The Finest 500 is an annual competition for Geelong Writers’ members. This year, writers were invited to submit prose or poetry to 500 words in response to the theme: Remnants. Julie Maclean judged the shortlist. You can read her notes here. Finest 500 2023 Judge’s Report. We posted the prize-winning entries last week. Read the rest of the shortlisted pieces below.
SHORTLISTED: ‘Enough’ by Kym Tyzack
She waited in the doorway, backlit by the hall light, until the last car door slammed. She lifted her hand, meaning it as a wave but her heart wasn’t in it, then moved back into the still, dim room. Minutes ago raucous. Drowning tea lights made flickering landscapes of discarded serviettes. A partly consumed block of dark chocolate reposed in its torn gold foil and ripped cardboard jacket. Finger- and lip-printed wine-glasses glowed in the last of the light, ruby dregs staining their bowls. A red blot bloomed on her white tablecloth. She traced it with her finger, flicked at an oil-drunk tip of rocket. She started to brush crumbs of bread with one hand into another. But it wasn’t all bread, some of the remains were soft, smearing the side of her hand. She wiped it on the fall of the cloth, screwed up her nose at the mouldy odour. She picked up her phone and read the message again. Still didn’t know how to reply. Blew out the candles. Used the backs of the chairs to guide her out of the room. She’d clean up tomorrow.
It was after ten the next morning when she squinted her way into the kitchen. Hardened red sauce splattered the stove top and splashback. A blackened blob stuck to a burner. Tiers of smeared plates, layered with cutlery, tilted. There was a smell too. The pile of mussel shells. They clattered against each other as she toppled them into a bin liner, her mind sorting through last night’s midden of sneering, certainty, glee. Remorse teetering at the top.
They’d ganged up on her friend’s new partner. He’d challenged their world view. Her friend grabbed his arm, told him – ‘enough.’ Red wine roiled in his glass before crashing over the edge to land on the cloth. The couple left before dessert. She saw them out. Gave her friend a hug. Squeezed the guy’s arm. The remaining guests sat bound in the candlelight. Their chatter muted. Eyes down. Smirks twitching.
She rejoined them. Someone poured her a wine. The conversation trickled back.
‘What a wanker,’ someone said.
She sniggered, just like the others.
Everyone found a scrap of his shortcomings to throw on the pile. To pick over. Chins jutted, teeth bared, fingers jabbing the table. But before long the wine and a couple of smart arse jibes had them laughing at him. Now and then someone found air amongst the howling to say – ‘okay, enough.’ Guilt hovered for a moment until someone caught someone’s eye. A snigger. Bellies jiggled. Laughter rang again. Their heads hurt. But they couldn’t stop. Tears streamed. But they couldn’t stop. Her phone lit up her. Her friend. Recriminations. Disappointment. She placed the phone face down on the table. Drew a breath. The others still in full flight, she picked it up again. Skipped the final message to scroll through the flippant, easy texts of their friendship.
‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Enough.’
SHORTLISTED: ‘Method Writing Cantata’ by Sue Gourlay
The remnants of a previous life discarded, last night, as my quick fingers carolled the castanet keyboard of my laptop, I became that Spanish dancer now featuring in my free flowing manuscript. As I described the bolero, fandango, malaguena I continued tapping a rhythm of words with my feet beating time below on the polished boards.
From a shadowy corner, my forgotten guitar awoke and asked jealously why I no longer plucked at her strings. Be Still, I replied, I’m writing.
Yet the flamenco in her refused to cease and the tunes we once played together infiltrated the room interrupting my depiction of the perfect zapateado.
Angrily, I picked her up by the g-string and threw her across my lap. Drawing back for the slap, I felt her smooth varnished neck, cold against my bare shoulder and momentarily faltered.
But it was impossible to continue from that position – smack!
Perhaps I pushed her, in any case, when she hit the floor, I believed her vibrating echo, had had little effect on my busy hands and yet, I could not forget her slumped beside me, her taut cat-gut purring each time my heel jolted the floor. I continued my beating in seguidilla now producing an eloquent cantata as I tripped the light fantastic from Q to P, A to L and Z to M – all the way to the next chapter.
I confess that writing with such speed had not been usual pace, yet last night, with head spinning, the words flourished across each page, gliding through phrases and inexplicably creating a cadence of seamless sentences.
