One way ticket to Palookaville by Alan Hewett

Invisible glass cups by Goshen Wu

Netball matters to me by Ava Goddard

Behind the dusty book by Charlton Hislop

Not alone anymore by Olivia Yang

Rodeo hero by Brenda-Joy Pritchard

Calling time by Terry Piggott

Survivor of no by Nanma Maria Jinish

You can take a horse to water by Scarlett Harris-Newsome

Bush turkey by Joshua Tan

One way ticket to Palookaville

Alan Hewett

Winner: Adult prose

‘He gets the title shot outdoors in the ballpark-and what do I get? A one –way ticket to Palookaville…I couda had class. I couda been a contender. I couda been somebody…’

In the nineteen seventies going to Stan’s gym was a sobering experience. No bright lights, no loud music, no Lycra active wear. You entered via an alley behind Little Collins. It had a low ceiling and lighting was minimal. In one section stood the weight racks and a couple of mirrors. A few body builders worked out. At the far end could be found the boxing equipment. Around the walls were speed balls, heavy bags and skipping ropes. Hanging on hooks were gloves, protectors and head guards. The ring sat in the middle. People are often surprised how small one is. The size decreases in proportion to the ability of your opponent.                                                    

I made no claims to be being a fighter. My dad had been a boxer in the army. He taught my brother and myself how to fight. He bought both of us a pair of gloves, gave us some rudimentary instruction and then stood back and watched us wail away at each other until one landed a lucky blow and it ended in tears.                             

A few of us used to spar in the gym. Stan watched on, sometimes giving advice more often criticizing our efforts. I probably boxed more than anyone else. Stan only made one comment to me, ‘don’t keep dropping that left.’  

One night three men walked into the gym. Two were impeccably dressed in suits and ties. The third was a dark skinned lad who wore a blue tracksuit. He stood outside the office while the other two engaged Stan in a heated conversation. One of them pressed what looked like a wad of banknotes into his hand while the other stood stone faced. They swaggered out and left.                    

Stan came out of the office and spoke briefly to the lad. He stripped off the track suit and clad in boxing shorts and singlet began a skipping session. He stood about average height and probably weighed just over sixty kilograms, a natural lightweight. Everyone in the gym stopped what they were doing to watch him. His footwork was phenomenal. His skipping never missed a beat, sometimes swinging the rope sideways on both sides of his body. After ten minutes a sheen of sweat glistened on his dark skin.              

He then started on the speedball and his hands were just as impressive. Then he moved onto the heavy bag and despite his light frame you could see he punched with formidable force. 

Stan came up to me.  ‘What do you think?’                                                                          

‘Pretty bloody impressive, who is he?’

‘Aboriginal kid from the country. He’s having his first professional fight in Melbourne in a month’s time. They want to keep him under wraps so he’s working out here.’                        

‘Who’s they Stan? The two suits?’                                                                              

‘Just a couple of acquaintances I owe a favour to.’              

When I’d finished showering the lad walked in. We both nodded and I held out my hand. He responded with a gentle shake. When I asked him his name he replied softly, ‘Tommy.’                    

‘Have you been a boxer long? You train like a real pro.’

‘I used to be with Billy Barham’s Boxing troupe, that’s where…’   

He hesitated and looked down at the floor. I thought of the two men in suits and why they wanted to ‘keep him under wraps.’ I decided not to ask him any more questions.

When I next came into the gym Tommy had obviously been training as he stood towelling sweat off. Stan buttonholed me. ‘Listen, would you do me a favour? Have a quick warm up and spar a few rounds with Tommy. I just want you to chase him round the ring throwing jabs. He needs to improve his defence. He won’t be throwing leather back at you, what do say?’                   

I climbed into the ring and began sparring with Tommy. He glided around and I chased him throwing punches. It was like trying to hit a shadow. My timing wasn’t that bad but Tommy evaded everything with ease. Stan watched on and told me to move in closer and try to at least clinch with him. I tried but Tommy just danced around the ring with an impish grin on his face, occasionally keeping me honest by sending a lighting jab to the head, thankfully not putting much muscle behind it. After five rounds Stan called it quits.                                                                    

‘Not much wrong with his defence Stan.’

‘That fancy dancing is alright but when he gets tired and starts to slow he’ll be coming up against blokes who really know how to work you over inside. He has to learn how to deal with that kind of opponent.’

