GEELONG WRITERS FINEST 500 WRITING PRIZE 2024
Open to Geelong Writers paid members only. Entry is free.
ENTRIES CLOSED on Sunday 15 September 2024
All shortlisted works are presented below.
Submissions of up to 500 words were received in response to the theme: Found
Assessors: Jo Curtain and Guenter Sahr
Final Adjudicator: Victoria Spicer
The Finest 500 is an annual competition for Geelong Writers’ members. This year, writers were invited to submit prose or poetry of up to 500 words in response to the theme Found.
The entries were read blind by Jo Curtain and Guenter Sahr, who compiled the shortlist. Victoria Spicer kindly accepted the difficult task of determining the finest of these fine submissions, and the place winners. Thank you, Victoria!
THE ADJUDICATOR:
Victoria Spicer has postgraduate qualifications in education, literature, information management and professional writing. She has taught writing in schools, workplaces and community settings, and is the former editor of Geelong Writers Inc. publications. Her book about family secrets and a Point Lonsdale boy’s descent into crime will be published next year.
Victoria Spicer’s report:
Reading this accomplished collection of short fiction and poetry was as satisfying as the selection of prize-winners was difficult. I found something to admire in every piece. Thank you, Geelong Writers, for asking me to judge this competition and thank you, shortlisted writers, for the opportunity to spend time with your words.
In choosing the winners, I was looking for close and creative engagement with the theme, Found; complete and compelling stories; economy of expression – every word should count; effective use of language; emotional impact. I read and re-read the stories over several days. The best stories remained with me, reverberating in memory after I’d put them aside.
First prize goes to Vicki Long for her poem Broken. The narrator finds the meagre remains of their father’s broken life in a battered suitcase and reconciles a few chosen fragments with an image of a happier past. The slow reveal in this poem is masterfully managed, poetic devices are judiciously chosen, and not a word is wasted.
Second prize goes to Suzanne Yates for When Will She Come. The narrator’s anguished desire for spring to return is at the centre of this starkly beautiful and moving story. The snug mountain retreat and the tortured protagonist are depicted deftly, economically. The suspense is ratcheted up as the source of their anguish is withheld until near the end.
Sandra Jobling receives third prize for Vigil of the Found, a dazzling fantasy rich in shimmering detail, incantation and shapeshifting. The wife and daughter of Finn, a man lost at sea, struggle to reconcile their divergent ‘truths’ about his fate. Sandra has created a vivid world and, while her story is complete, she leaves us with a tantalising sense of more to come.
The first commendation goes to Michael Cains for Grains. The beach, at the centre of this story, the setting for life-changing, often traumatic, events, becomes a place of solitude, where the narrator finds himself.
Adam Stone receives the second commendation for The Hat Fits. In this jaunty, light-hearted, piece the narrator overcomes his disappointment, finding liberation and a new sense of self in the gift of a pork pie hat.
Congratulations to the prize-winners and thank you to everyone who entered the competition.
First place: Broken by Vicki Long
A prestigious inner-suburb, a tree-lined street,
trunks rooted in Wurundjeri earth, branches bereft
of cover, exposing bones
of a once grand home, a white elephant of a boarding home
for men.
Location, location, location
only a short walk to the pub.
Men diluting dreams, drop by drop. Killing
God-given time ‘til oblivion offers a helping hand.
I ring the doorbell.
God, how I wish it was you standing here, not
this man with a bulldog of a face, devoid of formalities.
‘Follow me’ he says
He closes the light of day behind us. Before us
a noiseless, musty hallway flanked by closed doors
hollow condolences trail behind him like cheap aftershave
He’s searching for a key
amongst a large collection, chained to his belt.
They’re all just numbers.
We stop at a door beneath a mahogany staircase.
The same stairs you shuffled up and down,
day in, day out, carrying your bag of supplies. Inching
closer to extinction.
The same staircase they carried you down.
He flips a switch, revealing a room too small to be rented out.
A light bulb hangs from a frayed black cord, humming bravely
as it engages its full forty watts.
Piles of cases, shells of lives, waiting to be found, waiting to be claimed.
