Narrative Writing Competition

• Please submit your students’ narratives to fals@jcu.edu.au
• Schools are permitted to submit multiple student entries.
• PDF files are to be saved with school name and entrant’s name eg: HIGHSCHOOL_Michael Smith.pdf
• Schools and students will be notified early 2027 when judging is complete, and it is anticipated that the winners will be announced at a Local Authors event in Townsville late February 2027.

• all entries to be submitted by school/teacher.
• all entries authenticated by anti-plagiarism software, including AI detection.
• entries to be no longer than 2000 words.
• narrative genre, predominantly prose (as mandated by QCAA General subjects)
• submission due no later than Friday 4^th December 2026.
• students provide consent for winning entries to be published on the FALS website and social media.
• Adjudicator/judges results are final and there is no appeal process.

Winners will receive a selection of Australian literary works that offer a unique perspective on the stories, culture, and essence of Australia, as celebrated nominees for the prestigious Margaret and Colin Roderick Literary Award.

When the World Forgot

by Ian Choi

Escape. Verb.
To break free from confinement or control.

Prison. Noun.
A place where people are legally held as a punishment for a crime they have committed or while awaiting trial.

Or so it seems.

Prison is often thought to be a physical destination, with walls, bars, and guards. But not all prisons are made of steel. Some are built in the mind. Formed from fear. Sustained by oppression. Reinforced through regulation. Constructed not from physical bricks, but from the burdens of control – enforced obedience, constant surveillance, and the quiet weight that speaking freely is no longer safe. And sometimes, the warden is the very system you were taught to trust in more than anything.

The year is 2149. And silence is law. There are no wars. No protests. No more revolutions. Just stillness. Order. Silence. The city wears calm the way people wear cologne. Because it’s been told to, because it’s safer to smell like safety than smell like anything at all. No one screams here. No one shouts. Voices are soft and monotone, mouths moving in sync, like a metronome guiding a slow, careful march.

A woman at the bakery mouths a phrase of words and allows her eyes to say another. A boy on the train hums a rhythm that doesn’t match any approved tune. Someone has carved, beneath a public bench, a sentence in the shape of a fist. “You are not wrong for wanting more.” No one read it aloud.

They called it peace. And maybe, in some eerie way, it was.

The world didn’t end in fire. It folded in on itself like origami. Creased inward – until conversation fit into paper shapes. Lines became instructions. Shrank down to a script, a list, people didn’t hold conversations, they acted out a scene drafted by the government. People speak only when they must. They say what has been taught. Ingrained into the very essence of one’s soul. And they say it directly.

No more. No less.

But most of all, they tell you what to forget.

The Silence Accord did this. A policy, passed in silence, approved without voting, enforced without question after the final wave of civil collapse. After the riots. After “truth” turned into something people fought over instead of sought. The Accord redefined speech as we know it. Promised unity, protection, and peace, by setting approved emotions, eradicating idioms, jokes, and sarcasm. The Accord’s purpose was not to harm, but to protect the world from collapse. At least, that’s what the broadcasts say. They don’t allow the footage to be shown anymore. Of what once was. They said language was the root of all unrest. It was too confusing, too emotional, too dangerous. Language allowed for too much truth all at once, and with that, too many interpretations. So, they simplified it. Narrowed meanings, trimmed emotions, flattened differences, sanded off nuances. Words became tools. And tools became weapons. Sticks and stones became secondary sources of power. Until it was safer not to use your words at all.

They hand out “gifts” to everyone upon reaching age ten. A chip. Implanted at the base of the skull. Invisible to the eye, yet it’s something everyone knows we all possess. They call it the Mute. A mandated, permanent, corrective device. A filter. It ensures our speech aligns with their safety protocols. It helps one avoid expression, calming “harmful” impulses. Ensures that language remains “appropriate.” Once implanted, it feels like nothing at first. A calm before the storm I suppose. Then comes the tension. A static buzz when an idea forms that doesn’t conform to standards. A fog clouding your mind, a puppeteer manipulating your very thoughts. Say something outside such bounds and it corrects you. Push too hard to break free, and there’s pain. Your voice switches mid-sentence.