Over the next weeks I sparred a few more times with Tommy and managed to tie him up inside more. Once I brought up a sharp uppercut and more by luck than skill hit him on the chin. Tommy reacted by instinctively unleashing a venomous short right cross. I staggered and to my credit didn’t go down but I realised the power he possessed.                           

Tommy made his debut at the bottom of the card midweek at Festival Hall. Stan asked me to come along. Right from the start Tommy had too much class for his opponent, a journeyman with muscles and tattoos but very little ability. Tommy won every round.                                             

He fought every month after that and won each bout convincingly. People began to notice him and he even featured on television’s ‘TV ringside,’ a couple of times. My services were no longer needed in the ring.  Stan brought in real fighters as sparring partners. I asked him why he wasn’t in Tommy’s corner when he fought but he just shrugged and cryptically said, ‘I’m only paid to do so much.’   

Eventually we went to watch Tommy in a fight that had been promoted as a decider to fight for the Australian Lightweight title. ‘Isn’t this all a bit quick Stan? He’s had only a few bouts and his opponents haven’t exactly been classy.’        

‘Like I said I don’t make the decisions.’  

The majority of the crowd that night were definitely in favour of Tommy’s opponent, a tough looking local called Mike Thompson. When Tommy stepped into the ring he received boos and a barrage of ugly comments. Two characters in particular began a series of nasty racial comments. The fight started and the two were evenly matched, splitting the points for the early rounds. Then Mike began to tire and he started to clinch and hold on to Tommy.                                    

Despite these negative tactics Tommy began to land more punches and opened up a cut over one of Mike’s eyes. Blood began pouring down his face and despite frantic efforts to staunch the flow between rounds the cut only worsened as Tommy’s whip like jabs continued to find their mark. Eventually the referee had no choice but to stop the fight. The crowd were stunned to see their local hero beaten. As Tommy left the ring I saw him glance briefly at the two men who had taunted him. He showed no emotion.                                       

I read in the newspaper that Tommy would be challenging for the Australian Lightweight title. He featured in a big article that described him as a new Lionel Rose. The present champion it said was too old and too slow to take on this brilliant young challenger.                                                 

I showed the paper to Stan. ‘Looks like our Tommy has made a name for himself. Should be an interesting night eh? He’s an odds on favourite.’                   

Stan shook his head, ‘got something else on, I won’t be going.’

Festival Hall was packed. The champion entering the ring had a muted reception but Tommy was greeted with rapturous applause. Everyone wanted to get behind the next great prospect.  The fight started. Tommy looked extremely fit and confident. He moved around the ring effortlessly, his jab like a snake’s tongue flicking out into his opponents face.                              

Tommy dominated the fight but in round seven he slowed down. Instead of moving swiftly around the ring he began to clinch and hold on more. The champion began to take the initiative and stepped up his attack. The punch that sent Tommy to the canvass seemed an innocuous one. He rose to one knee and looked towards his corner. His second gave a nod. Tommy stood up at the count of eight and the fight continued until the champion hit Tommy with a series of blows. This time he sank to the floor and didn’t beat the count.                                                                                   

The next time I went to the gym Stan wouldn’t come out of his office. After a half- hearted session I walked out. I never went back. A few months later the gym closed down. Later it was demolished. I never heard anything more about Tommy. He’d served his purpose.

Invisible Glass cups

Goshen Wu

Winner: Young adult Prose

Worry and empathy are two invisible glass cups of liquid atop her head. Over her lifetime, they’ve slowly, decisively, accumulated in weight.

But how does she manage them, empty them, keep them balanced?

She hoists her too-heavy school bag onto her shoulder, her parents’ too-loud, ice-cold voices following her to the front door. Looking back, she opens her mouth to whisper a ‘love you, bye’—and slams it shut as her mum yells, “In this house, Chris, I’m the one cooking and leaving for work at seven thirty! Today—today I take a break, and you just cannot help a little?”

She doesn’t bother trembling, waiting for them to calm down. They don’t need her simple good-byes anyway. Slipping out of the house, swallowing hard, she stares at the concrete pavement a bit too intensely and takes her time walking to the bus stop.

Things like this fill up her cup of worry and drain the cup of empathy. Because how can she feel for someone else when all her feelings are for herself?

