2013 Literary Awards Competition Results

Open Poetry

1st Place = Fields of Green by Terry Slack (Charters Towers)

2nd Place = Thinking by Cherelle Murphy (Ayr)

3rd Place = A Dog’s Dinner by Brooke McReynolds (Mackay)

Commendations:

1 = The Brumby Bay by Shirley Symes (Charters Towers)

2 = ‘Tis Meant to Be by Terry Slack (Charters Towers)

3 = Two-Faced by Christine Stewart (Ayr)

4 = The Outhouse by Cherelle Murphy (Ayr)

5 = Old Bob by Shirley Symes (Charters Towers)

Junior Poetry

1st Place = Waves of Indecision by Michael Lowe (Charters Towers)

2nd Place = The Perfect Place for Me by Jacklenn Dart (Charters Towers)

3rd Place = A Lonely Widow by Charly Burge (Charters Towers)

Commendation = Moving to the City by Logan Guldbransen (Charters Towers)

Open Short Story

1st Place = Kathy Doesn’t Live Here Anymore by Lori Hurst (Townsville)

2nd Place = The Doors by Christine Stewart (Ayr)

3rd Place = The Final Page by Maria Caesar (Charters Towers)

Commendations:

1 = Voices in the Night by Kerry Lown Whalen (Varsity Lakes)

2 = Hannah’s Dilemma by Carole Phillips (Charters Towers)

3 = Days of Diamonds and Stones by Carole Phillips (Charters Towers)

4 = Emily by Maria Caesar (Charters Towers)

Junior Short Story

1st Place = Man’s Best Friend by Kirsty Healing (Charters Towers)

Additional Prizes (courtesy of Dr Kett Kennedy, administrator of the Siriol Kate Giffney Estate):

A $50 cheque to the Highest score for local Junior Short Story entry = Kirsty Healing

A book to the Highest score for local Open Short Story entry =

Maria Caesar

Writers of North Queensland work together

Earlier this year (2013) the Bush Curlews were invited by WITS (Writers in Townsville) to participate in a new and exciting joint project. WITS are putting together an anthology.

     The finished product will include stories and poems from members of writers groups based in Townsville, Charters Towers, Home Hill and Ayr. The anthology is due for an official launch in October as part of the annual Queensland Writers Week celebrations.

     Each group provided submissions based on the theme of promoting their home towns. To keep with page limitations, majority of the accepted stories will have approximately 500 words, whilst poetry will be restricted to 30 lines. Depending on space, quality and topic repetitiveness, there may be a few exceptions to the rule.

    Members of the Bush Curlews worked furiously to meet the project’s deadline. Several of our members have been notified of their successful submissions.  The group is looking forward to flicking through the pages of the final product. 

Bath Time by Maria Caesar

This story was inspired by Terry Slack's poem "Black Pussy"

Bath Time

     I sat on the floor shaking and soaking wet. My thick dark hair was matted to my skin. Worse still, I felt slimy. I needed a bath. My head tilted as I scanned my body: waist, hips and legs intact and accounted for, every inch of me was coated n a jelly-like clear substance.

     There was a heavy panting noise nearby. I glanced over in anger rather than fear, poised for a fight. Instead of a snarl I was encountered by an oversized goofy grin.

“Don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes”, I called out angrily.

     Meanwhile, in the corner of the room Mr and Mrs Watson sat with mouths agape. Mrs Watson held a shaky hand to her chest whilst Mr Watson simply shook his head.

“I thought you were a ‘gonner’ for sure,” Mr Watson remarked as he eyed me up and down. “Looks like you’re down to eight of your nine lives, Lucy.”

Mr Watson picked me up and plonked me onto his wife’s floral dress lap.

“Ewwh,” Mrs Watson squealed. “She’s covered in saliva.”

     That’s what you get when you go for a ride in a dog’s mouth. I should be dead but I am actually alive. Only my tail had remained un-gooey as it had dangled freely between the big oaf’s lips. I shivered. God, this is going take a while to get over!

“Poor cat’s freezing, Love. Better give her a bath,” Mr Watson suggested.

“Finally,” I replied. “I’m not going to lick my fur clean with that mutt’s spit all over me!”

 Rover watched Mrs Watson cart me off to the laundry tub. His tail wagged furiously as he followed us.

“Bad dog!” Mrs Watson admonished him. Bad dog, indeed, I scowled. 

Black Pussy by Terry Slack

I’ve got a little pussy, as black as black can be,

she’s never ventured outside, has never climbed a tree.

I left Noel my husband to look after her one day.

The first thing that he did was to let her out to play.

We have a big mongrel dog, Noel says he’s man’s best friend.

So full of false bravado, that never seems to end.

Hubby says he’s what we need to keep us safe at night

If a robber did break in the dog would die of fright.

Had a lovely day at ‘Craft Club’, made a lovely hat,

full of strings, bows and things, there is no denying that.

Got home and there is Hubby, still on the chair asleep

searched and called my pussy but I did not hear a peep.

I screamed at my hubby, “Did you let my cat outside?”

He said, “Don’t fuss woman she’s got lots of spots to hide.”

When his dog comes trotting in black tail between his lips,

Hubby just yelled, “Put that down” his hands upon his hips.