You can’t lie.
You can’t rage.
You can’t love.
You can’t mourn.

There isn’t any controversy, and most of all, no screams. Not because pain doesn’t exist, but because people have forgotten how to name it. All that exists in the world we call home is dull, grey monotonous life. Emotions aren’t banned but simply discouraged. If you show too much emotion, a review is triggered.

And yet, every now and then – there is an echo. A symbol of hope that everyone holds to themselves, not daring to mention it. The echo comes in many forms. A word that doesn’t belong. A piece of music playing in a silent hallway. A question whispered where no questions are to be asked. Echoes of something older. Something free. Something forgotten.

It began with a glitch in the system. The first glitch I had seen in my 42 years of life. During a routine workplace inspection, a phrase appeared on a clearance form. Six words, reading “What we’ve lost is still speaking.” It isn’t flagged by the system, lingering, rather than immediately vanishing like all controversial items. The chip buzzes faintly – like a warning to me that doesn’t quite know what to warn against. Seven seconds later, it disappears. A screen of static replaces it.

But something remains.

A residue. A ringing. A thought too large to compress. The days that follow are unfamiliar to me, the atmosphere, off. Not because the world has changed – but because the way I see the world has changed. Once you hear the echo, you can’t unhear it, piercing through every other sense, breaking the illusion of silence.

People seem different now. Their pauses are longer. Smiles thinner. Eyes, searching, longing to experience more. Everything seems suspicious. Too symmetrical. Too rehearsed. Too… precise.

Even the sky seems fake, sticking out like a sore thumb. The clouds are too quiet. The light too pale, the wind whispering nothing of substance, much like society.

Then, the dreams began. Not the dreams that the Accord mandated. Extravagant, wild, world-altering dreams. A girl reciting poetry off a rooftop bar, that cut like glass and soothed like water. A child painting their grief on walls in a hundred colours. A man, laughing loudly, wrongly, but freely. And the worst part of all was the fact that it felt real. Not fictional, not rehearsed, but real.

The next day, I got contacted for the first time. A slip of paper – handwritten. No signature, no formatting, no formalities. Just the words, “Do not confuse stillness with safety.” The chip didn’t register it. Paper has no code for it to interpret. It’s tangible. Illegal. Real. The next message arrived a week later – this time carved into the base of a flowerpot inside my house. “We are the Offline. Meet us.” A location and a time provided, and a symbol. Three horizontal lines broken in the centre. The mark of the “Offline.” Going meant risk. Danger. There were rumours surrounding the Offline. They said that the Offline took people apart and rebuilt them into versions that the Accord could not recognise. But staying means the erasure of my identity. Not immediate. A slow sanctioned descent into someone who never wanted anything more than a quiet life and a wife. So, the choice was made. To go.

The rendezvous point was an old, abandoned train station. Three men waited for me there. Faces covered in masks all bearing the mark of the Offline on their chest. No lights. No cameras. No drones. Only bodies and breath and the sound of free speech. Their voices were cautious. Raw. Unfiltered. They spoke in full sentences. Named books that didn’t exist anymore, sang fragments of music that were banned for their ability to make people feel a certain type of way. I had read books talking about free speech – not the legal kind, but the dangerous, beautiful kind. The kind that lives, lingers, and leaves an imprint. They spoke of the Accord, not of anger or hatred, but of grief. Grief of what was lost to all but themselves.

Words of belonging, acceptance, ache, hope.
Of books erased.
Of songs replaced by anthems of the slaves to control.
Of the day they chose silence and how long it took to miss the sound of their own voice.

One of them handed over a device. A neural disruptor, designed to nullify the effects of the Mute for ten minutes. “Use it when you need to remember. Or when you’re ready to be heard,” they said. The decision sat heavily in my heart.

