Young creatives awards 2020 Writing Runner ups

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The Morning Surf by Samuel Eastwood (12 to 15 years)

My eyes flickered open,creating the slightest contrast between the black of my eyelids and the quiet,dark of the night. I knew it was time. The delicate cat-like movement,practised to perfection over the years, allowed me to escape my house. Myfamily unawaken.  Against the decrepitshed an old mountain bike rested. Subtly mounting, balancing my board on myknee and wet-suit on my shoulders, I pushed off the curb and flew down thesteepest hill on the coast. The hill would have been lethal to new-comers but Imaneuverer down at a dangerous pace, daily practise proving worthwhile onceagain.

After years of travelling the route the houses seemed the same and asthe harsh wind hit my face like a right jab I looked up to the rapidlydisappearing moon, following it. A beacon. Rounding the final corner the noiseI yearned for the most at school and home lifted my spirits to the clouds. Thecrashing waves, dragging back the helpless sand, into the abyss that was theocean. Jumping from my bike, I donned the wetsuit and flew to the water. Theboard glided through the weak waves of the shore with noticeable ease. 

I felt the rush of freezing salt-infused water resisting the directionof my movement, yet I continued to paddle towards the greatest waves in theuniverse. Amateur waves were sliced clean through by the pointed, almost serrated, board. The tide washigh and the waves monstrous. The sun hinted on the blissful, deep blue horizonand I rested leaving the paddling to the current, dragging me towards the reefout the back. 

Now accustomed to the piercing cold I felt something brush against myright foot. It was soft and smooth and I instantly knew that it was a kelp ofsome kind. Looking down to confirm my suspicion I was dazzled by a jaw-droppingnatural beauty; The partially visible sun had reflected onto the water,creating a sort of censored light, which was illuminating the vivid coral. Iwas astounded and almost fell from my board. My attention was quickly divertedto readjusting my stature so upon looking back the miraculous sight haddisappeared, a moment lost in time. 

The first wave was a complete failure. I rose too quickly, nose-divedand emerged extremely disorientated. The second wave was a great success. Ijumped to my feet on the board and was instantly enclosed in a tunnel ofsparkling aqua-marine, foamy whitewash thundering towards the jagged rocks, ahungry predator. Shooting out the left side and copping a spray of stragglingbackwater, I lay back on the board and waited. 

Perhaps twenty decent waves came and went. The usual gang of surfersdid not arrive, leaving me with the whole beach to myself. Starving, I decidedit was time for breakfast and rode a small wave back to the warm, welcomingsand. I ate a muesli bar and a banana.

Weekends were always a relief; Time to surf and a break from school.Breakfast was quick. The sand crunched under my toes as I retreated to myutopia of coral and swell. After a long paddle and an excruciating wait thebiggest wave possible arose. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have taken any chancesbut it was just too good to miss. So I began to paddle. I was hoisted

to the crest, my powerful board powerless. I skidded across the top ofthe wave until I slipped and fell headfirst into the churning whitewash.Tumbling, my hand sliced across a stinging part of this glorious sea-garden. Ihad cut myself on a rose; beautiful to look at, agonising to touch. Iresurfaced and swam to the board. 

I probably should have gone in. Raindrops of blood could be dangerousconsidering the high number of shark sightings along the coast this time ofyear. Notorious predators dominating the waters, waiting like hawks for theirnext meal. Yet again risking my luck I stayed on the reef, the tide risingslowly.

The pattern of surfing for everyone on the coast revolved completelyaround the tide. Nothing else mattered. I realized just how important the moonwas as I eyed down the line. If we didn’t have the moon, our waves would be sovery different. What an interesting thought.

I felt the chill of the harsh wind battling against the warmth of thesun and it suddenly occurred to me just how close I was to the local sharkcolony. I was really walking on thin ice today. As my spine chilled to thebone, and not because of the cold, I started paddling to the far side of thereef, my mind set on returning to the ever-welcoming sand. 

Another big set came and I knewtrouble was coming. I paddled but lost my balance diving uncontrollably intothe wash. Coughing and spluttering I pushed off the coral, agony for my footthis time. 

Resurfacing, I started to panic. I seriously needed to get to shore. Ilurched forward, plunging onto the board like a seal flopping onto a rock,trying not to think about pain. Or the tiny drops of blood seeping from thecut. I paddled for a small wave. I stood up, curved left and then right. Theboard stumbled towards the beach. I never felt the smooth shadow gliding behindme. 

A race of life and death, the board rushed me towards safety.Eventually, I reached shallow water, now populated by the early-rising swimmersof the day. The shadow turned, it sulked back to the depths of the ocean.Hopefully never to be seen again.

Blood Sausages by Eszter Coombs (16 to 18 years)

Blood Sausages Or ‘A Manual forAdolescent Gurlz’

Inspired by Lucia Berlin’s short story ‘A Manual for Cleaning Women’

I bought one ofthose cups on ebay for four dollars and five cents and I watched a lady onyoutube say you fold it like a taco. So I squatted in a corner of the bathroomand I looked at it and thought, “like a taco?”.