The cups have expanded since they’ve started being used, to accommodate the growing amount of liquid in each. But one day, they’ll reach their capacity. Shatter, overflow. Because, doesn’t everything have a limit? And what happens if it’s not too full, but too empty?

The entire bus trip, she fights the tears ever threatening to rise. She can’t pretend she’s scrolling social media on her phone because looking down brings exactly that. She can’t damage her mascara, either. She spent twenty minutes on that this morning to the tense exchanges her parents had every day, and her mum miraculously hadn’t told her off for ‘caring too much about your appearance’. Or maybe just because she was in the kitchen with her father, arguing about who should be cooking breakfast.

Yes, Mum, I heard. And yes, I heard you coming to my room to see if my door was closed. Oh, and yes—I heard you telling Dad to get the hell out of here if he thought you were willing to cook every day and not get fired from your job.

Looking out of the bus window, she re-applies her lip gloss and the liquid in her cup of worry rises to the brim—while the other stays bone-dry, hollow.

Arriving at school almost feels like a relief. No adults hurling swear words at each other, no silent, tension-charged aftermaths that follow— She opens her locker and shoves her bag in.

“Layla!” Her hang-out friend, Khloe, rushes up to her, phone in hand. Hang-out friend because that’s exactly what they do—hang out.

Khloe isn’t a best friend. Best friends died in the first month of the last year in primary school and are never to be resurrected again. “Hi—I need to tell you something. In private. Hurry up!” Her voice wobbles a bit.

She doesn’t want to hurry up. Her bag isn’t willing to fit inside her locker—her unnecessarily large Frank Green bottle is probably the problem. But she shuts the door as best as she can and follows Khloe to the bathroom anyway.

 “What’s up?” she says as soon as they enter.

Khloe runs her eyes over her reflection in the shiny mirror above the porcelain sinks—this bathroom is in the Visitors Building and is the one visitors use when they come to the school.    It could be mistaken for the bathrooms in a fancy shopping centre—there’s even a little vanity area beside the sinks where all the girls do their makeup. She still can’t believe that polished stone bench is wiped clean of all the blush powder that is left there every day.

“Lucas and I broke up.” Khloe turns to her, voice breaking at the end.

She leans against the royal blue tiles of the wall, expression changeless. Tries to put something—anything, if even a speck of liquid—into her empathy cup, but nothing happens. “Oh. I’m sorry.” But her tone couldn’t have been less sorry. “That’s pretty bad.”

“Layla, he broke up with me by texting me this!” Khloe holds out her phone, almost sounding like she’s ready to break down.

She skims over the text: Khloe, we’re over. Got busy yk. Sorry. The abrupt full stops do seem a little harsh, but she can’t seem to offer any words of comfort.

The coldness of the tiles seep through her summer dress. “Yeah—well, I have to say I’m glad you and him are over.” Both her cups quiver—worry for Khloe piling on top of the worry for everything else, and the absence of empathy rocking both glass vials. Khloe blinks at her, breathing faster. “Lucas—he wasn’t even your type.”

Her words sound horribly indifferent even to her own ears, and her inner self cowers into a ball as Khloe’s mouth falls open.

A second passes, and then she’s sobbing. “Are you for real, Layla? Are you for real?” Khloe practically throws her phone into her pocket and stumbles to the bathroom door, tears flowing. “You know how much he meant to me! Why—why are you so—what’s wrong with you?”

 Her muscles lock into place as Khloe wrenches the door open and runs out, the sharp thud as it closes reverberating endlessly in her head. The cups on top of her head begin to shake.

She can feel the worry cup spilling over, stretching to its limits to try and contain all the liquid. Feel the empathy cup start cracking at the edges—how dry is too dry, when will it shatter because of it?

The soft light in the bathroom isn’t helping—and neither is the stark coolness of the tiles she’s still leaning on. She can hear Khloe outside, and all the other girls beginning to crowd around her.

“Khloe, are you okay?”

“What happened? Why are you crying?”

“Is this because of Lucas?”

“Where’s the teacher?”

Her head spins. The glass cups—yes, they’re glass, she remembers—shake more violently. How full, how empty—is too much?

She pulls herself into a cubicle. Hears Khloe, her voice swollen. “Layla—as for her, don’t ever expect her to hug you after a breakup.”