Because remembering is dangerous.
But forgetting is worse.
And silence, is no longer peace.
Silence is the deafening sound of who you were slipping away.

I chose to activate the device during a lunch break. A timed window in a world that kept its eyes open all the time. It hummed once. And in that instant, the mind opens. Not in chaos, but in clarity.

The low white noise of the world receded. A fog – once a crushing veil draped upon the mind like the sky across Atlas’ shoulders – lifts. Colours reasserted themselves where grey had been the standard. Memories returned in ribbons, not as overwhelming torrents of information, but as uncrumpling, unfiltered clarity. Thoughts that had been clipped, like hands released from bindings. The rhythm of my speech returned. Imperfect, unsanctioned, but glorious.

Then, I begin to speak.
“I remember the way language used to move. I remember being more than a puppet. I remember wanting without permission. I remember not being afraid of my own voice.” The sound echoes through the hallways, bouncing off the walls, off the skin, and off the soul.

When the chip reboots, everything is quiet again. But not completely. Because the echo remains. In the following days, others caught it. A man slipped a sentence into a compliance manual and watched the page hold it like contraband. A boy spray painted birds on a wall, where the state mandated a clean blank canvas. A woman hummed a line of a song in a corridor, causing a dozen heads to turn, surprised into recognition.

They heard it too.
The echo.

Suddenly, the system isn’t as complete as it once seemed.
Silence is no longer unanimous. And language is no longer fully owned.
I speak less, but more deliberately.

When I say, “I am aligned,” I know I’m lying. And in that lie lives a resistance. I begin to record words. In notebooks. In drawings. In breaths. I gather the language they attempted to bury and share it. Not in speeches. Not yet. But in symbols, looks, and in gestures. The new resistance isn’t violent. It’s viral.

They say this world is free because there are no protests. But they don’t understand the protest of remembrance. Or the rebellion of naming pain. Or the rebellion of saying what you were told. Of the rebellion of never feeling again.

This is how change begins: With a word. Then another. Then another.
A single voice. Then an echo. Then a storm.
The silence isn’t as quiet as it used to be.
Not anymore.

Escape. Verb.
To break free from confinement or control.
To remember who you were before they taught you to forget.
To speak, even when it’s dangerous.
Especially, when it’s dangerous.

Limerence

by Olivia Holmes

The first time I saw her she was hunched over a cluttered desk in the university library, brow furrowed in intense focus as her fingers absentmindedly twisted a gold ring on her right hand. Her long hair cascaded down either side of her face, auburn strands curling around her neck like a cozy scarf, creating a warm contrast against her pale skin.

The next day I spotted her crossing the campus, her slender frame almost swallowed by a mountain of thick winter layers. The Launceston chill bit at my lungs, making every breath sharp and heavy. Her cheeks and nose were flushed a soft pink, the same colour as the roses in the perfume she wore. The scent lingered faintly across the courtyard, like a ghost trailing behind her. For a moment she glanced my way, just long enough for both of us to feel the spark, before she quickly looked away, shy to meet my eyes. She disappeared into the crowd of bustling students, unaware of the life-altering moment I was still standing in. I told myself not to follow after her, but I felt drawn to her. Drawn to her like the rest of the world had faded into nothing but background noise and it was just the two of us. I made sure not to get too close, just enough to see which building she went into, just enough to keep her in sight.

It surprised me, the day I walked into my lecture and saw her sitting six rows ahead, hunched over a cluttered desk exactly like the first time I saw her. I hadn’t known she was in this class. All that time I wasted listening to the professor, when I could have been watching her. For a few seconds I was frozen in the doorway, watching her fiddling with that gold ring I never saw her without. I was snapped out of my daydream when I was shoved out of the way, people muttering impatiently at me to get out of the way.

