Caleb’s tree by Alan Hewett

My name is….. by Skye Vaughn

The new house by Lucas Yao

Morning glory by Mia Bai

The mysterious map by Trini Kong

Keeping time by Wayne Eaton

The return of thunderbolt by Tom McIlveen

Charlie by Harshi Singha

Silent beauty by Gabrielle Harris

Storm by Annabelle Gervaise Woo

Caleb’s tree

Alan Hewett

Winner Adult Prose

Nobody wants to live next door to renters. As Geoff swept up leaves in the garden he watched the motley collection of furniture being trundled inside. The new occupants were an attractive woman and a small boy who darted everywhere with an exuberance only the young possess. He went inside. Sarah too had been watching, ‘looks like no husband, let’s hope there’s not a procession of men’.                    

There was no procession of men, no procession of anyone. They lived very quietly. Except for the continual hum of the radio and the boy kicking a football around the garden they barely intruded into their lives. Geoff and Sarah nodded and waved but didn’t introduce themselves or make an effort to chat. They regarded the couple as transient beings who one day would depart without fanfare leaving no noticeable mark on their lives. How wrong they were.                                                                              

The boy broke the ice. Geoff sat listening to the first game of the season when the doorbell rang. The boy stood there and shyly asked for the ball he’d kicked over the fence. They walked around the back and picked it up. It was wrinkled with age and underinflated, the black and yellow colours faded.

‘Tiger’s fan eh? Me too, for my sins.’ The boy didn’t answer. ‘Let’s put some air in this.’

He found a valve in the garage and pumped it up. The boy still said nothing. ‘Fancy a slice? Just been baked.’ He looked dubious and flashed a look towards his house.                                     

‘Mum told me to come straight back.’          

Geoff went inside and scooped four slices into a bag ignored the questioning look and handed them to the boy.                                                       

‘Two for you two for Mum.’

He mumbled a thank you and trotted off. Later he came back with his mother in tow and Shania introduced herself. She had curly blond hair piled on top of her head. Her bare arms displayed a series of faint white scars.  She said she worked as a casual order picker at a local warehouse but otherwise spoke very guardedly about her life.   

‘Sorry we haven’t been better neighbours’, Geoff began apologetically, ‘but since Herb went to live with his daughter and rented the place out there’s been some dubious occupants.’            

After they left Sarah looked questioningly at him. ‘What do you make of her?’

He shrugged  ‘She’s a battler and she dotes on that kid, she’s just trying to make a go of it.’                     

Shania worked every shift available. Her start and finish times were all over the place. She asked them to look after Caleb before school when she started early and after school when she finished late. It wasn’t an imposition. Caleb had begun to lose his shyness and became more outgoing. They had no grandchildren. One daughter in Western Australia and one son in Canada, both firmly committed to careers.

Although a football tragic Caleb had never been to a real game. Sarah and Geoff went a few times every season. They asked him if he wanted to go and the look on his face showed pure ecstasy.  When they set off he could barely contain his excitement accentuated by the train trip, the massive stadium, the huge crowd and the game itself which saw the Tigers storm home to win.     

Then Shania asked them to look after Caleb for a weekend. Sarah made him his favourite meals and they taught him to play card games. These stay overs became more frequent and it became apparent Shania had met someone.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  They were invited over to meet the new boyfriend, Dwayne. They barely contained their shock at seeing him. He could only be described as a sort of latter day caveman. He had long hair tied in a ponytail and a thick beard. Short in height he had bulging muscles covered in tattoos. Although only ten in the morning he began to drink a beer. Shania seemed besotted but Caleb uttered not a word.                                

They began to talk about football, but Dwayne sneered, ‘Aussies Rules, it’s a sissy game, now League, that’s a real man’s game.’