He hands me a brown suitcase and closes the door behind us.
I carry your suitcase home.
There are flecks of white paint splattered over it.
I recall my last visit, one of our final conversations.
‘It’s too dark in here, it needs a fresh coat of paint’.
I allowed myself a glimmer of hope that afternoon.
A paper tag is tied to the handle by a short piece of string,
my dad’s name is scrawled lightly in pencil.
The lock is pitted with rust. A warped clasp juts out, hinting
at the meagre contents I find within –
A sudden assault of naphthalene is explained
by the handful of mothballs rolling beside half empty bottles of painkillers. Prescriptions, expired. Repeats after repeats of
broken promises.
An empty vinyl wallet, save a small cutting of a 50’s starlet.
A pen, minus its barrel, it’s digital clock blinking
‘Happy Birthday Dad’, engraved along the chrome cap.
an electric shaver, broken
a tram ticket, punched
a cigarette lighter, depleted
an old watch, no longer ticking
A radio with broken antenna, yellowed tape unravelling.
Battery casing hinged with band-aids; thumb prints pressed white.
A faded Polaroid of my brother and me.
Shame about the band-aid above his left brow.
My mum was right, I do have a sad smile.
Remnants of a life contained in four, dark corners.
Baggage past its use-by-date, contents rifled by a landlord
who kept the rest.
I kept the photo, the watch, and the stump of a pen.
I’ve placed them next to a creased black and white photo of you, taken years before. You’re smiling, holding a mug of tea.
Not a bottle in sight.
Second place: When will she come by Suzanne Yates
I hurl the half-empty glass of red wine against the logged timber wall.
‘When the hell are you coming?’ I shout, ‘You’re fucking late.’
The smashed glass drowns in a pool of blood-red wine, resembling a prize-winning art piece – one painstakingly auditioned for artistic effect and profound analysis. If only that simple.
It’s been three months since she left.
She times her departure perfectly and leaves us in the hands of winter, happily isolated in the mountain paradise we purchased sixteen years ago. Just the two of us, snug under winter’s downy white quilt, happily protected from the noise of regular life. No arrivals or departures possible when the winter snow takes hold.
She returns when winter is done. Always too soon.
But not this time. This time, I am desperate for her return – desperate to shed the darkness that has settled, desperate to uncover the secret that winter and I share.
I leave the art piece to the critics and drift toward the window, hoping for a glimpse of her.
The cedar framed window, bleached and splintered, is failing to do its job. Ice-laced air snakes in, taunting me like an incessant earworm… I’m still standin’ better than I ever did. Lookin’ like a true survivor… ‘How ironic’, I muse.
I drop into the fireside chair. The brocade pattern on the arm distracts me from my vigil. Its well-worn design, overlain with years of red wine and coffee stains, goes on forever. Tracing it has given me peace in the past, but not today.
Today I just want her back – and him.
‘It’s terminal’, they informed us after finding the tumour, ‘twelve months, maybe less.’ The words so perfunctory and final.
‘No treatment yet. Let’s go to the cabin and decide there.’ I knew he was stalling.
We didn’t decide. We barely spoke – barely existed.
One evening, three months after arriving, he announced he was going for a walk.
‘You can’t be serious’, I snapped.
He looked at me like a chastised child.
‘Sorry’. I looked away, ‘It’s dark and the terrain is treacherous.’ I was frightened the mountain of fear that I held so tightly would erupt and bury us both.
‘Won’t be long … just need some air …’
He pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped over the threshold. The snow whipped up a hungry frenzy around his failing body, his form now close to unrecognisable. It was eight strides before the darkness swallowed him. Fresh white snow filled his footprints, erasing signs of his departure.
It’s been six days since he left.
I stuff torn strips of paper in the cracks in the window to push back winter’s pervasive hold. I don’t want the extra time we once craved.
I just want her, summer, to return, so I can find his wizened body resting in the melted snow amongst the stand of snow gums. I know he would have found peace there.
