2023 Short Story Competition Winning Entries
Congratulations to our Prize Winners and to all who entered.
1st Prize: William Stanforth – Hills Hoist
2nd Prize: Brid Morahan – The Honeymoon
3rd Prize: Alexander Wilson – Jack
1st Prize
Hills Hoist by William Stanforth
It felt somehow personal. Brazen, at least, Marco thought, staring down at the Hills Hoist revolving clothesline, the Australian icon, from his third-floor apartment window. It was in a communal area next to a private car park, behind the 70s redbrick complex in Brunswick he lived in with Luna. And, from the clothesline, their bedroom window must’ve been in plain sight of whoever was stealing Luna’s underwear—only hers—from the last four washing loads they’d hung out in the fortnight gone by.
‘It feels personal,’ said Marco, bringing life to his thoughts. He was perched on the carpet by the bed, arms wrapped around his knees—still transfixed by the clothesline, which, at present, was bare and looking particularly weatherworn and shabby. In the dappled, springtime dusk, it resembled something of a dystopian merry-go-round.
‘Huh?’ said Luna. She was on the covers behind him, watching TV.
‘Whoever’s doing it must know we’re up here,’ Marco said. ‘He must know there’s a fairly high chance we would’ve witnessed it. Which makes it not just sick, but also antagonistic.’
‘You sure it’s a man?’
He turned to her. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Guess so.’ She shrugged. ‘But how would he know it’s my underwear? What if he just saw it on the line and took it. A crime of opportunity.’
‘Of opportunity? Four times?’ Marco retorted. The first two times they thought Luna’s underwear had simply been lost; the third time they suspected something weird was going on and the fourth they were certain. Four times, totalling twelve knickers and six bras, all varying in style from comically modest to slightly suggestive. ‘We’re the only people who use the clothesline,’ Marco added. ‘Everyone else has dryers.’
‘I’ve seen other people’s clothes on there before.’ Luna was flicking through TV channels, only half-listening to Marco. Earlier, at Brunswick Kmart, she’d spent almost a hundred dollars of their hard-earned money on replacement underwear and a foldout clothesline, which they kept in the kitchen/living room of their poky one-bedroom rental, locked away from the outside world. This purchase seemed to bother Marco more than Luna—not because it was money unnecessarily spent, but because it signalled a kind of defeat, as if to say to the creep, the thief, ‘We give up, you win, you got away with it.’
‘You don’t seem to care?’ Marco said.
‘I care, Marco.’ There was a trace of annoyance in her voice. ‘But there’s not a whole lot we can do about it. No cameras. No witnesses—well, no one’s said anything to me. I’m just adding it to the long list of weird, creepy shit that’s happened to me. That’s all.’
After a pause, Marco said, a little earnestly, ‘I’ll sort it out.’
Luna looked down at him and burst out laughing. ‘Okay,’ she said, gasping. ‘Mr Harry Callahan. Mr Hercule Poirot! You catch the criminal … my hero!’
In the morning, Marco sought out Bob, one of the few owners living in the building and a member of the body corporate. Bob was a marginally unbalanced, lifelong alcoholic in his 60s. He took out the bins and did other tasks to get a discount on his owner fees—and these responsibilities seemingly led the retiree to believe he had an elevated level of authority in the place. This was to say, if something untoward was happening, Bob knew about it, or was on his way to knowing about it.
Marco found Bob out the front, on the footpath beside the wall of twenty-four letterboxes that corresponded to the twenty-four apartments in the complex. Marco was returning from a nearby Sydney Road café with two takeaway coffees, one for him and one for Luna. Bob initiated the dialogue, as he often did, with a criticism of Marco’s purchase.
‘You’ll never own a house if you keep buying those,’ he said. ‘You really should take my advice, young man. You don’t want to be renting at my age, do you? What if something happens? What if the rent soars or you’re asked to leave, or God knows what?’
‘Righto, Bob,’ said Marco. He’d had this conversation countless times and, as ever, held off explaining the grim economic realities of his generation. Instead, he described the issue with the Hills Hoist, partly because he hoped Bob might have information and partly because he suspected Bob was the person responsible. The only thing holding Marco back from making a subtle accusation was his belief that it’d be unlikely Bob would break a rule in the complex he upkept so fastidiously for the people he lorded it over.