Wayne then regaled them with his life story and he kept drinking. He’d worked in the mines in Western Australia, fly in fly out. The money he claimed to have made sounded staggering. After a while they made their excuses and left. Maybe there were attributes in Dwayne only Shania could see or convinced herself she could see.                                                                                                                                     

But one night they heard raised voices, what sounded like furniture being overturned and then Caleb crying. Sarah urged Geoff to go and see what was happening. To his eternal shame he refused. He argued they shouldn’t become involved in other people’s business. To be honest Dwayne had scared Geoff and he didn’t want to involve the police.                                                                                                         

They saw little of Caleb after that. Eventually Shania told them they were moving to Queensland, a town called Livermore. Wayne had changed jobs. She seemed excited, a new life. On the day they left Geoff and Sarah hugged Caleb and the tears flowed freely. They gave him a brand new Tigers jumper as a present and they said goodbye.                                                                       

They rang them a few times after they left but the conversations grew briefer. Caleb barely said anything. Then one day the number rang out and they started to become a memory.  

Eight months later they were having breakfast when a news bulletin came on the radio. ‘The bodies of a woman and her son were found in a house in Livermore, the body of a man found some distance away, its believed to be a murder, suicide.’ They stared unbelievingly at each other. Sarah found the telephone number for the police station in Livermore. They would not give out the names of the victims because next-of kin had not been informed and they were having great difficulty tracking any down.   

Sarah made a decision. ‘We’re going to Queensland.’

Geoff offered no argument.  Two aeroplane trips and rough journey by hire car saw them arrive at Livermore. The description ‘arse end of the world’ didn’t do the town justice. Dry, dusty and dirty. A huge open cut coal mine dominated the landscape and a patina of coaldust settled over the town. Most of the shops in the main street were closed and those that displayed open signs had a look of dilapidation and neglect. They signed into a motel whose décor hadn’t been updated since the nineteen sixties.             

They found the police station and introduced themselves. The senior sergeant had little to say but a young constable took them into a side room. Dwayne’s body had been sent to Brisbane for burial but they had no luck tracing any of Shania’s relatives. Her father and mother had died years ago. Their bodies were in a funeral home at the next town. The constable had found them. They had lived outside town on a small, run down property. Shania lay on the porch, Caleb huddled inside.                                    

Dwayne had lost his job after failing a drug test. He began to drink heavily and they were sure he had been dealing ice and using at the same time. He’d been arrested several times, once for hitting Shania outside the pub and dragging her by the hair into his car. She had refused to press charges.  

    ‘What about Caleb?’ The cop shrugged.      

    ‘Saw him around a bit, never said a word, always wearing that footy jumper, don’t think he took it off.’                                                                                                                                                             

The funeral expenses were paid for by a local evangelical church. The service pitifully brief before they were buried in the local grave yard. The pastor promised they would put up suitable head stones and assured them that they would find a place in heaven even if they hadn’t been saved. They made a donation to the church and left.                                                                                                             

How do you deal with the grief of two innocent people in such a brutal way, one a defenceless child? Sarah, to her credit, never mentioned the night when Geoff, may have made a difference. If only he’d plucked up the nerve to confront Dwayne or even call the police. Could they have averted the tragedy or was it inevitable?  Sarah decided to plant a tree, a golden chain tree. It had a dark trunk with masses of yellow flowers. She called it Caleb’s tree.  It helped with the pain they both felt.   

Herb Ross died and his daughter sold the house next door to a young couple with two small girls    . During the warmer weather Geoff and Sarah sat outside and listened to their squeals of delight as they played in the bright sunshine.

My name is……

Skye Vaughn

Winner Young Adult Prose

Day 1
Dear Diary,
My name is Madeline Ellis,
I am 83 years old.
My husband’s name is Gregory.
I have a daughter. Her name is Andrea.
Andrea is married and has a daughter – my beautiful granddaughter, Theresa.

These are things I know. Things anyone would and should know about themselves, but I need to write them down. I need the person reading this to know all of this…in case I forget, because…

Today, the doctor informed me, I have dementia.
My heart feels like a hammer has shattered it into a million pieces.
I’m scared.
I’m confused.
I’m sad.

I know I’ve already lost my youth. All I have left now is my smarts, my stories and my memories. If I lose that, what is left?

My life has been like a garden, full of vibrant flowers that bloomed in their various seasons; each representing cherished memories and relationships that brought beauty to my days. Even as some flowers begin to fade, I want the garden to remain a testament to the care, love and joy that I’ve cultivated throughout my years.