Third place: Vigil of the Found by Sandra Jobling
Eyes shifting like ocean-tossed silt, Rosa’s amber gaze followed the tidal rhythm beckoning Finn back from the depths. Turning, she whispered, summoning silver-blue Cloth from the tape player to use its powers to find Finn. Mysteriously, Cloth appeared in her palm.
A wisp of a woman with the nervous energy of a butterfly, Rosa fluttered through the doorway onto the balcony of her home. Bass Strait’s coastline, where relentless winds pummelled the aftermath of decaying shipwrecks, stretched before her. This was where she first met Finn, a solid young man, shapeshifting among rusty sunken vessels along the shipwreck coast.
She inhaled, tasting fresh oysters. Brandishing Cloth, she incanted, ‘Find my husband.’ Cloth swung oceanward, floated on an air current, then returned. Rosa’s tired eyes closed. A vision of the boating accident surfaced.
‘Cloth, tell me…is Finn dead?’ Cloth quivered.
Rosa scanned turbulent waters that battered the old pier. A glint of silver swam amongst long strands of olive seaweed. Could it be? A voice came from the ocean’s depths, ‘Sophi will be home early… school’s done.’ Sophi’s bitterness was overwhelming.
‘Finn?’
Rosa heard the squeak of the garden gate. The front door opened. Rosa straightened her body, bracing for Sophi’s anger. ‘I’m in the living room, Sophi.’ Weather stirred, and ocean swells held promise. He must appear soon.
Finn’s voice crackled from the tape player. ‘I’m finding a portal; my way home.’ The voice stalled. Rosa watched Sophi whose eyes rested on the tape player.
‘Mother, you’re unreal.’ She kicked the door. ‘Why do you do this, every night?’
‘I’m truth searching,’ Rosa said. Magically, Cloth circled Sophi.
Sophi’s eyes narrowed, as if smelling old, dusty lies. ‘Keep Cloth away from me.’
Rosa felt stained. Sophi sniffed the air, strode to the kitchen, and snatched Oreos from the cupboard. She pushed past Rosa, each step screaming contempt. The tape player in the living room crackled to life. Rosa froze, staring. Finn’s words crackled forth. ‘Rosa, I’m coming home. I’ve found the tunnel. Sophi, I’ll explain.’
A salmon formed, elongated, and reshaped itself. The fish, with blue eyes, blurred, stretched, and became a man whose eyes carried the vastness of the ocean.
His form wavered. ‘I’ve found you.’ Finn’s voice echoed from the tape player before resonating from his mouth, stronger and more present. ‘I’ve found my way back.’ Before them stood inscrutable Finn.
Oreos slipped from Sophi’s fingers, landing silently on the carpet.
‘I’ve found you both.’ Finn reached for Rosa, but she turned away.
‘I couldn’t convince Sophi you weren’t lost at sea.’
‘I watched you war with each other.’ Finn lowered his head.
‘I wondered if Sophi wasn’t right—that you were dead after all.’
Sophi rolled her eyes. ‘Mum. Incantations every night?’
Rosa grasped Sophi’s trembling hand. Cloth materialized. Drying her daughter’s tears, Cloth enveloped the three of them. As Cloth drew them closer, sea air swirled and ocean roared, they found each other’s truth in the depth of their eyes.
Highly Commended: Grains by Michael Cains
A windswept beach easily seduces a long-haired six-year-old boy. Shoes discarded, soaked clothes ignored along with the rain clouds and a mother’s distant calls. Tide-swept, cold and content. Interesting things discovered thrown into a surging sea or stuffed into wet sandy pockets for treasuring later.
Years later a dog’s bloated waterlogged body bobbed by the rocks, eddied around in the flotsam, vacant eyes bulging without warmth, without life. It wasn’t Tillie. She was smaller, loved the beach, and was long missing. The Cunningham boys told him it was her, then ran away spitefully laughing, offering to take the reward. Ten-year-old Tim trudged away slowly, forgetting where he had left his shoes. His exasperated mother had long ago given up asking. He silently cries.