It was undeniably fate, it had to be. Out of all the classes and all the students at this university, fate had brought us together, into this class, into this room, at this hour. Fate had sealed our souls together. I admired the way she read over her book, her eyes shining with passion and fury, reflecting my soul. The other girls didn’t have that wonderous glint in their eyes. She was different, special, perfect. I watched her look around the room, smiling at several people, never letting herself look at me. Not yet.

I thought I had felt like this before, maybe once or twice. I’d loved a few times, or at least thought I had, until I saw her. But the others didn’t shine like her, or have that unmistakeable glint behind their eyes. None of them had ever lasted long. Their faces were blurry now, faded and forgotten. She was truly the first one who deserved to be remembered. I desperately wanted her to finally notice me. See me the way I see her. But she would, eventually.

For the next few days after classes I prayed that we would coincidentally run into each other. I traced her steps quietly, hoping that she would eventually notice me. I was like her shadow, her own guardian angel, following and watching. I would always be there for her, ready to step in whenever needed. She needed me there to keep her safe, and to protect her. A vulnerable and beautiful girl like her was bound to find herself in trouble. She would be the damsel in distress, and I would be the hero, arriving to save her when I was finally needed.

I knew exactly where she was headed. She always took the same turn across the garden to the library, each time stopping to admire the roses. After her trip to the gardens, she would make her way to the library. I always followed at a careful distance, quiet and calculated. She’d turn around rapidly, scanning the area with a wild look behind her eyes before quickly darting off. I recognised that look, I had seen many times before.

One afternoon she had dropped her scarf, not realising it had fallen out of her bag. I took it, meaning to give it back. It wasn’t stealing, I just wanted to feel closer to her, there’s nothing wrong with that. I wanted to touch something that she had, smell something that smelt like her.

I couldn’t get enough of her. I slowly started to collect tokens of her love. Her pens she accidentally left behind after class, lip gloss, strands of her soft auburn hair left on the chair. I kept her belongings in a small wooden box. The same box was filled with many items from over the years. That box contained my most prized possessions, but also my greatest secrets. Nobody could ever know about the box, and I would make sure nobody ever would.

Each night I would wait for her to leave the library, before following behind her. I kept in the shadows, keeping my distance, but ensuring she was always in sight, keeping her safe. Each night we would take the same right turn down the quiet lane behind the library, before following the long brick wall. Each night she would grip onto her keys, her knuckles turning so white you could see them glow in the dark. The lights would flicker and every few minutes she’d frantically whip her head around to check she was alone, but she would never be alone. I would always be there to protect her, kill for her, tear to pieces any threat that approached her. She made me dangerous, brought out the predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

I’d seat myself outside her apartment in the shadows, until she turned off her light for bed, watching her silhouette through the curtains. She pretended not to notice, but I knew she felt my presence, my protection. Each night I stayed, only allowing myself to leave after the lights were off and I had checked her door was locked. I had to know she was safe, that she was mine and mine only forever, like a secret I’d take to the grave.

Each night we’d continue our little game of protection and her pretending I wasn’t there. We had this secret game between the two of us, I just wondered when one of us would eventually give up the chase. As winter deepened her behaviour changed. I noticed her hands would shake frantically when she tried to open the door, and I wouldn’t see her appear in the window for several minutes. She’d peak out the corner of the window scanning the street, looking to make sure I was here. But she still didn’t see me, the shadows concealed me. But she would soon see me.

The night it happened was bitterly cold. The stormy wind howled like a banshee, swallowed every sound, the streetlights were completely dead. Our usual routine broken by the weather. She sprinted home, clinging to her flimsy umbrella. I watched from a bus stop as she slammed the door behind her, breathless. I waited for the lights to turn out before trudging through the wet road up to her apartment door. I did my usual check of her door, however this time it was unlocked. She finally was finally inviting me inside. She finally needed me. She had to, she had left the door open for me. It was an invitation, one I couldn’t refuse.

