Time To Write: 2013 short story prize

by Yarra Bend Press

My heart dropped, as she opened the next one. It was a kitchen knife.

  I pulled and pulled at the fabrics holding me down. Hoping that somehow I could get free and stop this, or at least run away, so that I didn’t have to watch.

  Kate tore the packet and the knife fell out.

  “At least you got me something useful,” Kate said to her husband. “You have two choices,” she said kicking him. “You can either die and let the girl live, or you live and she dies?”

  Kate reached down and pressed the blade against his taped lips and made enough of a slit for him to speak. I tried to scream through my gag, begging him to let me live.

  “Kill her,” he said. No remorse in his eyes.

  I could feel my heart beat faster. Why did I hate him more than her? She was the one about to kill me. Kate walked behind the chair I was propped on, draped her arm over me and bent down to my ear.

  “Do you want to say anything?” she whispered. I nodded. She cut the tape.

  “Jack, I hope you rot in hell.” A snort of laughter escaped Kate’s mouth.

  “She can’t even remember your name.”

  The man who I thought was Jack looked at me apologetically. With nothing else to say he lay back and closed his eyes.

  “I’m disappointed in you,” Kate said. “I thought you had changed, but you haven’t, you just changed ‘cause it suited you.”

  She scraped the knife across his forearm.

  “I didn’t want to do this – ” She stabbed her imminently to be late-husband through the eye.

  Her own big brown eyes looked to me, I could see now the flood of her grief as tears. She murmured something.

  I looked at him, the true devil of their marriage. Nothing he could have said now could fix the fate he had sealed for me.

  I wanted to faint and miss my death. I didn’t want to suffer.

  “Don’t worry I’m not going to kill you,” Kate looked at me, “I … can’t.”

  She crumpled at my feet.

  I did what anyone else would have done, I comforted her.

  Category NMIT Students: Honourable Mention

  Blameless by Jessica Tait

  “S’pose I’ll get breakfast for myself.” The table shuddered and the coffee splashed from her mug. She traced a finger through the muddied stream, listening to his coiled sounds. The feral malice of his rummaging in cabinets and slamming doors, placement of coffee, cup, cereal and bowl while muttering under his breath, vicious little titbits of bile.

  Her head thudded and she had trouble opening her left eye. Through her right she took in the shattered glass of the night before. Both of them were stubbornly refusing to sweep up, as though the act of clearing would imply responsibility. Was that the odour of stale vomit from the bathroom?

  She was having trouble remembering. The girl’s night had started early with champagne cocktails at Bar Open. There’d been dancing, altercations, tears and laughter.

  He sat opposite her with the same indecorous behaviour he’d been displaying since she woke, slurping his coffee and cereal as though enjoying every he could inflict upon her. “Not talking to me this morning?”

  She looked at the branching streams forming under her fingers.

  “Feeling a bit sore and sorry for yourself?”

  Her eyes slid to the clock over the doorway, ticking every slow second away in an eerie vacuum of lengthened minutes till his departure.

  “Can’t say as I’ve any pity for you, brought it on yourself. Don’t know how many times I’ve warned you.”

  Gritting her teeth, her finger traced the tributaries formed by the coffee, and she observed him out of the corner of her eye. Handsome as ever, and so very correct, so very right in every way. How did he cope with being so perfect at all times? Didn’t it get tiring?

  “You’re self-destructive!” He spoke with restrained rage. She shrugged her shoulders, sick of his holier than thou attitude, sick of years of being undermined and made to feel inadequate – in fact, just sick really.

  “Fine, have it your way.” He threw his dishes in the sink. “Just in case you’re wondering about the eye,” he said as keys jangled and he swung his coat over his shoulder, “you rather elegantly tripped over your own feet when you got home last night. Or should I say, this morning?”

  She flinched at the flashback. Trying to find her keys, one hand to protect them from the dawn’s glare. Falling in the front door and giggling as she kicked her shoes off. Stumbling down the hall and catching his eye from the bedroom. A sickening vertigo, his smirk, and the rushing up of the table with its array of glass trinkets. A shattering in her ears.

