Young creatives awards 2021 Writing Winners

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My Little Angel by Hitkaran Girn (12 to 15 years)

She had read and re-read the sentence a hundred times.

“The. Fast. Lane. Lane. Out. Exit. Stand. Up.”

The words blended – a tea of syllables that made no sense to her. The lurch of the train didn’t help at all, and the English on the page remained just as foreign to her as it had three months ago.

Progress - or her lack thereof - plagued her.

Zara’s legs were plastered to the plastic of the seat and hot air settled on her skin, scalding her, making her limbs heavy and weak. Near her, a baby wailed. She watched the business men, glued to their phones, their iPads, their Kindles. She pulled her Nokia from her pocket, catching the eye of an iPhone wielding mother as she did so. The gaze was small, fleeting… sympathetic. She hated her shame. It was just a phone. Her first phone, with her first pay. She used to love it.

From her window seat, she saw the dull beauty of the Harbour Bridge and it fascinated her. It was the image that dominated the travel brochures that were shown to her – the reason she chose Australia. There was something about it, something she didn’t understand and couldn’t explain. It felt like a familiar comfort in an unfamiliar city, a city she knew by a map alone.

Another jolt. The train doors opened to the platform, sparking frenzy. Crowds reminded her of back home…

…the saccharine smell of the fried jalebi’s, all mixed in with the petrol haze of the Delhi traffic. On the tuk tuk, she would travel to the bazaar, where the city vibe peaked. Stores clustered the street edges, each store with its own specialty – bangles, bindi’s, saris. Pink. Orange. Red. These stores felt safe to her, she wouldn’t feel as overwhelmed as she did in Myer with its 6 levels, all white, all cold. But at home, she could roam. She could watch as the food vendors fought for space on the narrow strip. There was enough aloo chaat, paani puri and samosas to satisfy her cravings. Every craving. Spices were everywhere – chilli, turmeric, garam masala. The aroma of the saffron rice, freshly cooked, was her favourite. Walking along the main road in her lustrous silk sari, she would yell out to every shop owner, and they would call back.

“Namaste, Zara! Namaste!”

Often, they would ask her how her grandmother, her “Nani”, was. She loved it when they did. Her Nani was old in age, but she didn’t act it. Zara loved her for that.

And then she would reach it. Number thirty three, her grandmother’s house. It provided her with a peaceful escape from the beeping and bustle of the bazaar. She was always welcomed with a freshly made mango lassi, made with the pulp from the tree in the yard. Nani loved the mango tree. It kept her busy. She had taken care of it for as long as Zara could remember. Zara would sit in the backyard on the thatched fold out bed while her grandmother would tell her stories, tales about her childhood on the distant farm. The past defined the strength that embodied Nani’s very heart and soul. She loved her grandmother, she was attached to her - like a petal to its flower Her Nani never let her feel the absence of her father or mother; she dolled her up in fancy saris, braided her hair in two little plaits and sang her to sleep each night. Zara never felt different, never unlucky. She was another Indian girl, just one of the two hundred girls that attended her school.

Reality slapped her, stepping out of the train. She was here. Sydney streets. Grey. White. Beige.

Subway. ANZ. Gloria Jeans.

She clung suddenly to her grandma’s words – the last ones she spoke.

“tu meri shoti pari kush rehi”

My little angel, be happy after I’m gone.

The road bent right and she followed it. All in an instant the greys, whites and beiges dissolved into colours she knew so much better. Pinks, oranges and reds. The sounds of this city, but with pieces of her own. In some little lane, a crevasse of Sydney’s CBD, she had found a market place. There was spice and vendors and life. She smelt saffron rice among other smells of foods she didn’t know. She watched a man chop up raw fish, assembling it into tiny rolls. Another lady dusted some icing sugar on sweet smelling pastries, freshly baked. There was even a stall for sugar cane juice. The sign beside it read “cold and refreshing.”

Maybe she could even find a mango lassi. Just like home.

A strange excitement bubbled inside her and she found herself in line for a pastry. Being greeted with such radiant smiles at the stall, she realised it was only polite for her to respond in the same way. Not only to them, but to everyone else in this new world. It was up to her to embrace her difference amongst the diverse cultures around her.

She noticed the boulders on the edge of the wharf. There was the round unsteady one, the pointed one and the flat one in the middle – it seemed like the safe one, the one where people could stand and look around – admire the beauty of the harbour. She longed to stand there and do the same.

Zara breathed in, this unfamiliar air with some now familiar smells. She sat on the ledge, opened up her book – to the very first page.

The words would make sense to her – one day – only if she tried.

Zara was determined to make her Nani proud.

Red Camelia's Blooming by Bessie Yuan (16 to 18 years)

Inspired by Nam Le’s The Boat

The camellias are wrinkly white buds, tightly sealed, the day my mother arrives.