When Marco finished speaking, Bob clucked his tongue. ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve told Pietro we need to install security cameras,’ he said. ‘But, as usual, he’s got his dick in his fuckin’ hand.’
‘You’ve asked him this?’
‘He never makes time for it in the committee meetings—intentionally I suspect. He doesn’t want to spend finances on “low value” upgrades to the building.’
‘Right.’ Marco sipped his coffee. He had heard of Pietro before, although only through Bob’s frequent rambling grievances. Marco understood this man held a kind of chairperson role within the body corporate, but he knew nothing else about him.
‘Anyhow, you tell Luna not to worry. I’ll talk to Pietro.’ Bob looked at the wall of mailboxes. ‘I’ll also see about getting a letter to all apartments, telling them things are going missing. Reminding them they’re being watched.’
‘You think it’s someone here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You think it’s a resident?’
Bob furrowed his brow. ‘Well. I hadn’t considered someone coming in off the street, lurking around out back in the courtyard. But it’s a possibility, sure.’
Marco nodded in a way that suggested he found Bob’s response intriguing, not sure if he was toying with the older man. ‘Thanks, Bob. Catch you round.’
Back in the apartment, Luna was making gnocchi from scratch at the kitchen table and listening to the radio. Marco entered and handed her a coffee. On his way to the couch, he had to sidle around the fold-out clothesline, which was full of wet washing and took up far too much space.
The clothesline partly obscured his view of the kitchen table and was, in a way, personally insulting to him. It felt as if it were a kind of monument to his failure to keep his and Luna’s home in check—and his failure to keep Luna safe from the sick, disgusting, depraved creeps that lurked mere metres from where she slept.
‘I had a chat to Bob.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Luna. ‘About what?’
‘About the stolen underwear,’ Marco said.
‘I’d half wondered if it was him doing it.’ Luna kept her head down, eyes on the gnocchi, a wry smile tugging on her face.
Marco sighed. ‘Same.’
‘So?’
‘He said he’s going to talk to Pietro about installing security cameras.’
‘Who’s Pietro?’
‘I’m not really sure. I think he’s on the body corporate.’
‘Okay,’ she said, absent-mindedly. ‘I wonder when that will happen.’
Marco sighed again. ‘Probably never.’
‘Well, we’ve got the fold out one now anyway.’
‘Yeah.’ Once more, Marco wanted to ask Luna why she didn’t seem to care—why she’d so readily given up and replaced the stolen underwear and bought the indoor clothesline. But, suspecting it’d lead to an argument, he let it go.
He went into the bedroom and sat on the carpet by the window and again stared at the Hills Hoist. After a few minutes, Bob appeared in the carpark with a leaf blower and fired it up under the low, late-morning sky.
For Saturday lunch, they ate the gnocchi with a bottle of Aldi red. After a few glasses and knowing full well he was at risk of ruining their meal, Marco probed Luna for more insight into her position. ‘Do you even want me to catch him?’
‘What do you mean “catch him”?’
‘Find the guy responsible. Do something about it.’
‘Do what? Hurt him?’
‘Of course not.’ Marco paused. ‘Have a word with him. Involve the police if need be. Prevent it from happening again.’
‘You’re overthinking this, Marco. It might be time to just let it go.’
He drained his glass and looked at her across the table. She appeared to be wordlessly pleading with him to change the subject. ‘You’re acting like this is normal,’ he said.
Luna exhaled sharply. ‘This is fucking normal, Marco!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This kind of shit happens to women all the time, and, while I appreciate you looking into it—I really do—nothing’s going to change, and the more you talk about it and bring it up with other people the more embarrassed and creeped out I feel about the whole thing. And the more you obsess over it the more I’m reminded how I’m in a constant state of vigilance here.’
‘Since this started happening?’
‘Since forever!’ Luna yelled, in tears, retreating to the bedroom.
That night, while Luna slept, Marco lay in bed, once again staring at the Hills Hoist, convincing himself that, despite his argument with Luna, this wasn’t a problem without a solution.
He thought of his conversation with Bob and knew that there was no way the body corporate would fork out for a security system. So, on his laptop, Marco went about buying the things he’d need to set up a trap—using the little money he and Luna had been saving up for a shot at catching the perpetrator.
On Amazon, he ordered a security camera with a zoom lens and night vision functionality. Then he shopped for bait: bras and knickers he supposed would tempt the creep. The bait was only just verging on scandalous because, Marco figured, if the trap were too obvious the perp would sense something was up and steer clear.