Rolling forward to the incessant pounding of his own head, his mother screaming at him, and the acrid taste of last night’s party laced with bile and vomit. He remembered the dunes, the sand, and Rachel. He thinks it was Rachel, or had she left with someone else? He couldn’t recall – memory pounded away by loud music and dancing, sand and surf, alcohol and pills. Grazed knuckles hinted at an unremembered fight, and his mind saw Phil Cunningham’s crushed face, but that may have been wishful thinking.
Solitary on the beach, with the sea and his own lonely thoughts. University finished with. Searching for a lost soul. His mother gone last year, missed but never really loved.
Years later his wife’s frantic screams brought him sprinting down sea’s edge away from his private reverie to a son vanishing under savage waves. Rachel frozen with fear of the worst as he carried Robert’s limp body ashore from the surf. Been warned, again and again, ignoring pleas just like his father, now wracked with grief.
An unchanged beach, an always changing sea. Sand rasping his toes, sun searing a balding scalp, wet shoes carried. Solitude. Rachel had finally left him for her own sadness, tolerance exhausted. Alone with the tentative freedom of crying gulls and a lone dog happily looking for something to chase, or to love. Weekends away from work recharged and refreshed him even when sadness encroached. Especially then.
Time passes unkindly. Hunched and unsteady through the dunes until on firmer sand left smooth by an outgoing tide. Interesting things lay outside his fading eyesight defying him to bend over to inspect them, or to throw them back into a heaving ocean. He would once, but not now. Alone and cold was always better here. No crying children, polluted minds or people ruining his solitude just by nodding a greeting.
Always returning to the sea at different times, awash with his thoughts, always to the same beach. Leaving behind a selfish world where things need to be paid for and not found on the sand amongst seaweed and driftwood, wrapped in dead memories. Finding himself.
Highly Commended: The Hat Fits by Adam Stone
The hat box shattered Bill’s dream of a tie for his birthday. He thought he’d been quite specific, dropping not-so-subtle hints for the past month. Whilst the wearing of a tie was no longer compulsory at the bank, he felt important with that piece of material around his neck. Felt like his job still mattered after all these years. The sniggers from the non-tie-wearing young guys at work didn’t go unnoticed. Most females, particularly the younger ones, barely noticed him at all, like he wore a cloak of invisibility. Even at his mature age, Bill often felt inane around females; he had never been able to find the self-confidence that most of the younger generation seemed to have in spades.
As he opened the present, a lovely felt pork pie hat revealed itself. Whilst he appreciated it wouldn’t have been cheap, Bill couldn’t help but wonder where on earth he would wear it. His mother must have sensed his trepidation. ‘Every man should have a good hat, Billy’, she insisted. She hadn’t called him Billy since he was a teenager but had reverted from Bill to Billy on recent visits. A longing for the past. ‘Your father wore a hat, you know’. Of course he did know, largely from photos.
Bill’s memories of his dad are fragmented, having lost him as a young boy. It’s as if someone had spliced a film reel and only given him random pieces, all out of whack. He longed for a connection to his dad that he could hold on to, but it proved elusive to him. What he did know from photos and stories was that his dad was very dapper.
Bill appreciated the sentiment from his mum and after cake and tea, he headed home to feed his cat. With the hat box in the passenger seat, he felt inexplicably nostalgic and strangely empowered. Suddenly, seemingly without conscious thought and totally out of character for ‘Conservative Bill’ (as his brother-in-law liked to chide him), he detoured and headed for the local shopping complex and an upmarket menswear store that he hadn’t dare enter before. This peculiar behaviour extended to stepping inside a chic barber shop, one of those that serve a craft beer with a wet shave and charge futuristic prices. Not that Bill cared, he was living on a higher plane.
The following Monday, Billy was on the boil as he entered the bank. He was hot to trot! Boy, did he turn some heads. He had found a previously unattainable self-assurance and he liked it. Gone was his twenty-year-old beard, but a dashing moustache remained. He looked and smelled expensive in a high-end cologne. His three-piece vintage suit, shirt (sans tie) and shoes roared with quality. Even his belt buckle oozed a presence. Of most consequence, Bill had discovered a tangible connection to his dad; adding a splash of sophistication to the ensemble was a resplendent pork pie hat.