So, that’s what this diary is – stories and memories of my life, to live on throughout my family. I sow my garden within this book, for when it no longer grows within me.

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

I was born in 1920 to a seamstress and a drunk.

I’ve heard my mother was charming as a young lady. She was tall, with hair like sun-kissed wheat. Her eyes were a deep, vibrant blue, sparkling with curiosity and warmth. Her hands, soft as silk – but you could tell they were working hands, covered in calluses and accidental needle pricks. Bound to happen with her devotion to her work – garment after garment, day after day, night after night. She would do all of
this, just to provide for me.

My father, however, was the complete opposite. Father was a tall, slender man – an ominous shadow in any room. The stench of stale liquor seeped through him like a second skin. If I ever touched his hair, my hands were met with knots and protest. His eyes were ones which gazed through the world rather than at it.

My favourite thing about my childhood was mother’s cooking. It was how she showed her love. She would bake chocolate chip cookies, each one a tiny treasure. The edges were kissed by golden hues, and the outside, studded with chocolate gems. Their aroma was one smell that always seemed to permeate each corner of the house. It was that aroma that overpowered all others and made me feel like I was home.

Day 121
Dear Diary,
My name is Madeline Ellis.
Gregory is my husband.
I have a daughter and a beautiful granddaughter.
I have dementia.

Today, I moved into a nursing home. Gregory and I think it’s probably for the best. Moments are escaping my memory, already. It’s like I’m living in a haze, days blending into one another. Monday or Friday, it’s all the same. I find my keys in the freezer, my glasses on the bookshelf. I laugh it off, but there’s a tremble in my heart. It’s these little slips, like loose threads, that make me wonder what else might
unravel. I hold onto the good days, but there’s a question that lingers – what if one day, I start to lose not just my keys, but myself?

I’m thankful for Gregory. He is very tolerant of me. We met in the 10th grade, after I had just moved schools. I’ll never forget the first time I saw Gregory. There he stood, a silhouette against the brick wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips – the classic bad boy. But his eyes told a different story. It was that hint of softness, a whisper of a warm, good heart beneath the rugged exterior, that drew me in.

With Gregory, I found edges and depths within myself I never knew I had. His wild spirit challenged me, softened me, and made me braver. He stirred a rebellion within me that became my evolution. I became not just someone loved, but someone who truly loved herself.

We got married straight out of school and Andrea came three years later.

Day 213
Dear Diary,
My name is Madeline Ellis.
I have dementia.

I had a visit from Andrea and Theresa today. It pains me to say that I didn’t recognise them right away – but, I did notice that they had brought mum’s cookies. When I took my first bite, the familiar memories of home and my girls flooded over me. The soft dough melting in my mouth was like a sweet memory, fragile and fleeting. Each bite was a glimpse into a world I once knew, a world slipping away like the crumbs between my fingers. The memories of running home to a house that smelled of these cookies, of teaching the girls how to bake them, of once being able to feel a memory and hold onto it at all… all came back to me.

Theresa told me she’s winning an award soon! I’m so proud of her. They’re even taking me out to go and see her receive it.

Day … 244?
Dear Diary,
My name is Madeline Ellis.

I see in my last entry I wrote about Theresa’s award. Indeed, she won it a few weeks ago, but I wish I’d written down what it was for. I’m not sure why she didn’t tell me when the ceremony was, I would’ve loved to have gone. But I know that she will surely go far in life, anyway, even as I fade peacefully here.

Theresa and I have always been close. I used to take her for car rides to my little cabin by the lake, singing to her the whole way. She complained gently, but I knew she secretly loved it. We would always swim in the lake, even during the coldest months. The icy water sent shivers down my spine, but it was freeing. I’d swim out, far beyond where my feet could find the sandy bottom, my granddaughter’s laughter bubbling behind me.

I showed her how to brave the depths, to find strength in the chill. It was our special place, just the lake and us.

Day ?
Dear Diary,
My name is Madeline.

A man came to visit me today. The door creaked open and he walked in, a man with a kind face, a face I should know. There was a fog where his name should be, a blur where I felt our shared memories should live. Even now, I search the corners of my mind, desperate to find the connection that once anchored me to him. His smile was patient, but my heart ached with the weight of not recognising him. In his eyes, I was a stranger to myself, and every forgotten moment is a step further from the woman I used to be.