The cups crack as if they’ve been smashed to the floor. Fall around her in broken, jagged pieces.

Worry and empathy.

Empathy and worry.

Too much of one, too little of the other, and the cups break.

They break, and they’re replaced with new ones.

Netball matter to me

Ada Goddard

Winner: Primary prose (11 and 12 y.o.)

Netball matters to me more than just a game I play each week – it is something that has helped shape who I am.  It is where I have learned about teamwork, effort, confidence and never giving up.  Over time, netball has become one of the most important parts of my life, not just because I enjoy it, but because of everything it has taught me and the memories I have made.

I still remember the first time I stepped onto the court.  I felt nervous and unsure, like I didn’t realy belong there yet.  I didn’t always know where to stand or what to do, and I worried about making mistakes. But even then, there was something exciting about it.  The sound of the ball bouncing, the whistle blowing and my teammates calling out made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself.  I didn’t give up, even when it felf hard, because I wanted to improve.

As I kept playing, I started to grow in confidence.  I learned how to pass properly, where to run, and how to work better with my team.  I began to understand that netball is not just about individual skill, but about trusting the people around you.  My teammates became like a second family to me.  We encouraged each other, laughed together, and supported each other no matter what the score was.

One of the biggest highlights of my netball journey has been making it to two grand finals. The feeling of playing in those matches is something I will never forget.  Everything feels more intense-the crowd, the pressure, and the excitement.  But instead of feeling scared, I felt ready. I know I had worked hard all season, and I trusted my team and myself.

In both grand finals, I was lucky enough to be awarded MVP.  The meant so much to me because it showed that my effort and hard work had paid off.  But even more than that, I was proud because it wasn’t just about me – it was about how I worked with my team.  We pushed each other to do our best, and that made the achievement even more special.

I have also been very proud to win Best and Fairest for both my association and my club -twice. That award means a lot because it shows not only skill, but also sportsmanship.  It reminded me that how you lay the game matters just as much as the result.  Being fair, respectful, and supportive is something I always try to bring to the court.

Netball has also taught me how to deal with pressure.  In close games, especially finals, things can get really intense.  But I’ve learned to stay calm, focus and trust me training. Even when things don’t go perfectly, I know I can keep going and help my team.  That has helped me not only in netball, but in school and other parts of my life too.

Another reason netball matters to me is because it helps me forget stress.  When I step onto the court, everything disappears.  I’m not thinking about homework or worries – I’m just focused on playing, moving, and enjoying the game.  It gives me a break and helps me feel refreshed and happy.

More importantly, netball has helped me believe in myself.  I’ve gone from being nervous and unsure to feeling confident and capable.  I’ve learnt that hard work pays off, and that if you keep trying, you can achieve things you once thought were impossible.

Netball matters to me because it has given me friendships, achievements and confidence.  It has taught me lessons I will carry with me for the rest of my life.  Every training session, every game, and every challenge has helped shape me into a better player and a stronger person.

That is why netball will always be so important to me – it is not just a sport I play; it is part of who I am.

Behind the duty book

Charlton Hislop

Winner: Primary prose (9 and 10 y.o.)

Max was always buried in a book. Thrilling mysteries or magical fantasies, he loved every story. One book that he couldn’t stand was textbooks. In class, Max often struggled. He needed support, he was frequently disengaged and hesitant to participate in groups. Max was quiet, withdrawn and preferred silence. Every break, he would sit alone in the library. The librarian, maybe Max’s closest friend, allowed him access to the restricted section where antique books and advanced texts for older students were kept. Max needed challenging stories to fuel his vivid imagination. Inside books, he travelled anywhere, met extraordinary characters, and shared their journeys.

One Friday afternoon, during break, Max was being chased by Jed, one of his classmates. Jed was pinching him repeatedly, and Max hated it. Max darted around the corner of the principal’s office corner and like a bat out of hell slipped into the library’s restricted section.

 “Jed can’t get me now,” Max muttered, gasping for breath.