Shortlisted: Dollars from the deep by Jenny Macaulay
I’d read that ambergris has a marine faecal odour. This grey spongy lump, the size of a small, semi-deflated soccer ball, certainly smelt how I imagined marine faecal matter might smell. Molly made the moves a dog makes when it’s about to roll in something disgusting and I just managed to thwart that activity by picking up the mass in both hands. Its considerable weight surprised me. Molly bounced around like the dollar-signs before my eyeballs. The value of a lump of whale vomit was astounding.
Molly and I were alone on the beach. Anyone else may have shown some concern at my involuntary dry-retching. With her lead attached to my wrist, I held my perceived fortune at arms’ length and climbed the bank from the sand to the gravel walking track that leads towards my home. By the time I deposited the prize gently onto my wrought-iron garden table, my arms ached.
Aware of the entourage of blow-flies that accompanied us, I draped an old towel over the moist object. I herded Molly into the kitchen and plunged my stinking hands under the tap. Hot soapy water wouldn’t erase the foul fragrance. The odour had taken up firm residence within my nostrils and was allayed only by aspirations of extreme wealth. The next stop was the computer. The more I read and the more illustrations I saw, the more convinced I was that I was on the money.
I needed a photo. I took the IPad outside where, once again, I experienced a physical reaction to the object, however, I persevered.
I was very impressed with the speed at which I received a reply from the Melbourne Museum. They were unable to confirm my belief but did suggest that I contact local shore-management authorities regarding the removal of objects from our beaches. This caused some wavering of the dollar-signs which were already beginning to atrophy due to my inability to tolerate the proliferous stench.
I emailed a friend who had contacts with the Queenscliff Marine Research Station, and forwarded the same photo.
Owing to a concern for my neighbours, I was unable to wait for a reply. I bundled the offending object into a large plastic bag and carried it, accompanied by the black cloud of highly stimulated insects, back to where I found it. I tipped it gently from the bag into the outgoing tide where it bobbed around, happily it seemed, and unperturbed by its temporary terrestrial adventure. I urged it to bob its way back out to sea, threatened by the thought that someone else may find it and I’d read in the local paper of some lucky local wallowing in a subsequent fortune.
As it turned out, that would be extremely unlikely. An eventual email from the Marine Centre told me that I’d been extraordinarily privileged to find a fairly uncommon form of sea sponge, which when dead, will sometimes wash ashore emitting a most undesirable odour.
Shortlisted: Estuary by Catherine Hannah
a
single
cell multiplies
deep in the belly of
the earth. Loved before he even knows
what love is. Bursts from the source and sees
trees and sun for the first time. He learns to flow
gurgling over pebbles that become rocks that become
boulders. Nothing stands in his way as he picks up leaves
and forms a current, twisting
and turning
around bends he forged himself. More and more he is a force
to be reckoned with. Learning from the heat and the rain, he is
no longer skipped over
with ease
they must build and sail to cross his path. Others join him on
his way, bringing their own cool, sweet messages from the far away
mountains. He welcomes them all; the pure, the polluted and his knowledge is broad
now. His exterior calm. He is watched by reed beds; seagulls. His whims are subject
to the moon. The ebb and flow. He tastes brine and knows that he is old. That energy
is neither created nor destroyed and that soon, he will change. Absorbed into a greater
mysterious state; but he will not leave. As the sun sets, he finds his estuary –
embracing the twilight of the forever rolling waves.
Shortlisted: Found not found by Julie Rysdale
‘No! Don’t follow the trail around the edge. It’s a goat trail! We are not goats!!!’ Crouching low on the pitched edge of the rocky outcrop above Lake Bellfield where they had just climbed, Jane screeched against the wind, her feet scrabbling.
Matt also crouched, inching sideways, clutching at sparse grassy tufts. ‘No, I think it is ok! Clamber around the side.’
‘It’s dangerous!’ Jane sighed with ragged breath, exasperated, not in control. Matt knew nothing about rock-climbing or this bluff, they had no rock-climbing gear, and the wind gusted.
‘You should come back!’ She hesitated, checking if her fear was warranted or whether to follow Matt around the unstable edge, terrified.