He had brought me cookies – what a kind gesture. They smelt freshly baked. He said his name was Gregory?

–
Dear Diary,
My name is…

The new house

Lucus Yao

Winner Primary Prose (11-12 year olds)

“This is the house we’re moving to?” Jeff asked his mum in astonishment.

“Yes, Jeff. It’s the only one we could afford.” Mum replied. “I bought it off in an online auction. I was the only one who was bidding.”

Strange, Jeff thought. That she was the only bidder. I hope it’s better on the inside. As they walk inside, Jeff hears an mysterious eerie moan coming from upstairs. What was that? Jeff thought to himself. He looks around.

Nothing.

His mum doesn’t seem to notice.

“This isn’t what the host said it looked like.” Mum points out.

“Bye mum, I’m going upstairs to check out the bedrooms” Jeff murmured as he ran up the stairs, making a creaking sound with every step he made, as if they w re reacting to his weight.

Creepy, Jeff thought again. Is someone still here?

As he walked cautiously in the corridor of endless doors, the screeching became louder and scarier. Jeff was beginning to regret going upstairs. Was it a monster? Or was it a ghost. He did not want to find out, but he kept walking. The noise was coming from the attic. Jeff’s curiosity took the best of him. He climbed up the ladder and opened the trapdoor. He peeked through the crack. Nothing. He couldn’t see anything. Jeff decided to get a torch. Five minutes later, He came back to the trapdoor and clicked on his torch.

It was mainly boxes. An old-fashioned light switch was hanging off the ceiling, one with a string that you pulled to open the lightbulb. Jeff was delighted. He clicked the light open. He could finally see the entire room. Jeff opened a couple of boxes, hoping to find something cool. He stumbled upon a small chest with red rubies and gold on the edges. Again, Jeff was delighted.

I have something to put my Star Wars figurines in! He thought gladly.

Jeff went to open the chest. Little did he know, this was the worst thing he ever did in his life.

As he opened his new treasured possession, the room was cold, wind rushed in, and the light went out. Jeff could not see anything, but he heard the wind woosh past his face like someone spraying him with a large hose. The only light that escaped the darkness was two strange red lights, as small as pupils. Jeff felt his blood run cold. Something was there, and it wasn’t a smoke detector.

His hands trembling, he clicked his torch on, and saw what the two glowing pupils were. It was a person-like figure with a misty body and eyes glowing as red as blood. It was a ghost. His legs felt like jelly. He couldn’t move. Jeff screamed. Now he could move. He waited until the ghost moved towards him. Jeff ran like the wind. He didn’t bother using the ladder. He just leapt down into the room. Jeff thought the floor would break under his weight. He ran through the corridor, past the doors and slid down the rail on the stairs. The ghost was coming in hot. He stepped on the bushes and saw his mum unpacking.

“GET IN THE CAR!!!” Jeff screamed at his mum.

His mum gave him a look of a confusion, and then horror as she saw what was chasing him.

“HURRY UP! START THE ENGINE! Screeched Jeff once again.

Fifty meters. Forty meters. Thirty. Twenty. Ten.  Three, two, one…

WHAM!!! It shouldn’t have gone like that. Jeff crashed into the car, but luckily, the door was open, so he crashed into the backseat. The car already started.

“CLOSE THE DOOR!!!” Jeff howled.

“IT’S ELECTRIC!!!” Mum screamed back.

Oh. Yeah. He forgot. It takes a while to close.

“SCREW THE DOOR!!! JUST DRIVE!!!” Jeff shouted.

Mum didn’t need to be told twice. The car sped off at 130 kilometres an hour. They didn’t stop when they left the town and back to the city they came from. One thing was for sure. Jeff’s mum would never go to an online auction again.

Morning Glory

Mia Bai

Winner Primary Prose (9-10 year olds)

The sun was rising, dawn had arrived. Birds were chirping, a wave of sound that echoed on for miles. A seed had sprouted, and it had grown into a seedling. Its stem was lush as green could be, tender and fresh in the sunlight. A hand stroked the leaves gently, picked up a pen and started scribbling on a pastel pink notebook. The seedling looked up toward the sky, showered with rays of sunlight and warmth. It turned its stem and looked at the girl. She smiled at it, her beaming face as glorious and proud as a lion.
Her footsteps echoed away, bringing a presence of happiness and glory to the seedling. It smiled back and continued to grow.