Marco forked out extra for next-day delivery, knowing that perhaps the window of opportunity—especially if the perpetrator were not a resident of the building—was closing.
On Sunday afternoon, the delivery driver dropped off a box containing the camera and small selection of women’s undergarments. Luna was out shopping for groceries, preparing for the work week ahead, and Marco realised he needn’t come clean about his plan—not yet. But, as he set up the camera and started removing the bait garments from their cellophane packaging, he did wonder if he might be losing his mind.
Still he continued. He fitted the camera among the plants on the bedroom windowsill and aimed it directly at the Hills Hoist below. Then he connected the camera to Wi-Fi and installed the security app on his phone, so that each time someone approached the Hills Hoist, he’d receive a notification. He tested the camera by walking in a tight circle around the clothesline until his phone buzzed with a notification from the app.
Satisfied this part of the plan was ready, he filled an Ikea bag with a pile of his own clothes and the newly purchased women’s underwear. He washed them in the communal laundry and hid the bag of wet clothes in the corner, having decided to hang them up later in the evening when Luna was preoccupied or asleep.
Just after midnight, Marco was awoken by a notification on his phone. He stood in the shadowy room, careful to avoid waking Luna, and peered down at the Hills Hoist. There, moving among the hanging clothes, was the obscured, nondescript shape of a man.
Marco slipped his shoes on, pulled a big coat over his pyjamas and took a plastic torch out from one of the kitchen drawers. Quietly, he headed to the door, and upon unlocking it and stepping into the concrete walkway, he realised he was approaching a point of no return—a point of confrontation and conceivably even violence, and he had no idea whether it was something he was equipped to deal with.
Initially, he’d planned to surprise the perp, switching on the torch and howling something aggressive. Now it occurred to him that it might make more sense to approach the Hills Hoist as a resident sincerely going about the task of collecting laundry, albeit in the middle of the night.
He listened carefully and heard rustling and squeaking—the sounds of clothing being pulled from the line and the Hills Hoist rotating. Marco descended the stairs and flicked on the torch, which caused the perp to freeze momentarily before he bolted. Marco reached the clothesline in time to see the shape flee along the side of the building.
Without much thought, Marco gave chase. He followed the shape down dark alleyways, across Sydney Road, down more alleyways and through side streets. The perp was dropping the undergarments along the way—until Marco passed the last of them: a handful jettisoned among a patch of weeds and rubbish.
Just as Marco felt he was gaining on the perp, the man seemed to disappear down some unseen path. Marco stopped and stood in the middle of a brick alley, drenched in sweat, sucking air into his lungs. He wondered what would’ve happened had he caught up to the perp, and he couldn’t help but feel that they’d both narrowly avoided calamity.
Marco walked home via Sydney Road, past the dwindling Sunday-night pub crowd. He felt exposed in only his pyjamas, shoes and a big coat. The night was unusually quiet. A few revellers hailed taxis, and the only other sounds came from the breeze and the tick of the traffic lights. Up ahead, Marco saw three young women leaving a bar. Two of them slid into the back seat of an Uber; the third walked towards him with her head decisively down.
They approached each other on the footpath, and Marco smiled at her in a way he believed was assuring and non-threatening, as if to say, ‘There’s danger out here but I’m doing what I can to help.’ For a moment, their eyes met. Then the young woman looked back down and fumbled to take her phone out from her handbag. He kept his eyes on her as she crossed the street, striding away with even greater purpose, almost breaking into a run.
2nd Prize
The Honeymoon by Brid Morahan
We’d gone via Bourke and carried on to the corner of New South Wales where it hits the borders of South Australia and Queensland. The borderline is faint under the dust beneath our feet.
A general store, established six years ago, is closed today. It’s forty-five degrees. Elle is playful, jumping up to Mano as if she’s a puppy. He turns his face away, like a man who doesn’t like dogs.
‘Nothin’ here,’ he says.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Exciting.’
‘Hm.’
Undeterred, hopping on one foot, I bounce over the white line into South Australia, arms forming a Y above my head. ‘I’m back!’ I cry. A magpie swoops in from the blue and cracks me with a sharp beak on my crown. I stagger back into New South Wales, blood trickling down my brow.