‘No! I’m going on! Follow me!’ he demanded.
She was addicted to the aerial chess of rock-climbing. Whilst never excelling, she was dogged, scaling climbs way beyond her expectations. She knew the difference between perceived risks and actual risks – climbing recklessly and without adequate protection. Matt was physically capable, but belligerent and ignorant of the dangers, particularly when tired and over-confident. She was angry with herself for following him.
Although there was a way down on the other side, traversing would be precarious and there were lengthy reaches on scrabbly rock making downclimbing especially challenging at dusk.
‘I’m heading back, Matt! You hear me!?’ The wind carried no answer.
Light was fading on the day they hiked Boronia Trail in the Grampians. They were staying with a rock-climber with whom Jane had climbed for several years. His property joined Boronia Trail via a fire-track where she would head.
Downclimbing and jogging she checked if Matt followed or had fallen. The track from the beach to Boronia Trail appeared as the sun took its light elsewhere. She had 7kms to cover alone in the blackness.
Her chest tightened as the bush enclosed her.
But she had to move. Her faltering pace over the rocky ground became rhythmical, her breathing steadied. She celebrated the crests glowing fluorescent in the moonlight before the track dipped inky, rolling onwards.
Her footsteps and beating heart resonated in the now windless silence. Rustling, quick crashes followed beside her. Her romantic notion – nocturnal creatures saw her as a comrade. She felt strangely part of this shadowy bushland – the headiness of eucalypts and dank earth became her perfume. Time enveloped her.
She had space.
***
- I can’t make it down tonight after all, my ex-wife wants my help. Oh. So, will you come down tomorrow? I don’t think so, I am going riding in the Dandenongs.
- Matt continued without her, knowing she was afraid.
***
She felt complete.
A shout broke her peace. ‘Are you Jane!!! Thank goodness we have found you!’
Found you.
Words violating space and knowledge of her Self. She was not lost – she was not found.
***
She was glad that Matt made it back safely.
She was embarrassed but grateful rescuers were alerted.
She was grateful for her private journey, to have found her values – she did not see Matt again.
Shortlisted: Lost and found by Geoffrey Gaskill
According to Granny Walker, ‘Nothing’s ever found because nothing’s ever lost.’
The little boys sitting at her feet frowned.
‘Your father forgets that,’ she added. ‘Not, that I wish to speak ill of your father, Robert. He’s a good man. He’s just too … orderly for me.’
Robert frowned some more.
‘Orderly isn’t bad,’ Granny went on in a tone that suggested otherwise. ‘But I think it’s more interesting to think of life as an adventure.’
Robert frowned even more.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Robert shook his head. The frown disappeared.
Granny Walker looked to the ceiling. That was a thing Granny Walker often did, he noticed, when she was thinking. ‘It means,’ she said at last, ‘everything will work out in the end.’
‘But,’ Robert asked, ‘what if something gets lost but no one can find it again?’ His father said he did this. ‘You’re always losing everything,’ he complained. As far as Robert could see his father never lost anything.
That was a reason Robert loved Granny Walker. She didn’t care what his father said. Their house was orderly when Granny wasn’t there. When she visited, it wasn’t. At least that’s what Robert’s father said.
‘Huh,’ Granny grumped when Robert told her. ‘All that means is they weren’t really lost in the first place.’ She turned her warmest smile on him. ‘And isn’t that wonderful?’
‘But,’ Robert frowned like his father, ‘if they are lost …’
‘… they always get found. Maybe not by you but they always are.’
Granny Walker’s visit was a sign for Robert’s parents to begin arguing.
‘Your mother,’ he heard his father say, ‘is the most disorganised, careless …’
‘Don’t talk about my mother,’ Robert’s mother hissed. ‘Just because she’s not like you.’
‘She forgets things! She’s losing it!’
Robert wasn’t sure what this it was, but his mother’s angry response hinted at the answer. ‘Don’t you dare! She is not losing anything!’
If Granny Walker had lost something, Robert was certain she would find it again because she was a great finder.
‘She’s a bad influence!’ Robert’s father persisted.