That girl had now turned into a 10 years old child. The scribbled drawing was long lost gone, and she had been bored ever since. She thought of the seedling, and how she had been ever so happy when she saw it, the glory she had brought to it, the warmth she had felt… Glory knew at once. She scrambled into her polished black shoes and set off into the forest. She was all alone, in a glass cottage and loved flowers of any kind, so she was going to look for that plant, and sit with it all afternoon. After a while of walking, Glory had drooped down, her puffy black fringe dangling in front of her face. She wiped her forehead and looked back up. Wait… was that a cliff edge? Sickness drowned her. She was walking in a forest, and now she had come to the edge of a cliff? She put her hands over her hands over her mouth as she stumbled to the ground. She clambered up and ran.

She was on a cliff. A cliff. And below there were people. There were buildings. There-there were others like her? She paced up and down as a light bulb lit up in her mind. She was going to GET DOWN THERE. The next day, it was raining. Glory wanted to find something, a seed, a plant, an anything, so she took a walk regardless of the weather. She quite liked the rain, actually. The rain sounded nice and relaxing and after the rain the forest felt cool and damp. She grabbed an umbrella, popped on her gumboots and
went out. She looked around as she listened to the rain around her. She inhaled a big breath of forest rain air, and exhaled cooly. She walked and walked. Then something caught her eye. A plant was so tall that it was drooping, so she dropped her umbrella and quickly removed the plant from the soil. Glory knew it was a climbing plant, and it didn’t have a wall to climb on to. And, most surprisingly, it seemed to grow slightly straighter at the sight of her. After removing the plant, Glory picked up her umbrella, shook water out of her eyes, got up and walked on. Then she replanted it at the edge of the cliff for good luck.

The air was fresh and a light breeze hit Glory’ s face. The edge of the cliff was near, and something told her that today was going to be a lucky day. When she came to the edge, she saw that the plant she planted there yesterday had climbed all the way down to the bottom. Glory gasped at the sight of it. Its vine was as green as Swedish grass, and it had beautiful blue and purple blended flowers. She felt as if it had grown so big and tall just for her. Then it came to her. She would climb down that vine to civilisation.
To a new life. She hopped on and gripped it tight. Whatever happened midway would probably be the end of her life. But she probably didn’t actually need to hold on too tight because Glory felt that the
vine was holding her instead, just like an invisible force holding on to her and never letting go. She slowly climbed down with caution in her every footstep and no matter where she was she never ever looked down.

By the time she had climbed all the way down, she was exhausted and tried to let go of the vine. The vine smiled at her as a blue and purple bead of magical light shone, as beautiful as a rainbow. A numb sensation filled her palm as she held her breath. What was it doing to her? When it was done, Glory opened up her palm. A flower from the vine was implanted in her hand.

“I love it, “ She whispered.

The plant smiled again as Glory walked away.

“Morning Glory”, it said.

Glory looked back.

“Remember me.”

The mysterious map

Trini Kong

Winner Junior Primary Prose

“Ta da! I’m a pirate!” squealed Ann, as she reached into the box to grab her final part of her costume.

Ann was a courageous girl who had a great imagination. She loved it whenever she dressed up as it made her feel as if she was in an absolutely different world, even though, she was just in her dull and boring house. With a large smile on her face, Ann rushed out of her bedroom happily smiling to herself. She didn’t feel like she was in her ordinary house, but she felt like she was in a magnificent world full of fun and adventure. She just loved it.

” Ann, time to go to school. You have an excursion today!” shouted her mother, as she packed Ann’s lunch box.

Sighing to herself, she slowly took off her costume and changed. That was when she saw something miniature flutter onto the ground.

” What could that be?” wondered Ann as she crouched down and picked it up. Curiously, Ann observed it and realised it was a map.