The resultant work may lead you to baulk at my audacity; to think my ten bouncing fingers dare discard twelve willing strings for a keyboard; letters replacing the fiery chords befitting a passacaglia.
But wait, in preparation, I had stained my body blood orange and sketched the dot of a beauty on my cheek, lips glossed deep crimson and mascaraed lashes lined with electric blue.
Stripped down to strapless red satin, I removed my mantilla immediately sensing the untamed strands of my thick tresses hanging freely down my back.
Together with shifting bare legs, each clink of my braceleted arms encouraged me to continue; a swig of Margherita providing even further food for thought.
And, while gargling my third cocktail, the row of brilliant black pearls encircling my throat broke free, threatening to shatter my screen. Olé.
Meanwhile, my envious guitar lay in waiting.
With the spilling of the moon, a long ivory corona lit up my room, its zodiac light sailing through an open window casting Z-like shadows on the walls. A gentle breeze carrying the scent of an altissimo was to prepare my teeth for the thorny stalk it was soon destined to encounter.
My method writing continued to accelerate as my feverish fingers hammered so quickly at the letters I feared they would draw blood.
Bolero, fandango, malaguena, last night while my guitar gently wept, the Spanish dancer in me wrote.
SHORTLISTED: ‘Underworld’ by Jess Rice
You stand on the shoreline, your chest rising and falling in time with the crashing waves. Inhale, exhale. The electricity weaves itself through the air and ripples across your skin, its energy clearing the cobwebs from your bones.
You are filled with the smell of the earth, of the place from which we all came. The air is heavy with salt, the ocean’s spray as it hits the sunlight filling the air with wonder. The bowed branches and flailing limbs of the she-oaks mimic waving arms; are they warning you or inviting you to play? The passing of time is marked by deepening shadows as the grey masses overtake its gleam. The ocean morphs from bruised blue to dark purple; the same shade that adorned your childhood mood ring, its cheap metal once staining your skin, the colour of the seaweed now at your feet.
The incoming storm and changing of tides unearth the ocean’s depths, their collective forces spewing out its secrets to lay bare on the sand. Naked, if not for a speckling of sand, seashells and driftwood and glassy, bulbous jellyfish. You brush shards of the ocean floor from your feet, your skin tough and accustomed to the sting of the reemerged. Remnants of a hidden, untouched world are brought to the surface, and you can’t help feeling as though you’ve been here before.
We are all mere constellations of what remains after the storm, the fragments of what survived the chaos forming a pillar of resolve that keeps us standing. We learn to dodge incoming debris, to separate the stones we shall buffer and pocket from those to discard. When you have lived a dozen lives within one, the art of keeping and letting go is a means of repair and survival. You are a ladder-fitted bookcase of stories, some pages sullied with ash and blood, others dogeared as a reminder to return to that place when your spirits are low.
Overlooking the ocean as the haze of the incoming downpour creeps across the horizon, you feel at peace with all that you are made of. You are not a leftover good, not something to be classified as evidence of a crime. The gaps that glue you together are filled with gold, your sharp edges smoothed out as time wears on.
As you continue living, you will continue to collect heartaches and moments of shimmering elation, of teardrops heavy with joy and those of seemingly irreparable hurt. Like the waves pulled by the moon, you will continue to turn, your deepest kept wounds becoming your most valuable gems.
SHORTLISTED: ‘War Wounds’ by Martin Smith
Proctor and August. The brothers Thring. Identical twins except for their eyes; one pair blue, the other pair green.
Sitting side by side. At a pub. The Brothers-in-Arms.
Each holds a small black box. One turns left. The other turns right.
‘Marry me?’ Proctor asks Jan.
‘Marry me?’ August asks Jen.
Two sisters. Two “I will’s”. Two brides-to-be.
……………….. Remnants. Remnants of proposals finally asked.
Two brothers at a port. Uniformed. Kit bags in arms. Soldiers off to a great war.
Broken hearts. Tears and unspoken fears as embarking nears.
‘Goodbye, darling,’ the brothers say.
‘Goodbye, my love,’ the sisters call. ‘Promise you’ll return in one piece.’
‘We promise.’
……………….. Remnants. Remnants of lives torn apart.
Dearest Jan,
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……………….. Remnants. Remnants of love letters redacted in parts.
Two soldiers. Trenched brothers. Comrades-in-arms.
