machine in his hand. “Life is creation of something more. It is searching and seeking for something to invent. Strip them of their tools, and their possessions. Their writings and their inventions. A god is nothing if they do not make an imprint on the world. So then – then they will die.”

“How positively boring,” Aphrodite yawns. “If you want to kill me, you take my beauty.” Athena scoffs. “Don’t be so prideful,” Aphrodite says. “You take my beauty, and thus everyone’s admiration of me. Without anybody to love me, I am nothing. Though I don’t know how you’d manage that.”

“You’re all wrong,” Apollo says. “None of that is truly death. The purpose of life is enjoyment. To kill a god, you take away their luxuries. Their music, their art, their poetry and their dance. Existence is not the same as living. Living is joy, and joy is in the arts. Take them away, and a god is but a husk, endlessly being with nothing to entertain themselves with.”

“Your answers are so very tame,” Hermes smirks, a twinkle in his eye. “You take their rebellion, their spark. You don’t make them abide by the law. No, you remove the law entirely. With no rules, nothing has meaning anymore. There is no fight in a god if there is nothing to fight against. And breaking the rules, striving for something in the future, is what makes things interesting, and gives things balance.”

Hades clears his throat. Everyone turns to look. “Ares was right,” he says. “You can’t kill a god. I should know. I’ve tried.”

The nymph considers what the gods have said. The question she asked, it showed what life was to each of the gods. Ares – Ares is prideful. He believes nothing can kill him. Which, when you’re a god, the nymph thinks, makes it true. To Athena, life is knowledge, and wisdom. To Zeus, it is power. To Artemis, life is her freedom, and the worst fate would be to take it away. To Poseidon, life is experience, it is feeling and seeing and tasting. To Demeter, her life is the life of others, of plants and of people. To Dionysus, life is what it is to the mortals: survival. To Hestia, life is family, and closeness. To Hephaestus, life is invention. To Aphrodite, life is beauty and the love that springs from it. To Apollo, life is art. To Hermes, life is rebellion. And to Hades, life is a prison.

“I haven’t spoken,” Hera says from the head of the table, across from Zeus. A silence falls over the gods and nymphs. Hera shakes her head, looking down at her plate. She makes a show of putting down her cutlery and tucking her loose hair behind her ears before looking up again to speak.

“None of you know what it is to die,” Hera says. “You are always something if there’s a memory of you, a shadow even. To kill a god, you remove them from the world for millennia. You let them watch as their temples crumble to dust and their loved ones forget their names. You let them see the people they once knew fall in love again. You force them to watch the humans lose faith in their existence. When no one knows a god exists anymore – that. That is death. That is how you kill a god.”

Highly Commended


Ricocheting off the bottom of the slide, my heart raced with exhilaration. I stared back at the gigantic inflatable. It gave a violent wobble as my brother flew off the bottom. Laughing, he said, “Hey do you want to go down the slide together?”

“Sure!”

We ran to the entrance of the slide, clambering up the tough vinyl, till we reached the top.

“Ready?” I asked, plopping down at the edge of the slope.

“Ready.” He sat down on my lap.

“3.”

“2.”

“1.”

“Go!”

I pushed off, and for a few seconds we were streaking down, the vinyl heating up under our legs. Then he began to fall. We were just a tangle of limbs, tumbling over and over and over. We hit the padded mats on the ground and I pulled myself up.

He began to scream. An ear-piercing noise.

I froze.

Then I ran, yelling and yelling.

She came running, face red and sticky with sweat from the exercise class she was doing at the other end of the indoor sports arena.

She carried him back to the pile of our things, whispering reassurances in his ear. Time seemed to slow as tears streaked down his face, forming wet patches on his cheeks. I sat alone, wrapping my arms around my knees, and soon my top too was wet.

“He’s going to be okay.” My mum looked down on me and I felt myself breaking.

“B-b-but,” I took a shuddering breath, “It’s my fault!”

She held me as I cried. I didn’t even notice as she left me to return to him.

When I lifted my head, a mass of people were crowding around a spot right next to me. All of them were wearing dark blue jumpsuits with patches of red on the arms. Open cases lay around them, and they were talking amongst themselves, passing bottles and jars of different fluids.