As her jaw dropped, Ann swiped the map up and placed it into her backpack, knowing it was necessary to bring to her excursion. Then, Ann bolted towards the car and went to school. When she arrived she was immediately sent to the school bus to go to their destination, the forest.

” Bye!” exclaimed Ann, as the bus took off.

After an hour, Ann and her class arrived.

“Remember to follow the class at all time,” their teacher said, as Ann completely ignored her.

After her boring lecture about all the rules, Ann mischievously, when no one was looking, ran away, and started following the map. She had her eyes glued to the map. She walked forwards and forwards until, splash! Ann had fallen into the river!

” Help!” Ann screamed as she waved her arms around, frantically.

She panicked. She was in big trouble. As a tear rolled down her eye, Ann knew nothing would help. No one was around. She knew she shouldn’t have disobeyed the teacher. After what felt like hours of swimming, Ann was about to give up.

” Ann!” cried her teacher, “Hold on!”

Her teacher was there! Her teacher grabbed a stick off the ground and once Ann had held on, she pulled as hard as she could. Finally, after pulling her back to the ground, Ann was safe. There was no more disaster.

After a long and exhausting day, Ann couldn’t wait to get home. All she wanted to do was sleep. As she got onto the bus to go home, Ann couldn’t be happier. Except when she got home, she was in colossal trouble by her mum. She took away her dress-ups, thinking that it caused her great imagination and trouble, and grounded her for two weeks. Although Ann wasn’t very delighted, she always remembered that she should always follow instructions.

Keeping time

Wayne Eaton

Winner Open Poetry

My Uncle never married when he came back from the war
but he filled his house with the grinding whirr and click
of a dozen clocks - in every room
hung like tombstones on the wall
gliding pendulums swung
or hunched their shoulders
on the mantlepiece
like brooding owls
                  Tick
He opened the shining face of one once
when I was a little boy,
and I peered inside at the insect flicker
of its quivering mechanical brain -
tiny-toothed gears spun giddily
in an oil slippery as sweat
- to see if there really was
any difference between
repairing and healing -
but only his piercing eye
could see that sharply into the past
because he knew as
well as I did that
there are some things that can
never be un-done, not
even by time
                  Tock
Then, at eleven o'clock the house was filled with
clangs and dongs
shimmering as big as dinner-plates, floating
on the warm air, sounds I
could almost touch
as they hovered there
                  Tick-tick
At the auction of deceased estate
gathered all on one table.
proximity made for quicker ticking -
prickly and indignant as cats
till the last one was taken
                    Tick-tock
the room looked toothless then, as
I stood there - the metronome
of memory beating padded and soft
and my heart in pendulum hush -
when my iphone peeped
suddenly with stuttering bips
that cut through the glossy silence
of the dead house,
wincing and insistent
like a pair of nail scissors -
another buyer, they said
"Those clocks- Are there any left?
Am I still in time?"
I could only wonder
if I was
                 Tick.......

The return of Thunderbolt

Tom McIlveen

Winner Bush Poetry

In the foothills of Uralla, somewhere south of Armidale,
there’s a set of stones that stand beside the road.
They have stood for fifty thousand years above the lonely trail,
and have offered many travellers abode.

If you listen very carefully, you’ll hear a haunting sound,
and you’ll realise that you are not alone.
As your mind begins to wander, and your heart begins to pound,
you may hear a voice from deep within the stone.

“I’m the shadow that appears before the moon begins to wane,
and I speak for those whose spirits linger here.
There is one who comes alone at night, to ride the trail again –
as he did in glory days of yesteryear.

He had come from hardy convict stock, who’d known the guilt and shame
of a sin that lingers long beyond its time,
and although his tainted pedigree was probably to blame –
he was destined to pursue a life of crime.

He was christened Fred’rick Wordsworth Ward, as if to compensate
for a lack of kin and English pedigree.
But despite his fancy name he soon was drawn towards his fate –
like a moth towards a flame he cannot see.

It began with stolen station stock, a head or two at first -
he would drove a mob and single out a few.
He was just another wayward lad, a petty thief at worst,
till they locked him up in Sydney’s ‘Cockatoo’.

It was there the Devil taught him how to roll a loaded dice,
and to doubt what every righteous man believes.
It was there he learnt the ancient art of wickedness and vice,
in a prison filled with murderers and thieves.