So I folded itand it was sucked up for a few hours and after a few hours I pulled it out andblood got all over my fingers and gloopy and then I emptied it in the toilet. Isat down and thought oh my god.

The next day wesat on the side of a bit of a hill at lunch and I said, “I got one of thosecups on ebay”

The next day Iwent for a walk. My parents went to ALDI, which takes a lot of hours, so I wentfor a walk. They don’t like it because they think something terrible willhappen because I am a small teenage girl, but I always put on a collared shirtand wraparound sunglasses and a long raincoat and I look at myself in thebathroom and I think I look like a robust young man.

There was ablind man and a woman at the park and they were walking a chihuahua veryslowly. The chihuahua was yapping and they were murmuring.

I did an I'm notlistening to your conversation walk, which is fast and involves quivery lipmovements to show that I am deep in thought. And not interested in theirconversation. They were talking about Nicholas. 

Two robust youngmen sat on a bench. They were talking about her.

One of themsaid, “I just don’t know what to say to her.”

Then thechihuahua came over to me and I tensed up because I thought he might think Iwas hiding blood sausages (or something) in my underpants and I thought hemight start sniffing me in strange places and I thought that maybe the womanand the two robust young men would look at me like there was something wrongwith my vagina and I don’t want there to be anything wrong with my vagina.

The chihuahuasniffed my ankle, which was fine. OKAY.

The next day Istopped menstruating and got on the 460 bus. I stopped menstruatingtemporarily, only. Jesus Christ. The next month I started menstruating again.

I got up earlyand I went downstairs and I got a fresh pair of socks out of the filing cabinetand I went into the kitchen in my fresh pair of socks and my father’s crocs(which rhymes) and I boiled the kettle. I poured the boiling water from thekettle into a saucepan. I took the cup out of a pink satin bag with a littlepink drawstring and I boiled it up. The woman in the video who talked abouttacos told me to.

Then I got onthe 460 bus. We sat a bit further down the hill at lunch. When I left afterperiod 5 I spotted John Malkovitch in a baseball cap. He was driving a toyotatarago away from the school gates.

“JohnMalkovitch!” I thought to myself. I saw Bob Dylan once, in Kensal Rise.

The next morning,I got up early and I went downstairs, got a fresh pair of socks out of thefiling cabinet and boiled up the cup (which also rhymes!). I shampooed underthe tap because I was pressed for time.460 bus.

The next day(night) my mother went to a dinner party and my father went to the dentist,both of which take a lot of hours, so I went for a walk. My brother went tosleep. He had a nap. Next to the park is the wharf, where people leave books,and where the fluorescent lighting is lovely and fuzzy, so I went and stoodthere in my wraparound sunglasses and stared at spines. I found ‘Usborne PuzzleAdventure Omnibus’, the 1997 edition. Also on offer: ‘How to Write and Sellyour First Novel’, ‘Lost City of the Incas’, ‘Roget’s Thesaurus’,‘Bhagavad-Gītā As It Is’, ‘How to get Great Marks for your Essays’, ‘The KingWithin: Accessing the King in the Male Psyche’, ‘Origen de las Especies’,‘Fantastic Word Puzzles’ and ‘The Selected Novels of Somerset Maugham’...

I was standingthere when the chihuahua tinkled in (tinkle tinkle) and I thought, vaguely,‘blood sausages’. The man and the woman followed and I thought about saying“good evening”. I didn’t, because next the woman patted her knees and breathedat the dog and all three of them turned around and tinkled out together like anice family. I watched the nice family leave, standing in the nice fuzzy light.

TO AVOID THESPREAD OF CORONAVIRUS PLEASE AVOID CONTACT WITH STAFF AND PASSENGERS. WHILEAWAITING THE FERRY, PLEASE SPREAD OUT ALONG THE WHARF.

DING DONG.

DING DONG.

Said man withrobust voice.

The next day the460 bus was late. Consequently I was late for school. Consequently I was givena tiny little piece of paper to give to my modern history teacher. Consequentlyhe put it in his desk drawer full of other tiny little pieces of paper. “If youkeep arriving late,” my parents tell me, “there will be consequences.”  This is true.

After modernhistory we sat at the bottom of the hill and I took a bite out of a hard boiledegg. I find hard boiled eggs really disgusting.

The next day Istopped menstruating and got on the 460 bus.

Bitter Fruit by Rinjani Soengkoeng (19 to 24 years)

Inspired by a photograph of ‘Bindi Jack’ found in Bitter Fruit:Australian photographs to 1963, created by Michael Graham-Stewart and FrancisMcWhannell, with Jonathan Dickson.

Part I

In the ring, he is fire. Harsh lights set the sweat slicking his ropedmuscles aflame, and turn the droplets loosed with each blow into blazingshowers of sparks. A sidestep, a feint, then out of nowhere the meteorite fistcrashes.

The crowd barely has time toregister the sound of bone crunching before the dance begins again, feetwaltzing to the ghost of your granny’s radio while the arms do butcher’s work.