As I moved closer I heard a woman in the group say in a calm voice, “Now just take a deep breath in… out. There you go.” Finally I saw what they were doing.

Sitting on the bench was my brother. A green tube sat in his mouth, whistling as he breathed in and out. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, his face looked tired and soft. He looked so… vulnerable. My heart seemed to break right there and then.

The next thing I knew, he was in my Mum’s arms again and everyone was walking out of the room. I wiped my face with my sleeve and ran after them. As I pushed open the door, the cold wind hit my face.

The ambulance was right outside, lights flashing as his small body was placed on a stretcher, which disappeared into the rear of the vehicle. I stood there, watching until my Mum came and said, “There’s no room in the back, you’ll have to go in the front. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” I replied numbly, and watched her climb into the back, the doors closing behind her.

Highly Commended


“Hi.” A voice spoke to me. “Are you coming in the front? I looked around. One of the paramedics was standing there, gesturing for me to join her.

I followed her as she went to the front of the vehicle and opened the passenger door for me. I climbed up into the seat, my mind dull with shock.

As the doors slammed, the radio crackled and the paramedics began to go about their work, my stomach was twisting itself into a tight ball.

It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault.

I couldn’t hear the paramedics anymore. My body was stiff as a board. I sat there, hands clenched tight into fists.

My fault. My fault. My–

The ambulance came to a halt in an underground parking lot. The paramedics began fussing about as they took him out of the ambulance. I followed them into the sterile hall of the hospital, my feet pattering on the cold tiles.

As he trundled on his stretcher towards the dark room at the end of the corridor, I felt my sweaty palms rub against the fabric of my pants. They took him in and closed the door.

I pressed my face up to the window, watching as the light flashed and he cried out. Again, my stomach twisted and squirmed.

The next hour seemed to fly by in a blur. Doctors, medicines, needles. People rushing around, sirens and clean, sanitary beds. We wandered around, shoes squeaking on the tiles, hands still clammy from the sanitizer, heads flicky from the x-rays and the plaster.

There were measurements and casts, waiting and patience, until they said, “He can go home now.”

Then we were together, held tight in an embrace, and I knew it was all going to be alright.

Highly Commended


Please note that this piece is not intended to be completely historically accurate.

They should have known something was going to happen. Several messages, warnings from other ships. It was directly ahead of them. They should have shelved their pride and turned. They should have known that even the RMS Titanic couldn’t withstand the might of an iceberg.

It happened at night, when only the crew were awake. All of the guests were asleep, either in the fine apartment-sized buildings of the first-class passengers, or the modest rooms of the second- and third-class guests. I could see their dreams. Many were uneasy, a dream of the ship sinking, or a horror from the deep ascending and mutilating the ship.

I could not change these dreams, I could only see them. My only power lies in collecting the souls of those who depart from the world. I have been on this sorry planet from the start. I will not cease to exist, unlike so many others whose souls are now mine. Only when Death ends will I perish. I have been called many things – Satan, the Grim Reaper, Hades – I am all of them, yet none of them. And I have a job to do. Don’t ask me why, it’s just how it is. I watch over the world and collect the souls of those who can’t go on.

And I had a feeling I would be quite busy the night the Titanic neared the icebergs.

The captain thought he had everything under control. When he went to bed, I knew the crew didn’t stand a chance. Their orders were to carry on, straight ahead. Right into the iceberg.

I don’t know why. Perhaps the captain had thought that the ‘practically unsinkable’ Titanic would plough right through it. After all, the manufacturers of the ship had told him not to worry, that the Titanic was made to withstand that kind of obstruction. So they carried on.

When they saw the tiny iceberg floating on the surface of the water, the crew laughed. “The Titanic could shred that into a thousand pieces with the slightest nudge!” they jeered. But they couldn’t see what I saw. They couldn’t have possibly seen that the iceberg scaled about 100 feet underwater. They couldn’t possibly know that their pride and joy, the most powerful and luxurious ship in the world, was hopeless against the properties of ice.