When he’d flown the coop from Cockatoo he’d felt a burning yen
to be freed of iron cuffs and prison bars.
So he made a vow that they would never take him back again –
and he swore it to the rising moon and stars.

And the gods that favoured bushrangers had heard his silent plea,
and had granted him asylum from The Law
But the freedom he was seeking wasn’t ever meant to be,
and was destined to be sought for evermore.

For they hounded him from Sydney Town to northern New South Wales,
and then southward down across The Great Divide,
till he’d lost them in the mountains through the long and winding trails,
where a bushman could just disappear and hide.

As he ventured north, he’d suddenly decided on a whim
to adopt a more extraordinary name.
So he’d chosen Captain Thunderbolt, a fitting pseudonym,
for achieving notoriety and fame.

As the legend grew, his name would soon become immortalised
in the sacred scrolls of history’s elite.
And the scribes that once rejected him had duly recognised
that his destiny was finally complete.

It was here beside The Stones, The Captain made his final stand,
in the marshy reeds along Kentucky Creek.
It was here the famous bushranger had played his final hand,
in a brutal, fatal game of hide and seek.

T’was a trooper from Uralla who had dealt the final card
from a scene befitting such an epilogue.
He had found the wily bushranger alone and off his guard,
and had shot him down as though a rabid dog.”

When the moon is full, a shadow creeps along the trail at night,
on a ghostly steed, unreined and free to run.
As it nears The Stones a thunderbolt converges with the light
and then disappears into the rising sun.

Charlie

Harshi Singha

Winner Young Adult Poetry

He was as precious as platinum, 
And gleamed like black gold,
Like the famous jackal busts
From the Egypt now called old.

He was as luminous as diamonds, 
And as black as the night
Fur dulled grey with growing age,
Though his youth would spite.

So pure was he that even when,
He tarnished, he turned silver then.
Call his name and he would rise, 
to follow orders, and please one’s eyes.

Oh friend of mine, oh joy of heart,
Was this destined from the start?
Surely bear you the world did not, 
Only for you to experience naught.

The younger me had been so naive, 
That I genuinely did believe
A friend like you could never go.
Your life away did fate’s hands throw.

I wonder, Charlie, in the end
Was the pain enough to bend
Your iron will or did you still 
Want to stay another day?

Gaze down upon the world do you, then,  
When I cast my gaze up high?
Tell me Charlie, is it true then?
That you’re still watching from the sky?

Is every unshed tear in vain?
Surely you wouldn’t wish me pain?
But why can I not shake the feel
That maybe you’ve turned on your heel?

If only I could see again, 
You eye or chase a passing wren,
Beloved dog, good friend of mine,
Who’d have thought fate’s so malign.

Silent beauty

Gabriel Harris

Winner Primary Poetry

The silence is tranquil,
And my thoughts are decided.
I am at peace in my world so quiet.

The trees seem to dance,
As they sway to and fro,
Moving to the beat as they go.

The birds are perched high,
Their beaks are chirping,
After their busy day of foraging.

The waves of vibrations,
As a lorry rumbles by,
Sending shivers up my spine so high.

I see Mum’s expression,
She gestures to me,
Telling me it’s time to come in for tea.

I am hearing–impaired,
And am curious to seek,
The sounds of an engine roaring, or to hear my Mum speak

My language is unique,
For there is beauty in silence,
My other senses are all heightened.

My dreams are endless and equal to the rest,
This is not a disability,
This is just me.

Storm

Annabelle Gervaise Woo

Winner Junior Primary Poetry

Thunder crashed
The storm went boom,
Rain pitter pattered
On top a tomb.
The cloud shook
Its deathly mane,
A raging lion 
Howled with pain.
And so the leaves
Were strangely wet,
Mountain ash leaves
Under threat.
The lightning 
very meanly sinned,
The mountain ash tree
Kicked by wind.
The sun feared
It was near its death,
Letting out
Its fiery breath.
A spiky tree stood
Broken, bashed
And with bright light
Sheet lightning flashed.
And in this fatal
Freezing storm
A spooky menace
Was newly born.