That very thing had happened, the thing that I most feared

but that dog opened his mouth and pussy cat appeared.

‘No’ not a scratch upon her just covered in dog spit.

My stressed mind in such a state I nearly had a fit.

All in all it worked out well, my pussy has a mate.

They play well together when I open up the gate.

Pussy knows what to do when she’s had enough of that,

make a b-line for the door and hide beneath my hat.

The Thing in the Hall by Christine Betts

I woke suddenly, not really sure what had startled me. I felt uneasy; all of my senses were on full alert. I listened; all I could hear was the usual traffic noise and the soft hum from the aquarium filter.

What was that? I could hear something. It wasn’t loud and it stopped and started. It almost sounded like something being dragged along the passageway. I was alone. Nobody should be in the hall. I froze. Should I get up, confront who or whatever was out there? I sat up and then lay back down. I pulled the covers up over my head. I couldn’t hear anything now. That was even scarier. I needed to know what was happening.

I sat up again. I couldn’t sit here all night listening to the noise, waiting for whatever! I slowly stood up, thinking about what was to hand I could use for a weapon. My umbrella was in the cupboard. I slowly, quietly as possible, opened the door and retrieved the umbrella.

I listened. There it was again – shurrt – shurrt. I placed my hand on the door latch and pushed down softly and slowly, my umbrella firmly clasped in my other hand. There the noise again – shurrt – shurrt.

I slowly opened the door. I could see nothing in the dim glow from the street light. I flicked the switch for my bedroom. The light flooded the hallway. I looked up and down the passageway: nothing. I listened: nothing. Then I heard it – shurrt – shurrt. I looked down. A small piece of paper moved slowly on the wooden floor in the breeze from the ceiling fan left on in the living room. Shurrt – shurrt.

The Bower-Bird's Arbour by Shirley Symes

Underneath the branches, up against the trunk,

A little pile of sticks and twigs and what you might call junk.

Coloured glass and shells and pegs gathered in a heap.

A little shiny whistle that’s forgotten how to beep.

The arbour is enticing – a fancy work of art.

It must have taken ages – the design is very smart.

Tall springy bits of boughs and even leafy fronds,

Does he have a blueprint or just some magic wands?

Today I saw some bottletops scrounged from someone’s yard.

Although he flies around a lot, it must be very hard

To find the pieces, big and small, that decorate the floor,

The task must be rewarding for he gathers more and more.

So I check up on the playhouse, sometimes catch a peep,

Of that Oh so busy Bower-bird as he takes another sweep

Of the rubbish heaps, the garden beds, even the quiet house,

For yet another trophy to show off to his spouse.

A treasure house of colours, a monument to love.

What pride in his possessions as he circles from above.

Guarding special tokens with loud and strident squawks,

Scaring off attention from the Lousy-Jacks and Hawks.

The energy and pattern that’s devoted to the play,

The habits and performances that’s repeated every day,

Nature is a wonder and this Bower-bird does inspire,

I’m just a nosy parker, privileged to admire.

This work of art, this temple, underneath the tree,

A testament to nature and the rules that help us see,

The wonderment, the ritual, of creatures large and small,

We should appreciate and understand the beauty of it all.

The Local Hall by Terry Slack

Poor old Dave he had a house,

straight behind the hall.

When they had a 'do' on there

in summer or the fall,

the men instead of lining up

waiting for the loo,

would duck behind the hall

when they had a job to do.

 

The place would stink for days and days.

Dave could not stand the smell.

And so he planned a trap for them,

so legend there will tell.

He strung an electric fence wire up,

about two feet off the ground.

Won't be too long now before,

the offenders will be found.

 

The local dance was on that night,

and things were going well.

The beer was flowing cool and sweet,

soon the drinks would tell.

Charlie thought it's time to go

outside and have a pee,

and see how many stars

in the sky that he could see.

 

His pee hit Dave's electric fence

and threw him on his arse,

just as 'Shirl' and Mavis

two Blue Nurses tried to pass.

"Quick," Mavis said. "I'll start mouth to mouth,

as you give help a shout."

Shirley said, "You've blown too hard,

you've blown his dickey out."

 

Shirley said, "I'll take hold of it,

and put away his pride."

"Although to tell the truth,

he hasn't very much to hide."

Just at that moment the

photographer for the local rag,

took his best shot ever

to put into his mag.

 

Splashed across the front page,

for all the world to see.

A picture that surely would

fill Charlie's heart with glee.

The caption read two nurses saved

Charlie's life last night.

But why did Mavis blow so hard

or Shirley hold so tight?

 

Well papers sold like hot cakes,

they were lined up at the store.

Then by ten o'clock that day

they had to order more.

Did not see 'Shirl' or Mavis

around town for a while.

When they did the ones they saw

gave them a knowing smile.

 

Slowly as the days went by

the talk soon settled down.

Peace and calm returned again

to our country town.

Dave he bought another house

a few miles from the hall

And Charlie said, "Well bugger me,

I slept throughout it all."

 

 

This poem is from Terry Slack's book "Blue Gum". Please contact the Bush Curlews if you would like to purchase a copy of one of Terry's books.