The Titanic had fourteen compartments underneath at the bottom of it, underneath the third-class rooms and the boiler room. Any four compartments could fill up with water and the ship wouldn’t be damaged. They were the ship’s main defense against icebergs. As the ship and the iceberg collided, though, a gash was torn in the side of the Titanic. Water flooded the compartments, crashing through, slowly filling every single one. The sound was deafening. But I watched silently as the water coursed through the fourteenth compartment, and into the boiler room.

There were fifteen men in there, working at the enormous fires that fueled the ship, when the water started to flow into the massive room.

One man, evidently the leader of the group, yelled “Grab the buckets, we got a leakage boys!”

The others ran off and soon returned with pails in their arms. They started casually shoveling water into them. I waited patiently. As the strength of the water flow increased, their urgency went with it, and soon they were wading into the freezing cold water. All around the room fires were being extinguished by the constant torrent of water.

“Run!” One man yelled. The men desperately scrambled to the doors, swimming as hard as they could in now shoulder height water.

Highly Commended


“Close the watertight doors!” Screamed the leader. As the men struggled towards the doors, another worker paddled to the control panel and slammed a button. The watertight doors started lowering slowly. But then a sudden gust of icy water sent the men tumbling across the room, away from the now nearly closed doors. The men picked up their pace, holding on to their last reserves of strength. But their efforts were in vain. The doors closed with an ominous clanging, leaving the men trapped.

The men froze where they were for a moment, pure, unmasked fear and horror etched into their faces as they realized that their chances of survival were hanging on a thread.

“Oh no” one man said.

“Up the ladder!” another cried, and the men, desperate now faced with a way out of this danger, plunged themselves toward the ladder on the other side of the room, currently unaffected by the current of water. They shoved and pushed each other as they fought for their last hope for survival, battling with the water and with themselves across the room. I watched with a dread fascination as one man shoved another’s head under the water and sprang forward to the ladder only a few metres from him. It seemed clear, in hindsight, that if they had not fought with one another they could have made it to the ladder faster. They shared a common enemy and a common goal for survival, and they still fought as though only one of them had the chance to live forth from this moment. In moments like these, humans showed their true nature, unveiled from all their delusions of etiquette and social manners.

I was drawn from my thoughts as the men reached the ladder. They grabbed the ladder and started to haul themselves up it, but the first man wasn’t even halfway up when a section of the wall where the leakage was coming from suddenly collapsed and landed in the shoulder high water with a tremendous splash. Water surged through the widened gap in the weakened structure of the wall, throwing the men around the room as the water twisted and churned, collapsing in on itself. The men on the ladder redoubled their efforts, trying to reach the top, but the water level was rising faster then they could possibly climb, and soon they were submerged with the others.

And outside, I collected the souls, one by one. Finally, after ten minutes struggling against the tsunami, the last man was hurled against a wall, his back breaking instantly. I felt him weaken, and then, slowly, I reached in and took his soul for my own. Finally, as the water started crashing through the third-class rooms, I knew that tonight Death would have its hands full.

Highly Commended


The day she noticed me, I didn’t like it, she looked me in the eyes before looking away. I didn’t like it because I felt naked, like I had nothing covering me. I was fully clothed. I saw the glinting of her green eyes staring deeply into mine for an instant. Everything she did was like it was covered in bright yellow sunflowers. Her long thin legs folded over one another and her white converse turned grey at the laces. Her hair was tied messily upon her head, hoop earrings stood outward on her face and the fleece on her denim jacket matched her ripped jeans. She had skinny fingers that looked as though she could spindle a scarf. Rounded glasses sat delicately on her knee as she looked back and forth from her laptop.

I sat on the other end of the table, staring at the intricate numbers on my page, I began to float, to think and not feel, to believe and not see and no longer feel pain but see colour. I see brittle autumn leaves floating in the wind. I see Bailey Finch staring at me with her gorgeous green eyes. I see –

“Elliot?” Miss Davey has come and stood above me.

“Sorry?” I said.

“I asked, do you need any help?” Miss Davey always seemed in a good mood. Most people would like her, but I’m not like most people.

“No” I say “ I’m good, thanks” she smiled and turned away and headed back to her desk filled with glasses of single flowers and pictures done by her younger students.