  She heard his footsteps in the hall, the door handle turned and then hesitation, and she pictured him standing there, the image of respectability.

  “Get yourself a good divorce lawyer, darling,” came the sarcastic drawl. “I’m done wit’ you.”

  Category NMIT Students: Honourable Mention

  A Settling Of Ash by Peta Hawker

  Esther sat hunched over on the shore, waves crashing at her feet, her head hung between her knees. At her back rose the elegant tower she could no longer call home. It was only a day ago that she had stood on the balcony of her parent’s room and watched the army move on the city. Her family was dead. The Royal Family, the last hope of the nation, were not far from a gruesome end. Tears had slipped from Esther’s eyes as she thought of the pain endured by her people. She had fallen on her knees, gripping the bars of the balcony. And then she had received the vision.

  Looking up, Esther studied the black, shadowy landscape west of the ocean. This would be her destination. She didn’t know what she would find there, but she knew that having direction, some purpose was the only way to force herself back on her feet, if only to keep the memories behind her.

  A growling storm cloud advanced over the horizon, deepening the early afternoon into a prepubescent evening. Esther tasted the tangy scent of rising salt, and knew it was time to move on. She pulled herself off the sand and lifted the heavy bag of weaponry and timeworn books onto her shoulder.

  She sprinted along the track through, only slowing once she mounted the sand dunes. Now, the damp sand she trudged upon provided little respite for weary legs or the constant ache in her body, still it did not take her long to reach the dark path that led away from the beach.

  The ground was muted grey, as though it was not earth, but a settling of ash. The trees were stunted, bare, and blackened; nothing like the viridian expanses of forests she had left behind. The whole scene was cloaked in a gloomy haze; the sky threatening a furious rain. Esther could see the outline of mountains through the darkness; harsh and jagged they burst through the ground and tore the sky apart.

  With a sigh, Esther placed her foot on the path and a small puff of dust rose. A noxious odour tried to overwhelm her. She crinkled her nose against the stink of death and decay; against the vivid and painful memories the smell recalled. She knew this was a trial, a test of courage. Esther set her eyes on the mountains and strode along the path, using will power alone to turn her mind from the stench.

  The city she had left behind was the only one to sit near the Bad Lands without falling to ruin. A demon reborn into human flesh had been master over the lands for centuries. Esther had heard many rumours of what lived and travelled there, though rumour alone was not enough to stop her from fulfilling her duty. Finding the Oracle was Esther’s mission; a quest nobody believed in. Few now had confidence in the stories of the Old Ones, but Esther knew their tales to be true. Amongst the raging war and the demise of her noble bloodline, the vision Esther received had been one of grief and hope. More bloodshed, the failing of the Crown, her people enslaved; she saw then that the only chance for redemption was to find the elusive Oracle.

  The vision had shown a mountain range, deep within the Bad Lands. There she would find the Oracle, there she would find hope. The forsaken paths of the Lands had never been safe to travel; however Esther knew that the demon-spawn w
as occupied with the bloodlust of the war. At least for the moment, her passage was safe from him.

  Esther had spent two days moving among the mountains. This part of the journey was taking longer than expected. Then her food supply ran out.

  The sun did not touch the Bad Lands, but there was a gradual shift in light that Esther understood to be the passing of days. She refused to give up; the vision had revealed that the Oracle was hiding in a cave deep in the mountains. The cave remained hidden, but Esther persisted.

  Another day passed and Esther found herself much weakened. Late in the evening she sat down and held her waterskin to her mouth in an attempt to wet her lips. Her swollen tongue cried out in desperation, but the skin gave nothing. Esther hung her head, a silent tear sliding down her cheek.

  When she looked up again, she noticed a gap between two large boulders not far away. Esther crawled on her hands and knees and inspected the gap. She got to her feet; it was wide enough for her to fit through. The gap led into a dark tunnel. Esther’s heart beat faster as she recognised the rock walls in front of her as those from her vision. She began to run.