‘Robert loves her.’
‘He’s a child! I rest my case!’
His mother was right. Granny Walker loved him as much as he loved her. ‘When I’m here,’ she confided, ‘No matter what anyone thinks, I give you permission to be dis-organised.’
On the last day of her last visit she took him aside and whispered, ‘Remember, nothing’s ever lost that can’t be found.’
Robert frowned. He was sure she’d got her words wrong. Or had he misremembered what she’d said?
‘And that includes love most of all.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘One day you will,’ she said, winking, before kissing him. If she said he’d understand one day he believed her.
Then she turned to Robert’s father and kissed him on the cheek, patted his face, smiled and nodded.
They exchanged no words but somehow, and in some way, Robert knew she’d found something special he’d lost too.
Shortlisted: Pros and cons by David Bridge
Max surveyed the finished work and pronounced himself pleased with the result. Securing the authentic canvas and media had been difficult, as had the ages of study of the originals including the appraisal processes that images seeking authentication were put through. Only a small percentage actually made it to the stage of being added to the official listings. The isolations associated with Covid had multiplied the difficulties with laying out the original drawings: finding life models with suitable features had been hard but at least lack of casual work had made it easier to win over students and waiting staff to the meagre rates he was offering, particularly when the illegal brothels were being tightly monitored. He knew he would be immortalising several ‘boys and girls’ of ‘ill-repute’ but those who recognised them would scarcely be shouting about it.
Confounding the arrogant experts was a part of his motivation. So far, his success at avoiding discovery had extended over many years. A number of his projects had eventually been found out but no one had pointed a finger in his direction. His knowledge of the art world was profound, as was his care to separate himself from the works appearing on the market. He made it his business to work with the best confidence tricksters of the day, trusting to their assessment of the most promising ‘marks’ for targeting sales. The current project should yield a decent return in the hundreds of thousands for all concerned.
Over his career, he had built an understanding of many major artists but preferred those who created their own materials. His expertise was founded on hard won recipes drawing on ingredients such as oil, honey, egg, an array of mineral pigments, even blood, although the latter held a grotesque quality that meant its inclusion was for authenticity alone. Picasso’s signature had become muscle memory but only at the last had he sullied one of his unique brushes with real blood. Max had weighed the pros and cons. It was tempting to leave the work unsigned, as much of Pablo’s dashed final works had no explicit attribution, but purchasers sometimes baulked without a scribble to pin hope to.
It was months later that word of nibbles on the line reached him. The baited seduction hook had been allowed to drift among the shoals of predators without any marked show of movement. The foundation of the long con traded tempting flashy displays for growing allure over time. Max was familiar with the courtship dance but glad when interest in the prize extended to an offer subject to closer examination. Now success hinged on how well his craft held up: greed for a cheap ravishment might win out over scientific delay.
Finally, an answer. The enterprise had foundered at the last moment. Analysis of the signature had confirmed the presence of blood but also that of Covid-19 antibodies below the surface seal. It was an irrecoverable flaw. Max surveyed his inventory – a Sunflower in a Vase beckoned.
https://www.vecteezy.com/free-vector/line-break
Terms of the competition were:
- Entries can be fiction or non-fiction, any genre
- Give your work an original title (not included in the word count)
- Your name should not appear anywhere on your work as the pieces will be judged anonymously
- Entrants must be paid members of Geelong Writers
- Limit of one entry per member
- Our house style is Australian Standard: singular quotations and Australian spelling
Images:
Moses Abandoned on the Nile. (Paul Delaroche (1797–1856) [date unknown]). https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Delaroche_Discovery_of_Moses.jpg
Archaeologist cleans off a layer of ground from a jar in Samosdelka. (Andrey Belavin, photographer. 28 July 2021). https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=131915243
Unidentified man panning for gold. (Stirling, James fl. 1897-1902, photographer. [ca. 1880-ca. 1900]) State Library of Victoria. http://handle.slv.vic.gov.au/10381/77640
Lost and Found Box. (Paul Gorbould, photographer. 2012.) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lost_and_Found_Box_(6947296049).jpg
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