Bailey sat there silently. Maybe she floats? Maybe she does hush abstract drawings in her head.

After the bell went she gathered her things and headed out the door, I did too, shuffling my way through to the lockers and grasping a hold of my bag before rushing from the unwanted crowd.

Walking down my street, I felt like I could just keep walking, though my ankles were aching, I felt as though I could walk around the world. I felt as though walking was the perfect way to float. Home didn’t appeal so passing my house with tall gumtrees out front and long uncut grass crawling up the walls, my feet just kept walking, and I watched them, undone shoelaces dragging. Soon I felt myself climbing high atop a pine tree, its barbed pines scratching red marks into my skin. I floated, I floated about colourful birds and Bailey Finch and how she had a dimple in one cheek, which for some reason seemed exotic. Like she was, exotic.

Walking to school I felt myself dreading, dreading endless pages of numbers and words like sub-defininet. Dreading saving seats for friends I didn’t have. Dreading seeing Bailey Finches perfect light pink nails hold a pencil and write her english essay.

But getting to school I find myself sitting next to Bailey, laying out my laptop, opening my pencil case and pulling out my book.

I stared at my screen, feeling nothing, Sixteen years old, maybe I should think less and do more about getting a single friend, but as I said earlier, I don’t like most people and I think a lot, and if death is nicer, and if there are all these judgmental people making you feel as though you are never good enough, if there are parents who take away your freedom whenever you try and talk.

And that’s when she did it again, she looked at me with her green eyes and it’s like we see right through each other. She smiled slightly and then left me for her next class.

Highly Commended


Later that evening I sent her an anonymous email quoting my favourite album Train To My Heart,

My head is pounding, but I want more,

My ears are screaming, but I want more,

I want to cry until the world stands still,

I want to sing until I am warmer still,

It’s a simple thing.

Then came Saturday. I was sitting in my tree in my backyard, my happy tree, my sad tree, my floating tree. I was gripping my laptop and Bailey Finch had replied;

Took a running train to my heart, the world let me down

You whisper coldy in the dark: “To you, I’m crowned”

You found me smiling on the edge about what I found

With nothing and everything, you made a sound

You whisper coldly in the dark: “To you, I’m crowned”

She has quoted Arthur Davis’s “In the dark” from the same album and has gotten all the lyrics correct. I could see her through the words, sitting in a meadow of sunflowers, her in the middle with her leather bound books leaning amongst one another and yellow flowers behind her ears. I saw what she was saying like she was screaming it. I listened to the music, I listened to Arthur’s voice float around my ears and grow into my veins. I felt the lyrics read my mind, and began to respond;

I read a story about a fire;

It burned for miles across ground,

Under oceans and across the border,

Without a burn without a beckon.

Monday, going to school I skipped, I jumped over the cracks with my grandma’s voice in the back of my head when I was little.

“Careful Elliot!” she would say, ”step on the cracks, break your mother’s back!” I had believed her entirely, carefully prancing across the footpath. She was gone now. She was my only friend but mother nature had taken her away from me seven years ago. I remember I had refused to go to her funeral because I was mad at my dead grandma for leaving me when I had no one else. Mum had squeezed me into my old ballet dress because it was the only thing I had that was black, and then pushed me out the door. I had my eyebrows pushed down the entire time and while everyone was crying I was taking deep breaths and trying not to float away completely.

Today life wasn’t bursting at its seams, pooling from my ears and eyes, and I wasn’t dying inside. I knew that Bailey Finch didn’t know that it was me sending her the emails but I still went a little slower as I walked past her in the corridor.

Today she wore gold button up shorts going up to her waist and long yellow socks, I admired her as she walked across the hall. You would think most people would like her, but she seemed to be always alone.

When I got home I checked my emails, but nothing had come in. I wondered if she found out it was me and decided to stop writing back. I watched my inbox as I began to reload and reload while nothing came. She must’ve found out. She must’ve. She’d found out it’s me and just like everyone else in the world had turned away. It’s a simple thing.

Highly Commended

2020 darebin mayor’s writing awards for young people · entertaining read, with a twist in the...

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