  Esther’s breath tore at her chest. Sweat etched its way down her face and her legs shook, persuading her to stop, to give up. Esther ran until she broke free of the stone tunnel and into a cavernous space. She stopped and her breath heaved inside her body. Swallowing hard, she looked up and saw the lake – exactly as it had appeared in her vision. Tears blurred her eyes as she stared at the expanse of blue-green water. Her gaze shifted and she cried out.

  Where in her vision there had been a serene, older woman sitting by the lake; in reality, there was nothing but cold, unforgiving rock. Esther ran to the lake turning her head to and fro, searching every crevice for a sign of life. There was nothing. Esther fell to her knees in despair. ‘Where are you?’ she cried out.

  Her hands gripped the cold stone and her knees bled. Esther crawled forward and looked into the lake. It was clear, reflecting nothing but the dark ceiling of the cave and her grey, tear-stained face.

  ‘I need your help,’ she whispered, speaking to her reflection. ‘Where are you?’ Her voice broke, and in that moment, she understood.

  Category NMIT Students: Honourable Mention

  Misguided by Amanda Kontos

  Callie closed her eyes and pulled her knees closer to her chest. She tucked them under her chin and her aching body protested against any movement. She had endured enough torture, enough pain; she would have done anything to stop it, but she was stubborn. She wouldn't give in.

  The darkened room took some time to get used to. Half a day maybe, but she couldn't remember how long she'd been there for. Days, weeks, months; it was hard to tell. There wasn't much in the room, just a makeshift bed in one corner, a table and a toilet in the other. Her body screamed with the need to heal itself but she couldn't risk closing her eyes, even for an instant. Callie had heard what they'd done to the other girl. She'd heard her screams through the night as they tortured her to death and she didn't want an end like that.

  Callie shivered as her captor unlocked the door. The noise vibrated through the room making her jump, but she refused to give them anything. Opening her eyes Callie squinted, the light from the door too bright, and she barely saw someone get pushed through the door before it was locked up tight again.

  “Callie,” said a voice in the dark.

  She knew the voice. “Clay?” Her voice was rough and husky from her time spent crying, screaming, cussing and begging her torturers to stop.

  “Oh my god, Cal. You're alive. Where are you?”

  “Here.” She slowly unwrapped herself and placed her good arm on the wall and began to lift herself off the floor. Her foot slipped on something slick. She couldn't see what it was in the dark.

  “Cal,” he whispered once he found her. His arms moved about her and it was enough to make her eyes well with tears. Her fingers grasped his shirt and she cried out as she moved her arm to try and hold him closer. She sobbed as the pain shot up her arm, Clay held her tighter, soothing her. All the pain and weakness she'd refused to show, spilled onto his shoulders, like her blood that stained the floor around them.

  The sobs quieted down as soon as Clay spoke again, “I didn't know where you were. I looked everywhere. I was so lost without you.”

  Why hadn't he tried harder to find me, then?

  “They – “ Callie pulled away from him and cringed as she knocked her arm. “They took me away and did stuff to me.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ve blocked a lot of it out.” It was the only way she was still here. Still alive. She lifted her arm and whimpered in agony as a nauseating pain shot through her body.

  “Are you okay?” His concern had her shaking, she missed him so much. Part of her should have been more concerned with why he was here, but she was happy to not be alone. Happy that he was here with her.

  “I think – “ She swallowed the bile that rose up into her throat, “I think my arm's broken. I don't remember how it happened. It's too much.” She pulled away from Clay, panicked, as the images flood back. “There was something sharp... and res – restraints and a lot of pain.” Slices to her thigh with surgical knifes and holding down her arm, screams so loud Callie couldn't hear anything else. She cried to make them stop but they didn't hear. No one did.

  “Callie. Cal, babe, come back to me. It's okay, you're safe now.”

  In the dark she could barely see him but she felt him move her face so that she was staring into his eyes. She felt like there was something new under her skin, something dark and different that replaced the Callie that had been there once. She'd become a shell of a person. Nothing was safe.

