Time To Write: 2013 short story prize

  To Amora, it was a shape out of the darkness. Crunching of metal. Cry. Brightest lights. She was kneeling by the body of Carmen. Her twin. And the sound that came out of her mouth was animal. A scream of primal grief. And then she did the only thing she could. She stood to make her sacrifice. “Carmen shall live,” she said.

  And with that Amora burst into purest white feathers that rode the air currents into the sky. And on the road’s surface, Carmen’s body drew breath.

  So now, on one side of the fence, a girl tends to the trapped. She glides between them, offering comfort, anything, to keep them from the same desperate act as her sister. The children are still there but with a touch of her soft hand to their foreheads they sleep peaceful dreams.

  And while Carmen tends to the souls on her side, she occasionally glances to the shared sky and whispers a prayer for her sister, Amora’s soul, and that of her own – a prayer that ends with the words, “We are birds, we are free.”

  Category 12 to 14 Years: Honourable Mention

  Closure by Dinushka Gunasekara

  “I’m not crazy,” I repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.

  “I know,” Dr Richards replied. “I just want to talk.”

  I tore my eyes away from the clock to narrow them at her in frustration, before going back to watching the hands count down my hour here.

  “Skyla,” she began again. “You have to understand your parents and I are just trying to help you through this.”

  I let out a frustrated breath. “I’m not going through anything!”

  “Let’s talk about – ”

  “No!” I yelled, standing up. “I’m done talking. I know what I saw!”

  “Skylla, you know that’s not possible.” Dr Richards looked at me with pity, something that only annoyed me all the more.

  “I saw Finn last night, at the park, where we always met, for the last six years.”

  The next morning I sat on the school bus, The Imagine Dragons playing in my headphones blocking out the chatter and my breath fogging the glass. Last Wednesday night was replaying in my head. Of how I’d been sitting on the rusted swings waiting. How I’d been thinking about that playground, and a childhood of chasey and hide and seek in the tunnels with Finn. And how as we grew older, the playground became our place to talk. How I’d just been sitting there on the swing in the dark, when a twig had snapped and how I’d been frightened and I’d whirled about with my heart pounding and electricity in my mouth. But it was just Finn, wearing the same easy-going smile he always did. Only I didn’t know it then but it wasn’t possible.

  “What took you?” I asked, shivering in the cold breeze.

  “You could say I got held up by something,” he replied. His eyes drifted away from my face, landing on something behind me. I turned to see a beady-eyed raven watching over us.

  I asked Finn, if he’d heard the new Paramore album and that’s how the rest of the night went, talking while the full moon rose high above us, and we’d had to finally say goodbye.

  And then things got seriously surreal. My parents waiting up and so serious and telling me that my oldest, my best friend, that Finn is dead, that somebody found him dead but that was hours and hours ago, sometime that afternoon and I knew they were wrong and I all I could do was laugh at them.

  I wandered between math, chemistry and English in a blur until I walked in the day’s last class to find the them all standing together, waiting for me. “We’re so sorry,” my teacher said, “for your loss.”

  “What loss?” I countered.

  “I know this must be hard – “

  “He’s not dead!” I spun around and ran – out of that classroom, out of the school, and didn’t stop running until I got to our playground where I threw myself onto the swing and cry. It was so stupid, Finn couldn’t be dead. It just wasn’t possible. We were Finn and Skyla – inseparable. There couldn’t be one of us without the other. Finn couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave me alone.

  I woke to the night sky over the empty park. I rubbed my eyes and stood up off the swing. I turned to go home when I heard a feathery rustle and then the twig snap. Through the dark, I could see a shadow walking towards me. It looked twice, by a trick of the light it looked like it had two heads. I watched as the figure stepped into a patch of moonlight and gasped to see Finn, Finn with his easy-going smile and a beady-eyed raven perched on his shoulder.

  Finn held out his hand but he didn’t speak as he pulled me along but I trusted him. I almost laughed. I knew he couldn’t leave me here alone.

  As Finn and I walked, the raven took wing. It circled us, its cry echoing in the moonlit night and one of its feathers spiralled downwards, coming to rest on the swing in my place.