He sank onto a low bench tucked in a corner and steadied himself. A thought struck him, he wasn’t sure if Jed had followed him. In his panic, he also didn’t notice if the librarian was there either. If she’s not here… Jed could come into the restricted section? he thought uneasily. Max scanned the shelves, searching for something to defend himself. Then he saw a dust covered, faintly gold shimmering, spine of a book.  Max wiped the dust to reveal glinting gold lettering. As his fear turned to fascination he opened the book. Jed appeared behind him just as the pages turned rapidly. 

 “Got you!” Jed shouted.

The book shuddered violently. Pages spun faster. A blinding light burst out. The boys were pulled forward and the book swallowed them.

“This is your fault!” Jed yelled. “Where on earth are we?”

“No idea, but look!” Max said, scanning their surroundings. “There, a riddle on the wall. Let’s solve it!”

“Fine!” Jed huffed.

Max read the inscription:

“I travel the world without leaving a corner. What am I?”

 Jed frowned. “Wait… I know this. A stamp. It travels all over the world in the corner of an envelope.”

 Max nodded.  The wall rumbled and with a deep grinding sound, a hidden door opened.
 Behind the door was an empty room. Completely empty. An unnatural silence pressing in on them from all sides. Even footsteps seemed too loud.

 “Ahhh!”

The boys screamed as a man suddenly appeared.   His hair was dark brown and his face flattened, as if pressed. Making his expression unreadable.

 “To see the other world,” the man said calmly, “you must prove your minds worthy.”

 Jed stepped back. “Who are you?”

 The man ignored him.

 “What has hands but cannot clap?”

 “A clock,” Max didn’t hesitate. “Two hands, not for clapping.”

 The man studied him for a long moment.

 “Correct.”

 Turning he pointed into the darkness.

“Enter over there.”

Everything went dark.

Then a feeling of falling, endlessness, silence, and weightlessness until it stopped. The boys stood on a vast glass-like surface stretching in every direction. Beneath their feet, faint ripples of light moved like water. Above, a sky of swirling purple and shifting alive gold clouds. Floating islands drifting in the distance. Glowing at the edges some were fractured, others wrapped in moving shadows that shifted whenever seen. Strange, leaning structures stood far away, pulsing faintly as if breathing. A low hum filled the air.

 “Max… where are we?” Jed whimpered.

 Max didn’t answer immediately. His gaze locked on something towering far off. 

“I don’t know,” Max said, “but let’s go there.”

The ground growled and a path glowed beneath their feet, stretching toward the distant structure. A hum grew louder, almost calling them forward. Jed glanced back but saw nothing. No escape. Only endless light.

 “Guess there is no choice,” he muttered.

 Max nodded. They stepped forward onto the glowing path. As they moved, the strange world around them softened, the edges of reality fading into silence, as though the world itself was watching them go. Somewhere ahead, the tower waited.

At the tower’s base, the air grew still. The light in its core pulses a final time, then splits open like curtains. Inside, they saw the library.

A voice echoed. 

 “To leave, you must understand this story.”

Looking at each other, not in anger but agreement, they said in chorus.

“Let’s solve it,”

They spoke not a word, but a decision.

And the world folded…

The dusty book lay closed on the floor, its gold spine dull and still.

Jed quietly said, “That was… insane.”

“Yeah.” Max nodded. 

“…Sorry…”  they both said standing up slowly.

Jed stopped pinching. Max no longer sat alone. 

Sometimes both boys were found glancing at the dusty book just in case it was listening.

Not alone anymore

Olivia Yang

Winner: Junior primary prose

Lilly peeked from behind an old tree with twisted branches, wishing she could disappear into thin air. This was her first time at the school fair, but instead of feeling happy and joyful, she felt as lonely as a desert tortoise buried in the sand. Everywhere she looked, people were huddled into groups. It seemed like everyone at the school fair had friends. Lilly’s heart sank.

“Why do I not have a friend?” Lilly wondered as thoughts drifted into her mind.

Suddenly her slushie slipped from her hands and crashed onto the ground.

“Oh no! What a gigantic mess I have made!” Lilly whispered to herself staring at the sticky puddle. As I walked past, I noticed her standing there frozen with embarrassment.

“Hi Lilly! Let me get you another one!” I kindly assisted.

“Thank you,’’ Lilly shyly stammered with her eyes aiming at her shoes.

As she walked to a hidden bench students around her started whispering, laughing and pointing at Lilly. Lilly’s cheeks turned bright red and her body silently shivered. Tears began flowing into her eyes, but she did not dare to let them out.