Mud. Mites. Malnutrition. Mustard gas. Military mayhem.
Christmas Day. Twin brothers meet twin brothers, enemies, Jerry and Gerry.
The middle of no man’s land. A temporary truce. Shared gifts. A friendly game of football.
At sunset, hostilities resume. Goodwill is lost.
……………….. Remnants. Remnants of civilities of a once peaceful past.
Two brothers sombre at the Somme. News arrives. The war is over. Armistice.
They hug. Brothers in each other’s arms.
‘Hooray! We’ve survived!’ they shout.
They jump in the air.
‘Hooray! We’re homeward bound!’
They jump in the air again.
‘Hooray! Back to our brides!’
They jump in the air a third time.
When they return to earth, they land on a mine.
……………….. Remnants. Remnants of a bomb blast.
Two soldiers. Unconscious. Unarmed. War-wounded. Casualties of not-so-great war.
Proctor wakes to pitch dark, with lips parched.
‘August?’ he whispers. ‘You there?’
‘Yes,’ a voice whispers.
‘Where?’
‘To your right. Next to you.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘I think so. Bit sore and sorry and numb on your side. You?’
‘Same. What’s left of me, anyway.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Yes, thank God.’
……………….. Remnants. Remnants of brotherly solace passed.
‘Private Thring,’ a voice says in a disarming light, ‘can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know you’re in hospital?’
‘No.’
‘You stepped on an explosive. We’ve patched you up. Put you back together again, best we could. You’re lucky to have survived. You’re on the next boat home. Anyone special waiting back there?’
‘Yes.’
……………….. Remnants. Remnants of the maimed in plaster cast.
Two women stand arm in arm at a train station. Joy fills their hearts as they each clutch a crumpled letter in one hand and a waving, white handkerchief in the other.
‘Our boys are coming home!’
A train arrives with a squeal of steel and a gush of steam. A soldier steps from a distant carriage, waves and hobbles towards them.
‘Proctor? Jan says, unsure.
‘Dearest,’ he says.
‘August?’ Jen says, uncertain.
‘Darling,’ he says. ‘Here we are, home again, all stitched up and back in one piece as promised.’
He removes his sunglasses and reveals his war-worn eyes—one blue, the other green.
‘And, sweethearts, please call us Proust.’
……………….. Remnants. Remnants of Thrings Past.
SHORTLISTED: ‘Waterlogged by Grief’ by Alex Adorno
A fool in flames,
I’ve become both the fire erasing history
and the memories edging in ebony before they disintegrate in my palms.
I pull apart the threads one by one, as smoked waves crash into my family and I,
The unmoored souls from land with no home or refuge from this cursed cyclone of remembrance.
Disorienting drifting dissociation dulls desire to drag discernment from
My spiral to the depths of Davy Jones Locker.
Can you be burning alive 20,000 leagues under the sea?
Floating on tangles of time before my descent began, I unwind to fragments of my bygone life.
‘What am I?’ a hatchling version of me asked years ago, and
Not even the wind replied.
I was left in the Arctic Circle far from the sunny beaches of what might have been.
As a child, I sailed into a storm chasing light I could see.
Too young to know the only light inside the eye was me.
I built an oasis of wishful thinking for us to survive,
Joys we had – fleeting as they were – true treasures we found along the way.
As my siblings swam onwards, I sank.
Ship’s logs I’m sifting through once more,
The despair I wished to save my crew from weighing heavy in stale submarine air.
An enemy I made of me,
With injuries I obtained on behalf of others I was thrust into responsibility for.
Temporary leader of juveniles,
Lashing out at things they didn’t understand until walking to the watery depths on the head of home’s command.
Yes sir, never question as curiosity kills us all.
Demoted to First Lieutenant Failure on parental discretion and promoted as convenient,
Caring for the children he didn’t want to have…
My siblings and I resided within my father’s cult of one.
Am I a hero or a villain? It’s argued either way, like Nemo I’m uncertain of my judgment.
Someone had to be the eldest, after we became castaways.
Am I making the right call touching the dangers of Deep Trauma kept locked away so long?
I’m sorry Captain Nobody if we drown, it’s far better to sacrifice the submarine now.
Pressure gauges already exploded with the grief I couldn’t contain for decades,
The engine enraged at being betrayed by those who were supposed to protect, love, and teach me.