  Category 15 to 17 Years: Winner

  Warmth by Samantha Walls

  I remember pain. I remember being forced to the ground with ropes, smelling anger, blood and smoke. I remember empty rooms, cruel voices that taunted and fire that burned. I remember metal chains and shadow-cloaked men and the loss of air and sky. I'm unlucky. Most don't remember how they died.

  I'm wearing my favourite dark blue jeans, steel-capped boots and well-fitting black t-shirt. I'll always be wearing this; it'll never need to be cleaned, washed or changed, because ghosts can't get dirty, or bloody, or sweaty. We don't need bathrooms, food, water or warmth. Sure we can still eat. We can still taste it but as soon as we swallow, the food simply disappears – that's only if you can go corporeal, though. I can't yet. I'm still too young.

  The generation that can see ghosts are called Mediums. If my brother and I had been born five days sooner, we would've been Mediums. It makes all this worse, knowing that if Mum hadn't gone into labour early, Hale would have been able to see me.

  I'm in my sister Nora's bedroom. She's nineteen, like Hale. Like I always will be. Red streaked, blonde hair fans out across her pillow, gold skin turned white. I wish she'd open her cerulean eyes just for a minute, so I could see them. I love you, I want to say. But I know she won't hear me.

  "Nora?" Hale's voice. Her eyes open. I wait for the jerk of my stomach, or the lurch of my heart. Nothing. I blink.

  I'm in my car ... Hale's car. Nora and her boyfriend, Craig, sit in the back seat. They don't speak. They don't make a peep. Hale drives. I'm beside him, on top of a ratty-old backpack that I know is filled with his clothes. Hale is running away tonight and I'm running out of time. My chance is fading quickly. I need to speak to him before he disappears to some place I've never been – ghosts are limited to the places they walked in life and Hale wants to escape to a place that his memories can't taint.

  "Wait," says Craig, "we need to stop by my place."

  No - I'm standing in the middle of the intersection, alone.

  I've never been to Craig's.

  Damn! I need to speak to him! I need to tell him! I need to stop him! I need someone to speak to him ... Blink.

  I'm at the beach, where Nora and Hale and I spent long, endless summers chasing the sun. A seagull cries and an elderly couple laugh. I wander along to the docks then sprint towards the boardwalk. It's the middle of summer and people are everywhere. I should be one of them. A couple around my age sit and watch the sinking sun. They laugh and cuddle, touch and kiss. The boy starts whispering in the girl's ear. I turn away. It's rude to watch their stolen moment.

  I see a girl staring at me with wide eyes and gaping mouth. She's pretty, with strawberry-blonde waves and sea-green eyes. I move, fading in and out of existence, passing through the merrymakers, leaving shivering bodies behind – until I'm right in front of her and then she turns and runs.

  I start sprinting. And while she bobs and weaves around people, I run right through them. She looks back and sees me following. I wave a hand and open my mouth but she turns away and ducks around a corner.

  "Please!" I cry but it's been so long since I've used my voice. It's scratchy and deep. I'd forgotten how it sounds.

  I turn that corner. She freezes. Takes
a breath. Her shoulders heave under the thin material of her white lace dress. Then she turns on the heel of her black combat boot and stares at me. "What do you want?"

  I take an unnecessary breath. "My brother is going to kill himself. He's catching a plane right as we speak … "

  Her pretty sea-eyes widen. She nods. "Have you ever taken bus 928?"

  The 928 carries us to the airport. I tell her some of my story; she tells me some of hers; she's sixteen but doesn’t tell me her name. I tell her that Hale is taking the next flight to Sydney. That we have to hurry.

  I see him, Nora and my ex-, Kaylee sitting together. Hale and Kaylee are together now. I'm happy for them.

  I stop, suddenly terrified, and the girl freezes besides me. Her eyes drift to where mine are fixed. “He looks like you," she says. Then she stalks right up to the three people I love most in the world.

  "He wants you to stop blaming yourself." No introductions. "He wants you to move on. It's not your fault and you don't need to take your life."

  Hale stares wide-eyed at her, while Nora and Kaylee gape like fish. I've never seen Hale so angry in my life.