She quickly threw the empty cup into the bin with her embarrassment in it. Her body forced herself to go hide in the dark, dusty corner. Her eyes fell upon the laughter but that made it even worse.

“Why does this always have to happen to me?” Lilly asked herself.

Feeling sorry for her, I walked over and sat next to her.

“Lilly don’t feel embarrassed, when I was new to the school fair, I felt just like you!” I said gently.

Lilly looked up, surprised. Her eyes widened and slowly she wiped her tears. A small smile began to appear, like sunshine breaking through dark clouds. The sadness inside her started to melt away.

After that, we sat together under the tall, thin tree and shared jokes that made our stomachs ache with laughter. We went on so many rides that the whole world seemed to spin around us.

By the end of the day, Lilly wasn’t alone anymore.

She had a friend.

Rodeo Hero

Brenda-Joy Pritchard

winner

Winner: Open poetry

Where the trucks for the cattle and horses park round.
‘colosseums’ emerged on a hot, dusty ground,
as the sound of a country distort through the wires,
so the atmosphere’s charged full of hopes and desires.

With the smell of the sweat and the dung and the fumes
comes the sense of expectancy - opening looms, 
and the crowd is excited, the animals pace
while combatants anticipate fame that they chase.

So the nerves and the tensions explode in the air
while the ‘gladiators’ of the ring all prepare
and instructions are roared through the urge of the din
in the crowd’s battle cry – “Let the contest begin!”

Tim’s immersed in the rodeo’s ordeals and thrills
as the bronc-riding cowboys take honours and spills.
and the crowd yell to “Ride ‘em!” “Keep on ‘em! or “Stay!”
while the time-clock decides who will win on this day.

And the broncs do their duty, it seems that they know
that spectators come for an action-packed show,
so if they buck that bloke, then response is increased
for the mob applauds feats of the man or the beast.

Tim hops up on the rail with his mates at this side
he’s alert for the gateman to signal the ride,
then in combo they stand, either side of the chute.
While the atmosphere’s tense – their attention’s acute.

Then the action is on and the crowd goes berserk
and they ‘fool’ as they tackle their dangerous work. 
With their props and their colours they weave and they swerve
as they challenge the bull with incredible nerve.


They’re aware of each move the entrapped bovine makes
as they dodge hooves and horns, for that’s all it takes
to be gored, stomped or crushed as they risk their own lives
to ensure a discarded rough rider survives.

They do dare-devil acts in their warrior role.
standing up to a beast that is out of control,
facing eyes that are frantic with panic and fear,
while competitors flee and the spectators cheer.

When the crowds have gone home and he’s left to reflect,
Tim considers the role that has earned him respect.
He’s forged long-standing friendships with blokes on the track
as he circuits events looking forward not back.

,,,,,,,,,,,

He may not gain the glory from riding to win
but he gains satisfaction that comes from within.
He’s a hero, a man who will not let you down,
entertaining the crowds as a rodeo clown.

Calling time

Terry Piggott

Winner: Bush poetry

The signs are there he can’t deny - It’s time to look truth in the eye
and now accept he’s reached the end, it’s time to say goodbye.
He knows he’s running out of puff - forget about that sterner stuff,
although the spirit’s willing - that no longer is enough.

It hasn’t happened overnight, the finish lines long been in sight,
but he’s the sort of bloke who won’t give up without a fight.
Yet even he must now admit it’s more than simply being fit,
he’s worn out now, and that’s the truth, so just face up to it.

His age of course has played a part, it’s forty years now since the start,
of life outback in search of gold in places miles apart. 
And what a journey it has been, with mates he’s known and things he’s seen,
from Kal to old Halls Creek and all those places in between.

And there is beauty there as well with countless stories he could tell,
of desert like oasis where he’d camp and rest a spell.
Surrounded by the haunting view of breakaways where eagles flew
and wake up in the mornings under skies of endless blue.

Then listen to the silence found in what for some is sacred ground
and even he at times can sense an aura all around.
And in his mind, he sees once more, the way this land had been before,
but there are changes happening you simply can’t ignore.

And blokes he knew were also gone, some passed away, the rest moved on,
old friends he’d known for years and always could depend upon. 
Their rough old shacks are still out there though sadly now in disrepair,
a poignant last reminder of the times they used to share.