Elle shrieks. Mano shakes his head. And here we are: implacable Mano, sweaty, bleeding me, with eager puppy Elle bouncing between us, willing us to love each other.
They met because he’s a roo shooter; she deals in skins and leather. I was the bridesmaid. These two weeks would be an adventure, she had said over the phone. ‘Get you out, see the country, new horizons.’
‘But it’s your honeymoon.’
‘No, a holiday.’
‘The first one with your new husband—a honeymoon.’
‘Whatever. Please come.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wants you to come, too.’
We drive on towards Coober Pedy. From there, we’ll head south to Kangaroo Island—tax deductible now the merger is complete, the marriage contract signed.
I, on annual holiday from my work in a grey government office, sit silent in the back seat while they discuss an order for kangaroo-skin rugs.
‘It’s a potential goldmine,’ says Mano.
‘But is the quality consistent?’ says Elle, swinging into business tone.
‘Thing is,’ says Mano, ‘these buyers are on-selling, so a mixed bag, quality-wise, is no big deal. They’re about quantity.’
‘Yes, Pookie, but I want our business to be about quality. They’ll need checking.’
‘Waste of time, Angel. They don’t care, they want quick in, quick out. Forget quality, it’s about turnover. If a few skins on top are top-drawer, they’ll forgive the rest. I guarantee you.’
I listen with half an ear. This is my holiday. There are vast expanses, horizons of gold and crimson, the clutterless sky, discoveries of one another to be made. But the talk is of dead kangaroos, and not even, but pelts, skins, the remnants of life, never the beast, its breath and instinct—all that extinguished, forgotten.
Coober Pedy is parched and stark. The white landscape reflects the sun. It glints sharply into my eyes. Corrugated iron and dull red clay feature in the buildings. Underground dwellings are burrowed into sides of hills or carved out from disused mineshafts.
We wander through opal showrooms, display mines, a string of souvenir shops. Mano limps. When I ask him about it, he grunts. We find an underground hotel to stay in. The proprietor is ruddy and hirsute under a weathered Adelaide football cap. All he has available is a suite.
Mano shakes his head once more.
Elle says, ‘Perfect.’
The suite is a smooth, open plan orifice in clay, hollowed out from the ‘ballroom’ of an old mine, thirty feet below ground. The main bedroom has a bar fridge under a table. The bathroom is a small bulge to the right of the bedroom. It has a door, thank god. Another small, doorless bulge contains a bunkbed. The cool air carries a dusty tang that makes you thirsty.
I hear Mano murmur to Elle about the open plan layout. He jerks his head in my direction. I examine my fingernails.
From the bottom bunk, I hear them breathing in the main bedroom. I try to sip at the air so they can’t hear me. In the morning we’re all exhausted. The day is spent feeling the heat, trying to find relief. No one speaks much—it’s too draining, and there’s nothing to say.
We agree to leave the next day. Mano tenses his jaw. Elle tells him to relax. He doesn’t, and in the tangy air of the open plan orifice, the tension feels like it’s all too much. I try to sleep.
At three, I hear Elle groaning and Mano’s thumping tread. I go to her. She’s ill, feverish, grey. Mano paces, and I run to the front desk. I ring the bell, call out, call out again. The ruddy proprietor, still in his football cap, appears, groggy and holding a remote. He smells of beer.
‘My friend is ill,’ I say. ‘Is there a doctor?’
At six in the morning, the Royal Flying Doctor Service arrives to assess Elle. Emergency, they say—probable appendicitis. They airlift her to Royal Adelaide Hospital, but there’s no room for me or Mano on the flight. We’ll have to drive there, together. It’s a ten-hour trip if there’s no roadwork or snarl-up. Neither of us has had enough sleep.
We settle our bill at the front desk. Back in the suite, I watch Mano pack his and Elle’s bags in a disordered frenzy. He mutters to himself, and I slope off. The ruddy proprietor’s wife, brown and leathery, approaches me in the breakfast room.
‘Morning, darl,’ she says. ‘Bit of excitement, eh? Makes you hungry.’
She offers me a plate of limp, pink bacon. I almost retch. Lack of sleep and creeping dread have made me nauseous. ‘Just some fruit, I think, thanks.’
‘Don’t you worry, pet, she’ll come good. Those docs know their stuff. She’ll be right.’