One nobody to another, to become safe,
As afraid of dark water and demonic sea monsters as I am,
I MUST dive deeper.
These fears my sirens beckoning, a spiraling shell anxious to reach the ocean floor.
Maybe riding the tides of loss can turn the sea to gold, setting me free.
SHORTLISTED: ‘You’re not even ten percent’ by Jennifer Hurley
Content warning: This article contains information relating to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander history that some readers may find sensitive or distressing.
Growing up in Cobram, Trent Millsteed always knew he had a First Nations background, but that was the only fragment of information he had. Who his ancestors were, and where they came from, was a mystery to him. Something to be kept hidden. Trent’s family’s direct connection to culture and country was severed generations ago and his questions outweighed his knowledge. Since becoming a father, Trent is determined to find answers so his children can acknowledge and be proud of their heritage.
Trent’s desire to know more about his background has met with negativity. A common reaction is, “you’re not even ten percent, why bother?” Not only is this hurtful, but Trent points out that to ignore his background would mean, “they’ve won; that’s what they wanted.” Trent is referring to the policy of Assimilation. With the passing of the Immigration Restriction Act in 1901—the White Australia Policy—the assimilation of Aboriginal people into a white population until they ‘died out’ became a governmental goal. “It’s about truth telling,” Trent asserts.
Through extended family, Trent has found evidence, including birth certificates and official records, shedding light on two significant forebears: Janet Sprake McCart and her mother, known only as Jane, even though her paternity was acknowledged in court records.
At age 12, Jane was relocated from Barapa Barapa country—near Deniliquin—to Wadawurrung country at Beaufort, Fiery Creek. The circumstances leading to Jane’s ‘relocation’ are unclear, but at that time Aboriginal people were frequently forcibly removed from traditional lands. At 13, Jane was raped by a white man and gave birth to Janet in 1850. After giving birth, Jane died, and Janet was adopted by a white couple, Jeanette and Henry Sprake.
In an 1862 Crown case, George Anstay was accused of raping Janet. The Argus newspaper reported that Janet was,
“a half-caste child […] the daughter of an aboriginal woman, belonging to the Wakool tribe, by one George Hamilton, the station overseer […] on Fiery Creek.”
That ‘aboriginal woman’ was Jane, and being from the Wakool tribe indicates Barapa Barapa heritage – a vital snippet of information for Trent. Despite medical evidence presented by a surgeon, the judge directed the jury to return a ‘not guilty’ verdict.
Janet eventually relocated to Marong, near Bendigo, where she married an Irish farmer, John McCart, and had 11 children. Jane’s and Janet’s descendants now number in the hundreds, and Trent is one of them.
Trent contacted the Wathaurong Aboriginal Co-operative and other First Nations organisations, seeking support with learning more about his history. He hopes his First Nations’ heritage will be recognised. While birth certificates and other official documents are important, being accepted by the community is a crucial part of recognition.
Trent now lives on Wadawurrung country on the Bellarine[1] Peninsula and continues to search for remnants of information about his connection to the oldest, continuous living culture in the world.
…
NOTE: This article was written with the knowledge and permission of Trent Millsteed, who wrote, ‘Not only do I authorise the writing of and use of my name and family history within your piece ‘you’re not even ten percent’, I’m also very appreciative of you for undertaking this.’
[1] Based on the Wadawurrung word for the region, ‘Bellawyn’ or ‘Balla-wein’.
REFERENCES
Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS), ‘Proof of Aboriginality’, see: https://aiatsis.gov.au/proof-aboriginality
Clark, I. and Heydon, T. (2002) Dictionary of Aboriginal placenames of Victoria, Victorian Aboriginal Corp. for Languages, Melbourne.
Commonwealth of Australia (1997) Bringing them home. Report of the National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families.
Joyce, L. (2023) ‘Laurie finds inspiration in his great great gran’s story’, in Lifeblood, see: https://www.lifeblood.com.au/news-and-stories/vital-reads/laurie-finds-inspiration-in-his-great-great-grans-story
National Archives of Australia, The Immigrations Restriction Act 1901, see: https://www.naa.gov.au/explore-collection/immigration-and-citizenship/immigration-restriction-act-1901
The Argus (1862) ‘Melbourne Criminal Sessions’, Tuesday, 16th December, 1862.
Charlie
wow. these are all incredible. thank you for your work