We’re in the living room, my writing wrapped around my wrist and melded to my hands like woollen gloves on a graphite day. I cast an eye around the room, noting the blanket I’d thrown over my too-expensive heater, the designer handbag I’d hurriedly hidden.

Outside, the streetlight has turned patches of the grass an incandescent yellow. The fields are on fire, my hands itch to write.

We greet her at the door.

‘Mum! You should’ve called!’

She looks the same, a portrait of a Chinese empress painted at thirty. Wearing knee length shorts and a scarf with peonies welded to the opaque silk, she smells of mothballs and cheap hand cream.

‘Sorry, I didn’t want to bother you.’

I am following her as she roams the house, looking for something to busy her hands with. She reaches for the dusty framed photograph perched on my shelf. Her arms around my shoulders, my hands clutching the certificate. The happiness in my eyes, mirrored by a hint of pride and a dash of ever-present disappointment in hers.

*      *      *

My writing awoke after a lengthy battle with my mother. We were always at odds, ever since I was a teenager. Why can’t you just do what I say, she’d lament, not knowing my deepest fear was that even if I did, it wouldn’t be enough. It was why I rebelled.

I’d rushed to my room. Pen in hand, and She was awake and whispering what to write. Word after word I scribbled until all I saw were letters on a page.

Black on white.

Readers loved my writing. We attended award ceremonies together, Her voice overlaying mine we recited the piece. I pictured my writing as a camellia, pure white with a need to impress, a desire to bathe in the light of approval.

My mother showed a muted joy, her disappointment a grey that still suffocated. A needle is not sharp at both ends, she warns. Her fingers are dried tea leaves above the foaming dishwater.

I came home from each ceremony, expecting to float with happiness. Instead, I felt empty, as though each piece of writing had stolen a piece of me. But my writing was borne to please my mother. And please her, we would.

*      *      *

The next day. My mother watches as I flip through the takeaway menus.

‘Pizza?’

‘Whatever you like.’

I can’t cook, and her disappointment permeates the room, like the cloying resentment I’ve come to hide, dark grey. The beginnings of an evening chill, the rhythmic strains of crickets. I drop the menus, and bury my hands deeper into my pockets, wishing I could turn the heater on. 

I sense the moment she sees the newest masterpiece.

She flicks through the pages indifferently, pausing on the last page.

‘Is this you?’

I see the author biography, my smiling face. Even I can see the emptiness of my expression, the vacant persona I am lost behind.

‘You don’t like it? I wrote it for you!’

Her eyes change, disappointment overshadowed by sadness. I hear the light fingertips of rain tapping against my roof, water trickling down the windows in an eternal trailing journey.

I go outside.

The rain is achingly cold. My writing is present, composing a new piece ideal for the upcoming competition. I feel the beginnings of Her story shaping: belonging, home, discovery, a guaranteed place at another prestigious ceremony.

Deafening beads of water against the slick asphalt. Droplets stinging the nape of my neck, the voice of my writing still resonant against the wailing, thunderous sky.

In every line She composes, the question Is this you? ricochets like the droplets, words shattering against voiceless white petals. Punctuated syllables that crackle like colourless fireworks and explode against my skin.

My writing is quieter.

The raindrops beat at me, demanding an answer. I am resisting, holding out, grasping at the strands of words.

Something clicks, a rush of cool relief, blinding white light. In that instant, I can feel every raindrop pounding against me. The white camellias open under the force of the rain, ethereal orbs of water speckling liquid velvet, refracting the clouds.

White on white.

And suddenly, I’m rushing inside for the newest masterpiece. I dig frantically in the yard. The rain has eased, the orchestra of the night has retired. I drop the papers with a detached fwoomp. My writing shrieks in protest.

The fire takes to the paper hungrily. I can taste the gritty ash, feel the liquid velvet of each petal, smell the words she’d written, dissipating. Bits of paper are blown upwards, sparks of orange camouflaged against the stars. The fire exhales fragments of words to the sky, the wispy clouds an echo of its breaths. I hear the traces of the voice that was never mine, the false colour I’d adopted, crackle and turn to ash: embers in the fire.

I turn to the camellias, knowing that in each word she’d composed, the question Is this you? had always reverberated, emptying me, long before my mother had asked. Instead of white, I see red camellias dyed crimson from the blaze that has consumed the masterpiece.

Red camellias in full bloom, vivid, unfurled, liberated, the crimson of passion, of finding the voice I’d lost to my writing.

My mother watches from the window, her eyes illuminated by the leaping flames. I see an unfamiliar approval, the unconditional pride I’d written and yearned for.

My writing is silent.

Tonight, I will write for myself.

Is AnybodyOut There? by Harry Lawler Burner(19 to 24 years)

Nice Shoes: I met this man the other day, I didn’t really appreciate the meeting while it was happening. I was in a rush. This man told me he was half Irish, half Yugoslav, and half Viking.