I give her a weak smile. ‘Can I take a banana for her husband? He’s too worried to eat.’
‘Gawd love, take whatever you need.’ She finds a paper bag and stuffs it with bananas, apricots, grapes. ‘Here.’ She shoves the bag into my arms. ‘She’ll be right. You go easy, pet. All the best.’
I find Mano waiting in the car. The engine’s running, and he’s staring straight ahead. I get in. ‘Sorry,’ I say. Then, ‘Look what they gave us.’
He glances at the bag of fruit. ‘Hm,’ he says, and throws the car into gear.
In the wing mirror I see chalky dirt puff up as the wheels turn in the gravel. We drive in silence, apart from the aircon’s white noise, the gritty crunch of the road beneath us. Ahead, the road looks wet; mirages. Inside, the heat coming off the windows and from Mano seals me in a sauna of discomfort. I push the blades of the air conditioning vent so the breeze hits my neck. This could be the longest ten hours of my life.
An hour and a half in, Mano says, ‘Pass us a banana, will ya?’
‘Skin off?’
‘Just peel it down.’
I hand him the open banana. He eats it in slow, steady chunks.
‘Water,’ he says. I hold the lid, pass the bottle. The land is dry and scrubby. At the three-hour mark, near Wirraminna, I say, ‘Want me to drive?’
‘Nup.’
Half an hour later, I say, ‘Look, Mano. I know you’re not in love with this idea, me being here. Just to be clear: me neither. It was her idea. We agreed because what we have in common is, we both love her. So we’re both worried. We want her to be okay. I think she just wants us to get along. How hard can that be?’
Mano keeps looking straight ahead. ‘I never agreed,’ he says.
I really want to punch him in the face. But he’s driving.
‘Maybe not out loud. But you seem like the kind of guy who knows what he wants and can communicate it pretty directly if it matters. If you didn’t agree, how come I’m here?’
‘I didn’t say anything. She was excited. I let it go.’
‘Can you do that again?’
‘What?’
‘Let it go.’
He takes a hand off the steering wheel, rests his arm along the window’s edge. He returns that hand, reaches for the radio with the other. Static. He twiddles the tuner. More static, then a country race call, then static. He turns it off. The landscape is thickening with low shrubs, scrappy acacia. The sky is acid-blue, light and high. The horizon seems aeons away. We’re nowhere.
Twenty minutes on, near Woomera, Mano says, ‘Loo.’
We pull into a servo at the edge of town. I go too. When I come out, he’s in the shop buying an iced coffee. I grab a can of Solo, and he gestures at it. ‘And that,’ he says to the cashier.
I look askance a moment. ‘Thanks,’ I say.
We refill our water bottles from the jerry can in the boot. ‘Want me to drive?’ I say.
‘Nup.’
There are almost six hours to go, and we’re closer than we’ve ever been. He bought me a drink.
We roll into a roadhouse at Port Pirie. It’s nearly two in the afternoon. We’ve had a few grapes and apricots, but we need a meal. Mano wants to keep moving, so we order burgers and tea to take away. The burgers are big and thick with lettuce, tomato, beetroot, onion. We walk back to the car.
‘You can drive if you like,’ Mano says.
‘Sure.’
I drive. My burger, in its paper bag, is stowed in the console. Mano eats his, and the smell of onion and tomato is torturous. I sip my tea once it’s cooled. Mano closes his eyes but opens them regularly to check I’m on the road, look at the speedo, the tripmeter.
‘You drive slow.’
‘I’m doing a hundred.’
‘It’s not about the speed limit, it’s about the style. You drive slow.’
‘I’m keeping an eye out for roos.’
‘You won’t see one this time of day. They’ll be asleep. Anyway, that’s what the bull bar’s for. Gun it. We gotta get to Elle.’
‘Do you want me to drive or not?’
‘For now.’
After an hour, he directs me to pull onto the shoulder. ‘Switch,’ he says. I go around the back; he goes around the front. He drops the handbrake and takes off like a jet. We’re doing one-twenty before I’ve unbagged my cold burger.
Two hours from Elle, I try again. ‘Nearly there, Mano, great driving.’
‘Mm.’
‘I’m sure she’s gonna be fine. The RFD guys said they were in time, it’s a pretty straightforward thing, practically routine. She’ll be fine.’
Silence.