They’d lived a lifestyle free from stress and searched for gold with some success,
though seldom talked of what they’d found, it’s up to you to guess.
And he like them searched far and wide out where the golden nuggets hide
and scattered over forty years were countless spots he’d tried.

He’d seen it all, or most of it, the scattered shafts, each mining pit,
although the magic of those days has waned, he must admit.
The isolation left you free to roam through all that you could see,
but things have changed there now, it’s not the way it used to be.

From Nullagine to Marble bar, the Western Shaw and Sharks not far
and countless other spots on dusty tracks well off the tar.
Then south down to the Famous Blue and Hoot-a- Nooie’s out there too,
with Eucalypts and Pikes Hollow just to name a few.

A bakers oven rusted brown is all that’s left of Linden town,
but gold he missed out on the lake, will take some living down.
Then down the track to Cripple Creek - he’ll not forget the magic week,
he chanced upon the kind of find, that all prospectors seek.

Of course, there’s times when luck was out but never had the slightest doubt,
that if you kept on looking things would quickly turn about.
Or just move on to somewhere new the fields were vast and people few
and soon your luck would change again - it always did, he knew!

The weather too would play its part, to live out there you must be smart,
a summer camp with lots of shade a must before you start.
And high ground was important too when odd cyclones were passing through,   
with flooding rains and fierce destructive winds that often blew.

Now looking back, he can’t complain, an ache or two, a little pain,
still wishing he could turn back time and do it all again.
But knows he’s now well past his prime, there’s no more hills he needs to climb,
yet still it’s hard to leave, but in his heart, he knows it’s time.

Survivor of no

Nanma Maria Jinish

Winner: Young adult poetry

She said no.

One small word.
Barely louder than her shaking breath.
A word that should have been enough.

But he heard it as a challenge.
A thing to crush.

She was fifteen.
Still learning herself.
Still believing the world would protect her.

She didn’t understand
why the room felt smaller,
why the air pressed in,
why her body froze
while her heart screamed.

Afterwards,
the world didn’t wrap her in comfort.
It asked questions instead.

“What were you wearing?”
“Why were you there?”
“Are you sure?”

As if her pain needed permission to exist.

She stopped speaking for a while.
Not because she had nothing to say,
but because nobody listened.

But silence is not weakness.

In the quiet,
she learned something:
Survival is waking up
when you wish you could disappear.
It’s looking in the mirror
and saying,
I am still worthy
of love.
Of space.
Of breath.

They tried to fold her into shame.
But shame is not her name.

She began to stand differently.
Back straight.
Eyes steady.
Voice no longer apologizing for existing.

She realized his violence was not proof of her weakness.
It was proof of his.

And slowly,
the girl who felt broken
began to transform.

Not untouched.
Not unscarred.

But unafraid.
A survivor.

She carries fire now 
the kind that lights dark rooms
for girls still whispering “no.”

She was fifteen.
She was hurt.
She was silenced.
But she was not destroyed.

She is a warrior.
Not because she chose the battle,
but because she survived it.

And now, when she says no,
it is not a whisper.
It is thunder

You can take a horse to water

Scarlett Harris-Newsome

Winner: Primary poetry

You can take a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink.
You can take a person to knowledge, but you can’t make them think.
You can take a pig to mud, but you can’t make them roll.
You can take a cow to market, but you can’t make it sell.
You can take a dog to bed, but you can’t make it sleep!
You can take a frog to the pond, but you can’t make it leap.
You can take a sheep to food, but you can’t make it eat.
You can take a rabbit to grass, but it might stomp its feet.
Mum can take me to my bedroom, but she can’t make me clean,
She can ask me to do my homework, but she can’t make me keen.
She can make me write a poem and put it in a show, 
But she can’t make me finish it, so off I go!

Bush turkey

Joshua Tan

Winner: Junior primary poetry

Black and red, with a flash of yellow,
Under the lemon tree, a cheeky fellow,
Stops and stares then turns his head,
He scratches at the soil, making his bed.
 
Then he scampers up branches and bush,
Up on the fence! He scared me, I said SHOOSH!
Ripping leaves under the tree,
Kicking at muddy dirt near the bees,
Eating fruit and grubs for his dinner,
You are my backyard friend – a native winner!