‘Hey! That’s too many halves.’

I thought I was being clever, but this guy just wanted to talk about Eric the Red or someone. He didn’t listen to me, and I was in a hurry, so I didn’t really listen to him either. He had nice shoes though. I should have told him that. But again, I was hurrying, and his mask was slipping off his mouth. The rest of him seemed kind of faded, the way curtains look after too many years of early mornings, complete with a layer of dust. Except for his shoes. Those were very clean, and had a lovely deep, full colour about them. I’d been a little hazy that week, but this strange conversation had made me feel better. I had something to think about. I remembered all those other strange
encounters that had cropped up on street corners and the back seats of busses. Now I think about it there has always been a lot of mad people about. Just a feature of being alive I suppose. I worry I’ll end up like one of these people. Starting conversations with strangers in lifts for the sake of it.

Doppelganger: That said, I was reminded of another man. This was when I was a glassie, I’ve since lost that job, like everyone else. When I had to clear glasses from the smoker’s section of the pub I tried to hold my breath. I’d almost made it before I was stopped. This man was bearish, I could have stood behind him twice abreast and being perfectly invisible. He was as hairy as you’d expect and had a razor blade on fine chain around his neck. I’m pretty sure it was fake. But you can’t say it’s not a distinctive choice.

‘Hey kid.’

There was a security guard in the room. But still.

‘Can I get a photo with you?’

To this day this is still the second strangest encounter I’ve had with a random person. I was, apparently, the spitting image of this urban mountain man’s younger self. This was not a pleasant encounter. It was alarming and uncomfortable. The memory, however, is rather sad. I feel nostalgic about it in this odd, bored way. And now I really kind of wish I was meeting people like this; I wish I’d paid attention to the man in the nice shoes.
Two years ago, two people decided that I was an introvert. Completely independent of each other as well. It seemed very wrong; I’ve never been shy, and I like people. But it stuck with me, and I thought it over. This idea that some people are just innately more attuned to the company of others, while the rest of us are naturally solitary, it sounds meaningful, like it speaks to some truth. And it did kind of make sense. I’m very bad at keeping in contact with people and I’ve never been one of the popular ones, and that’s never mattered before. And then I think of those people I’ve known who seem to know everyone. These people will make you a friend of a friend of everyone in whatever little community we might be talking about. Exhausting. I couldn’t do that. So it makes sense that these people are different in some abstract way. And that’s fine to me. After all there are a lot of people who’ll tell you you only really need one friend. It seems like a supremely sensible piece of wisdom. So maybe I am an introvert.


Please Like Me: Bus conversations are the weirdest. It’s one thing to start talking to someone on the street where both parties can extract themselves. Imagine starting a conversation with a complete stranger knowing full well you might be stuck with them for another half hour. Imagine running out

of things to say. Although that said the people who start conversations on busses rarely run out of things to say. One notable bus conversation began with me texting a girl.

‘How many words per minute d’yer reckon you can do’

I don’t text her anymore, so clearly not enough. Maybe I should have concentrated on texting rather than this strange man who looked oddly like my religion teacher. My new friend was an ex-con. He was incredibly strong, capable of doing 2000 push ups in a row, and not to mention he was a master martial artist. Although he ran away when his girlfriend came for a certain appendage with kitchen shears. In reality he was kind of squishy looking. And the stories he told me were pretty familiar, the kind of ones you use to seem cool in front of school mates who aren’t your friends. Or maybe the stories you mistakenly think will impress a crush. I wasn’t impressed by him. He was funny though.

I’ve got a theory about people who begin conversations like these. They stop and talk to everyone on the street because of a need for connection. Not love or friendship. But a sort of proof of life. To confirm that there are still people out there who will think about them. A stupid theory, clearly unscientific.

Bicycle man: One day this man raced past me not wearing a whole lot and a little too much at the same time. His outfit was a singlet and shorts with no shoes as well as a helmet. One of those stupid helmets Australians wear. The ones with cable ties bristling like spines on an echidna, like spike proteins. He didn’t have a bike though, just the helmet.

‘Lost my car’ he said without looking at me.

That still didn’t explain the helmet.

‘Looks like your dogs are taking you for a walk’ he didn’t look at me this time either, just kept racing on.

Ha ha ha, I’ve heard that joke so many times I should probably have a good comeback by now. I tried quickly to say something clever, but he was already halfway down the street.

‘Always living my life at 110%’ he called back.

‘Can’t slow down,’ his eyes were focused wherever he was waddling.

Hey that’s too many percentages I wanted to shout to him; he’d already turned the corner. I kind of wish I’d said something, wish that he’d found it funny.

The Body Memory by Lily Cameron (19-24 years)