‘Are you worried? I mean, I’m worried, but just in that ‘what if’ way, right? Not a useful road to go down, I think. What if we get a flat tyre? What if we never came out here? What if you two never met? See what I mean.’
‘You’d love that,’ he says. ‘You’d fucking love it if we never met.’
‘Er, no, that’s not what I’m saying. I wouldn’t love it. I wouldn’t love not being here. I wouldn’t love getting a flat tyre.’
‘You’d love not being here with me. You’d love getting a flat tyre with Elle. You two, what is it with you? You finish each other’s sentences for fuck’s sake. Did you want her for yourself? Well, too late, lady, I’m the husband. She married me.’
I don’t reply. It’s my turn to stare straight ahead.
‘Answer me!’ he insists. ‘Are you in love with her?’
I actually laugh. What a guy this guy is. ‘No Mano, I’m not in love with Elle. She’s my friend. A long time. We know things about each other. You’re her husband. I’m sure you know different stuff about her, but you haven’t known her as long as I have, that’s just the fact of the matter. You need to relax. You won the prize, you got the girl. I’m just along for the ride. And to be your friend, for fuck’s sake, you know? Because that’s what she wants me to be. But so far, you’re not the kind of person I wanna be friends with.’
‘What a stupid idea this was,’ he mutters.
‘At last, we agree.’
There are clouds building on the horizon. They’re light grey when I first see them. Fifteen minutes later, they’re charcoal and pushing towards us. ‘Storm?’ I say.
‘Nah. They’ll blow off,’ he says. ‘Too dry.’
Ahead, lightning rips through the charcoal clouds in jagged slices. ‘Just a lightshow,’ he says.
‘Amazing,’ I say.
‘Technically, it is a storm,’ says Mano. ‘A dry storm. It’s raining, but the water evaporates before it hits the ground. Major issue is fire, but there’s not enough fuel here. Grassfire maybe. Out that way.’
He gestures ahead with his chin. ‘You’ll find the locals’ll’ve backburned anyway, this time of year. That’s what the blackfellas did, too. Keep the land clear of too much fuel so it doesn’t burn everything up at once. Some of the native plants only germinate in fire, you know. It’s a natural phenomenon. People go on about bushfire, but it’s meant to happen. Main issue out here though is dust. Gotta close the vents, watch the engine temperature, ’cause it’ll clog the filters. Nightmare if it gets bad.’
‘Mm, sounds bad,’ I say.
I hope the dry storm clouds blow off. I want Mano to be right. His being right seems vital to me, and I offer a silent prayer. I watch for the next half hour. The lightning stops, the light changes again, the clouds dissipate.
‘Nice one,’ I say. He glances over. ‘Storm,’ I add. ‘You were right.’
An hour out of Adelaide, Mano veers to the middle of the road. I gasp and grip the seat. I see him try to pull himself out of the drowse that’s come down on him. ‘Pull over,’ I say. ‘I’m driving. You need a rest.’
I’m shocked when he does. He dozes until we hit the city, not even opening an eye to check my driving.
In the hospital, Elle is out of theatre and in recovery. She’s conscious, the doctor tells us, as we stand awkwardly in the corridor. ‘You can go in,’ she says to Mano.
‘Can she come too?’ he asks.
‘Family only.’
‘She’s family,’ says Mano.
‘Okay,’ says the doctor.
As we walk towards the recovery room, I give Mano a querying glance.
He shrugs. ‘Can’t choose your family,’ he says.
3rd Prize
Jack by Alexander Wilson
After school on Thursdays Jack went to football practise. It was one session per week and they didn’t play games on the weekend. Two coaches would walk thirty kids over to the oval and they’d split up into teams and play football for two hours. Jack was overweight for a ten-year-old and he wore glasses and a long sleeve shirt and long pants despite the warm weather. But Jack was popular with the girls and boys and he knew how the internet worked and about sex and different types of guns and what they sounded like. After practise he often walked home with a girl who lived near him named Kiara. Jack’s mum didn’t like Kiara because she didn’t brush her hair and her shirts were dirty and Jack’s mum thought Kiara’s mum was lazy and led Kiara into bad behaviour. Jack never wanted to go home because his mum had rheumatoid arthritis and was an alcoholic and he saw her funny legs and knew she couldn’t catch him if he ran away and at ten years old he felt he’d outgrown her.