  Nora is the one to speak. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

  "No one you know," she says. "But that's the point, right, Jasper?"

  Gasping, Kaylee finally finds voice. "Who are you to come here and – "

  "The first time you kissed, his lip was cut on your lip piercing." (One of the stories I told her.)

  "Jasper?" Hale whispers and it’s first time my name has been spoken since J died, 197 days ago.

  Hale's left for home with Nora and Kaylee. Alive. The girl and I sit on the dark beachfront. "When we met," she says, "you looked so … determined. It frightened me."

  "I know how it must have seemed … a ghost charging after you." The words are rushed, tripping back onto themselves in apologetic haste. "I'm sorry. Hale ... "

  "I know." She stifles a yawn. "It feels like a really long time ago, doesn't it?"

  "Yes."

  The world is quiet around us. "Eddie."

  "What?"

  "My name is Eddie." She takes my hand in hers. And I feel warmth again.

  Category 15 to 17 Years: Honourable Mention

  Stay by Sammy Liang

  He was often dreaming, little Tommy. His dreams though were blurry ... sketchy, almost as if a fog had been cast over them. But there was an element of realism tied around the fragile illusion, holding it all together. Like the pitch-black darkness that he had numerously mistaken as the midnight sky and the lavender, the sweet familiar scent of lavender. And there was a shadow. The shadow, who almost always reached out to him. But Tommy never ran away. He couldn't move but even if he could, he wouldn't have. Because there was always a strange desire in him to reach out to the shadow too. More specifically, reach out for the little glowing train that it held. The train. Radiating warmth and richness. It felt like it belonged to Tommy. Almost as if it was wrong for him not to have it. But that's when this little facade ends. When the two hands reach out for one another, trying to pass along the little train. Then the final train whistle blows. And the sun rises, his eyes awaken and all is disregarded.

  He awoke upon Eloise's soft nudges. It must've been lunchtime already. Hesitantly, he pulled himself up and followed her to the cafeteria. They sat and ate in silence. It had almost been a week since Tommy had woken up in this orphanage. He couldn't remember anything at all. He just remembered waking to Eloise’s gentle smile. She was the only one he could trust out of all the carers here. She never asked questions, she never judged. She was just there.

  Something strange had happened today. Tommy had been approached by Ben, a boy he would normally avoid. Ben was older, bigger and much stronger than Tommy. As he approached, he had the strangest look on his face. "What are you doing?" he had asked.

  "Just playing with Eloise."

  Ben looked at Tommy carefully, sighed and left. And that was it. But the next time they would encounter each other would be days later. And on that day too, Tommy would have dreamt of the shadow and the train again. Except this time it was different. Like the fog had begun thinning.

  Loneliness only seemed to disappear when Tommy was with Eloise. She brought along the feeling of home and a sweet, familiar scent of bruised lavender. Lately though, she had been spending less time with Tommy and more time with Ben. Maybe it was jealousy, Tommy thought. But there was always something strange about the way Ben acted around Eloise. He never spoke to her. Nor she to him. And every time Tommy saw them, Ben would already be looking in Tommy's direction. Almost as if he had been watching for his arrival the whole time.

  The whistles of the train grew louder and louder as a small light radiating odd the shadow's hand grew brighter. So bright that the shadow began slipping itself out of darkness ... unveiling what, was it a face? But before long, the shadow dispersed, leaving little Tommy back in his room.

  The days grew into weeks and the weeks into months. The dreams became more frequent and so did the meetings with Ben. It had almost been a month since Tommy had spoken to Eloise and today he had decided that it was time to speak up.

  It was a dark winter’s morning and Tommy had been reluctant to leave his little room especially after he saw the grey clouds looming over him. But it had been far too long and he had missed her comforting presence, her smile, her sweet purple scent. So on this cold morning, Tommy left for the park in search of Ben.

  He found them, sitting on a bench together, silent, not moving. As Ben got up to leave he caught Tommy's watching them. And then Tommy spoke with harsh words, "What are you doing here?"

  "I wanted to play with Eloise,” said Ben.