“You coming to the fight tonight?” Yellowed fingers reachinto a pouch.

“Hellfire Jack against the Newcastle Kid? What kindaquestion is that?”

Laughter, drought-dry. Fingers find what they’ve beenlooking for. “Gonna be a good

one, I reckon.”

“Not for the kid.”

“He knew what he was getting into. They’re soft, thesewhite fellas. Think just ‘cause

they invented the bloody stuff they’re bloody invincible.”

A match scratches, and an acrid smell rises into theevening.

“Ahh, don’t smoke that stuff around here.”

“If its good enough for Jack its good enough for me.”

The bloke – no, boy – in the middle of the ring is a goner. Dawhistles through his teeth as the kid jerks around like a fresh-hooked trout.The flannel-clad knee pressed against Janie’s trembles with excitement – Daknows what’s coming next.

The crowd seems to agree, andsilence weaves its way through the close-packed bodies. It leaves the sound offlesh and bone meeting in bloody embrace intact, however. One heartbeat, two.And then Janie can feel it – a hum around her wisdom teeth, an itch under herskin.

The lights seem to flicker,although that’s just a trick of the imagination. The pressure in the shed,meant to hold a couple of trucks at most, is immense.

Underground Fighting Ring Busted: Police Find Drugs, DeadBody

…New Holland Police Force raided an unassuming terracehouse, home of the

infamous Willie ‘Smiler’ Nelson…

…found evidence of doping with a dangerous new drugcolloquially

known as ‘fosfer’…

…’glowing’…’inhuman’…

…encouraging political violence by holding mixed-racefights…

And in the ring, in the tiny space left clear of the rows of makeshiftbenches, fire becomes lightning. The man – the dancer – the god as Da would say– glows green-white like a matchstick-maker’s mandible, like a cat’s eye atnight. Skin dark as rain-soaked earth now hurts to look at. Time seems to slow,overtaken by Janie’s galloping pulse. A feint, a sidestep.

A wave builds in power, far out to sea. And then, under his opponent’sjaw, it meets the shoreline. The boy’s pale-thatched head snaps back, and for amoment Janie can see his skull, outlined in fluorescent green as the fireswallows his breath like a snuffed candle. 

“You know what it does.”

“He looks fine to me. Almost killed that Italian lastweek.”

“Yeah, and how long do you think that’s gonna last? You’veseen the other blokes,

bloody Harry’s only 30 and he was coughing out his insidesat the pub the other day.

Looked like bloody sewage, all black and rotten.”

Spittle lands on the yard dust, a slimy pearl. “For God’ssake, Jim.”

“I’m just saying.”

Cold suddenly replaces the warmth of Da’s knee as he leaps up,dragging his daughter with him. Noise fills the shed, chasing the silence outinto the weekday night. Da is crying as he cheers, work-hardened fists raisedand second-best boots stomping. But Janie is looking at the ring. 

A circle of light floating in the shed’s darkness, a bubble ofviolence. In its centre stands a man with bowed shoulders, gloves hanginguseless at his sides. His dark skin is traced with St. Elmo’s fire, and phosphorescentsweat rolls off him. At his feet is a body, white and shrunken except for thepitiful pulp of its battered face.

The standing man raises hishead, and for a moment Janie could swear – swear on her mother’s life – thathis glowing white eyes find her own. 

…the remains were identified as Hellfire Jack, winner oflast year’s Inner West

Heavyweight Title…

…’almostunrecognisable’…

…enjoyed considerable support amongst the nativecommunity…

…charged withunlawful disposal of a body…

…laid to rest in his home suburb of Tanner’s Hill, asegregated settlement …

Part II

Rest, finally. In the deep darkness of the earth we return toourselves and are purified. It is the darkness of a shuttered eye, of the spacebetween worlds. Decay is a sweeter word than you think.

These bones are already soft, as though returned to a newborn state atthe time of their interment. A sponge soaked in poison. At first, the bones lieuntouched, surrounded by a burning firefly nimbus – the unholy fire ofcorrupted innocence. Years pass before the earth is ready. 

But eventually work resumes. For it is work; each compound must bebroken down to its constituent atoms, and those atoms re-distributed whereneeded. The process is perfect, for there is no intention, no consciousness.The earth continues to wash the bones in darkness and wrap them in saprophyticlinen, heedless of its above-ground children’s concerns.

Some compounds are more resistant than others, their molecules woventogether tightly like a smallpox-ridden blanket. The earth knows what do,however. Has it not dealt with dead king’s gold, with bullets and bayonets,with the effluvia of the fertiliser factory and the hatter’s shop? As fleshslides around the embedded arrow head, as the sea smoothes the broken bottle’sedge, so the earth proceeds. 

Within the bones, the resting bones, wakeful rootlets grow. Theirquesting hairs receive the earth’s gift blindly, and deep underground, thedarkness lifts. 

Mysterious Glowing Weeds Found in Local Cemetery 

…discovered byTanner’s Hill resident Janie Cook, 63

.