Instead of going home Jack walked up Mount Painter to a stick fort he’d seen some older kids building. He sat in there and forgot about his mum and her beer bottled legs. He found a big ant nest with big orange-and-black ants and devised a series of torture experiments for them. First he spat on the dirt pile and watched the ants crawl about in frenzy around one ant trapped in the gooey net. Next he found a lighter hidden under a blanket in the fort and used it to light a stick and he held it while crouching and talking to himself and shaking the small orange flame at one of the entrances and any ant that was touched by it ran around and he laughed. Then he realised too late that many ants had snuck around his shoes and now heaps of ants were crawling up his legs and he kicked and screamed and threw his shoes off and ran and jumped and felt one bite him on his stomach but he couldn’t get his shirt off to kill it so he squished it with his fingers and it made a stain. When he calmed down he stomped the ants nest and crushed a lot of them and it smelled savoury and then he sat further away and swore swear words he knew and felt bad about the ants.
As the sun started to set the bush accepted his presence and came alive and cicadas whinged and birds sung to the coming evening and below him around the foot of the hill Jack saw grey kangaroos jump and stop to look at him. Jack yawned and felt his stomach getting sharper with hunger and suddenly he felt like going home. He walked down the trail made by bikes and feet and neared the fenced entrance. He walked over the cattle stile and was soon on the road walking with his head down looking for things he might take home. He found a tiny metal bottle and it was all scratched up and heavy and didn’t have a lid and he put it in his pocket. When he was at the bottom of his street he saw a lizard on the side of the road and as he got closer he recognised it as a blue tongue lizard. Its tongue was out of its mouth and its head was flat and frowning and tiny black ants swarmed all over it. It had been squashed by something and Jack searched for a good stick to investigate it with. He found one lying against the gutter and he crouched and pried the lizard up with his stick and the ants scattered and Jack could see the lizard’s white striped underbelly which was split down the middle and filled with ants and maggots.
A door opened from the house he was facing and an old man came out. What are you doing boy? Jack didn’t have time to answer. Don’t do that, don’t kill it. Jack stood up and dropped his stick. Why would you kill it? It’s just living. Why did you have to do that? Jack’s heart pumped in his chest and it felt like his throat was closing. I didn’t. He ran away and the old man started after him for a few steps. Don’t come back here! Jack ran until he couldn’t see the old man and he was in his driveway and he jumped to unlatch the gate which took three tries and on the third try it opened but he cut his wrist on a piece of metal and some blood came out. He stood there looking at the cut and he squeezed the skin around it and made more blood come out then he wiped it on his pants and ran to the back door still thinking the old man might be following him and see his mum and get him in trouble. And how am I supposed to never go back there? he thought. That’s the only way I go.
Where the fuck have you been? His mum came towards him and not many lights were on and the TV wasn’t on and it was dark inside. Just walking home mum. It’s six o’clock Jack I’ve been worried sick. She grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him in. I was looking all over for you. I went to Kiara’s house but you weren’t there, that mother of hers is a piece of work though. Jack knew she’d been drinking because she held him too hard and her hand was balled into a fist against his neck. Mum it hurts. Then I went to the school and talked to that nice coach and he said you told him that you always walk home but I told you not to Jack. Mum stop. She released him and he ran upstairs and closed his door. She didn’t call him for dinner later or come upstairs to kiss him and say sorry so he went down when it was completely dark and past dinner time and he found she was asleep in her room and he ate baked beans in a tortilla with chips.
The next day Jack walked to school the same way he always did and he saw the lizard now grey, still and thin with its skin flaking and not as many ants and he heard nothing from the old man inside. It was Friday but the sky didn’t feel like Friday, it felt more like Wednesday. It was cold and far away and Jack hoped to see the moon in the morning now it was spring but he saw only black birds flying slowly high above him. Hey Jack. Hey Miles. Hey Jack. Hey Xaoling. Hey Jack. Hey Thomas. Hey Jack. Hey Rani. Hey Jack what’s up? Hey Kiara can you see the moon? Nah I can’t today it looks like it’s gonna rain but my mum said it’s just gonna drizzle so we can still play outside okay? Yeah okay, I went to the fort yesterday it was so cool, I even found a lighter and some other stuff and I fought a kangaroo. Cool let’s go back there today. Okay. The bell rang for the first class of the morning and Jack felt ready to be busy and he felt comfortable again.