  "She doesn't want to play with you." Tommy shuffled forward to face Eloise, where she sat on the bench and wearing the strangest expression.

  "Tommy, she doesn't want to play any more, okay? She's leaving."

  "How would you know? She's hasn't told me anything about leaving!" Throb. Tommy's head ached. “What was going on?”

  "Oh so you can speak with her too, huh? That's just great. Don't you know how hard it is for me too?!" Ben’s voice grew louder, more aggressive. Tommy stumbled back, rubbing his head.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Just trust me, okay? She doesn't want to play any more Tommy. Eloise wants to leave. To go far away."

  "No, no, no ¬– " Tommy's vision blurred. He closed his wet lashes as a train appeared before his eyes.

  "Don't you remember? The train – " Ben's voice was lost in the piercing whistles of the train. Tommy's arms rushed to his ears but it was no use. The screeches were too loud, growing louder and louder before engulfing him whole.

  And Tommy was back in his dream. Lost, confused, he stood in the endless tunnels of darkness. But it was different this time. He was holding onto something warm. Something so bright that it illuminated his pale fingers. It was the train that the shadow had held. He peered up, before coming to a sudden halt. And there it stood. The shadow. Except it wasn't a shadow. It had never been a shadow. It was Ben. His brother all along.

  Tommy's head throbbed, once, twice before he realised the darkness had begun to fade. His surroundings blurred. The only thing that remained was the shadow, no Ben.

  He stood right where he had been standing by the benches in the park. And then it hit him. Tommy turned around, desperation overflowing as tears in his eyes as he searched for her. For his mother. His head throbbed once more, followed by a faint, final whistle of the train, before he relaxed his eyes on the empty wooden bench.

  "Don't you remember?" Of course he did. Of course he remembered. He turned to meet his brother’s eyes. And the clouds finally gave in, loosing a drizzle of rain to wash away the light scent of dead lavender.

  Category 15 to 17 Years: Honourable Mention

  Scars And Bones by Alanah Mahon

  She stood in the centre of a room bleached of all colour by moonlight. She wore a white nightgown, the material clin
ging to her shapely figure. Her eyes were shadowed, pools of darkness against her stark white skin. Her dark hair framed her face and gave the impression of a movie star long dead.

  “Just look at me,” she demanded with her voice shaking. I raised my eyes, trying to ignore her brimming tears.

  “I’m hideous,” she said.

  I spoke softly, ”it’s not true,” but she shook her head wildly.

  She turned her pale, inner arms outwards, thrusting them at me and exposing to the moonlight. Line after line crisscrossed over the underside of her forearms. My eyes followed the ridges of white scar tissue and the newer angry red lines slashed across her skin. She never saw the sunlight and she had never shown anyone her pain the way she was showing me.

  I reached for her hand, put her palm into my own, despite her flinching and trying to pull away, but I held on, raised her arm to me and brought my lips to her scarred wrist. “Do not ever...” – uttering each word with deliberation, speaking into her skin, into her very being – “ever tell me that you are not beautiful.”

  Her knees buckled momentarily before I caught her and steered her onto the window seat, which seemed a lonely addition to the almost empty room.

  The window’s light brought her face into sharp relief, emphasizing every angle, every hollow and washing away the shadows. Her eyes were such a pale blue that they appeared grey and lifeless.

  Here was a girl who believed she had nothing. My eyes skated over her figure, over the silk nightgown that showed her every angle. Every bone, the ridges, her stick-like legs and the dips in her wrists and collarbone.

  Although her gaunt face wore the tears of the past, all emotion had slipped away, leaving her features blank. She wasn’t her illness. She was fighting this. She was here. And she was beautiful. “They’re disgusting,” a mere whisper escaped her lips, as she jabbed at her scars. “I hate them. They disfigure me.”

  A whimper, another tear, her facade broken. “I’m so weak.” Her shoulders shuddered as she held back another deluge of tears. “I can’t eat. I can’t. I’ve tried so many times,” her voice rose, “I’ve tried so hard,” and then it rose another octave where it bordered on hysteria. “I can’t understand why you stay. Why do you stay with a broken, ugly mess like me?”