  Safe was a relative term.

  More images flashed back into her mind – fists flying at her face, feet kicking her ribs, restraints being retied.

  “They – oh my God,” she turned away from him and dropped to her knees and gagged. They'd fed her less and less each day, so there was nothing left to vomit but it still burned. Clay held her greasy hair back.

  A subtle glow illuminated the room and Callie could see Clay's silhouette in it.

  “Here,” he murmured and thrust a glass of water into her hand. That hadn't been in his hand before. Where had it come from?

  Callie took the glass from him and eyed it before taking a sip. He was innocent, he had to be, he wouldn't lie to her. Clay loved her. The never-ending circle they'd stolen from her finger was proof enough.

  She was so thirsty, and without realising she had downed the whole glass.

  “Baby, we should set that arm.”

  She pulled out of his grip. He never called her baby.

  Her vision blurred at the edges and she tried to blink it away.

  No, this can't be happening. He said he loved me.

  “Clay?”

  The lights flickered on and she was blinded. Her body felt like rubber and her legs gave and she collapsed against Clay. He carried her to the table at the room’s centre. Callie sobbed her body unable to do anything she ordered of it.

  “This won't hurt, babe,” Clay whispered as he restrained her and climbed on top of the table. A glint of something evil shined in his eyes, he wasn't the man she married. Everything went black and she let go, too broken to fight back.

  She wouldn't survive the night. Clay would make sure of that.

  Category NMIT Students: Honourable Mention

  On Almost Any Day by Thys Pretorious

  The kind people of Sombreville nailed a bronzeplate with Dad’s name to the new church building. A ribbon was cut, Dad’s hand was shaken and the heavy oak doors of the hollow church swung open with a lazy creak. An elderly gentleman with raisin-like skin motioned for Dad to step in. With the other hand, he patted his head, taking great care not to disturb the arrangement of thinning grey hair that rested on his shiny scalp. A small crowd of The Almighty’s followers gathered outside, passing judgment, wondering if this new pastor would prove better than the las
t. Men with skinny legs and big bellies stroked their beards and puffed their pipes. Women in colourful dresses smiled from beneath proud hats. Those were the days when rural churches were stark, yellow constructions, standing bare amidst dying cornfields. Men were men and were damned if they were to be anything else. Women were more familiar with the inside of a kitchen than the chittery-chattery of the modern-day housewife. Sundays were reserved for the word of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, except for those of darker complexion, who were not allowed under the church roof, or any public roof. Blacks laboured in the fields and worked the jobs that no pair of white hands would.

  It was three months since we moved to this dry, abandoned stretch of earth. Mother pasted a pale smile on her face as Dad emerged from the car. He had been away most of the day, visiting the sick and the elderly, performing his pastoral duties. He embraced Mother with all the love and intention that was expected from a church-going man. Mother responded in a similar fashion, paying Dad the respect that she ought to. Her smile fell as her cheek pressed in at Dad’s neck, that familiar vacant expression washing over her like ice water. I stood watching from under the fig tree in our small backyard. Soon, Dad would summon me and I, too, will greet him with a fresh smile.

  The wine at dinner instilled some colour in Mother’s cheeks and her voice chimed with more warmth. Smoke whirled above her head as she stared through the small window in our box kitchen, thoughtlessly balancing a cigarette between her fingers. Boiled cabbage and cinnamon pumpkin mixed in the stale air with the smell of tobacco. Dad puffed smoke into his glass before every sip. His fat lips embracing the rim as if the last trickle of whisky were about to turn to dust in the bottom of his glass, yet the bottle between him and us stood almost full.

  There was no “Amen” after dinner, no bowing of the heads and no Psalm 23. There was only a very polite “thank you for dinner,” and an almost urgent “have another glass of wine.” When Mother said, “no more,” Dad simply poured another for her. Conversation was lifted as the white and amber liquids lowered in their respective bottles.