I creaked the door open, I opened my mouth to find the words, to call out to her, to let her know I was finally here, but my vocal cords remained still. I didn’t know what to finally say to her, but I knew her. I knew her daily coffee order, her favourite chocolates, how she only ever twirled her ring to the right. I knew everything that mattered. I knew the innermost parts of her soul, she would understand. We were not strangers, not anymore.

I continued to make my way deeper into our apartment. It was dark so I could only make out the silhouettes of walls and picture frames. I blindly guided my way into what appeared to be the hallway, our bedroom door waited at the end. A soft glow spilled out from under the door. This was it, this was the moment, we would finally be together.

I slowly turned the doorknob, careful not to startle her, this had to be perfect. I creaked the door open, heart pounding, my breath shallow. Then my whole world collapsed. A scream, a blur of motion. The sharp corner of a hardback book collided with my jaw, sending me stumbling backwards, crumpling against the wall. Pain burst through my skull. How could she do this to me?

She made a beeline to the kitchen, barefoot, sobbing and screaming for help. Instinctively, I caught her ankle before she passed, pulling her down with me. I had to make her understand, we were meant for each other. She hit the floor hard, smacking her forehead, a terrified cry tore through her throat drowned out by the howling wind. Blood rushed from her eyebrow, tears stained her cold face.

“Get out, get out, get out,” she pleaded as the blood quickly gushed down her face, mixing with her tears. “Leave me alone, you psycho. How did you get in? Please let me go.” She kept thrashing against me, kicking and crying.

I held her close to me trying to calm her, trying to keep her in my grasp as my heart shattered into millions of pieces. “You don’t mean that, don’t you understand? I love you, you love me. You know that, you know me.”

She looked horrified. I felt my chest hollow in against her back. She sobbed, her breaths rapid as she continued to hit me, trying to escape my firm grip.

Something inside me cracked. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to. But her words, her words cut into my heart so deep, I lost control. My strong hands moved on their own, reaching to quiet her, to stop the crying. I squeezed, to show her the strength of my love. I squeezed, to show her that we were meant for each other. I squeezed, so that she would be forever mine. Her breathing grew fainter, and her thrashing stopped. Then silence. Cold silence. The wind, howled like a mother who just lost her child.

Now I sit here alone, in my dimly lit room, the soft gleam of her ring reflecting off the rising Spring sun. It’s beautiful, gold and simple, with nothing but a ‘P’ engraved into the cold metal. I run my thumb over it gently, with love. She doesn’t need it anymore, not where she is. She would have wanted me to have it, to preserve it for her, to love and cherish it forever. It is a symbol of her love, to me, for me, forever. Even if she never found the words to tell me.

The clean up was much easier this time. I’ve learnt to become quicker, efficient, careful. I’ve learnt how to dispose of them without a trace, none ever to be discovered. All of them, my girls, left me pieces of them, their rings, but hers is my new favourite. I gently place her ring into my small wooden box and tuck it back into its hiding place behind the loose panel in the roof. My girls are safe, loved, and forever mine.

Shoko Tregear Pimlico State High School

by Gumtrees in Bitumen

Trembling, Caitlyn weaves her way through the city, slipping between streams of bustling pedestrians who, like her, are desperate to escape the week and return home on this weary Friday afternoon. The wind teases the fringes of her scarf, but she clutches it closer around her neck, a small shield against the chilly air. Her heels click sharply against the geometric pavers, still slick with the remnants of an earlier drizzle. Each breath escapes her lips as a faint wisp of vapour, vanishing almost as quickly as it forms. She idly takes notice of the posters, layered upon one another in chaotic succession, colours bleeding and edges frayed. Most are the usual city noise she’s walked by before, but one halts her steps.

A gum tree. Its roots twisted deep in black bitumen. And above it, in bold, unignorable letters:
“What have they done to us?”

Caitlyn narrows her gaze and her brows furrow. At first glance, the painting shown in the poster seems peculiar, and something about it calls her closer – as if there are secrets in the painting, details invisible until witnessed in person.
She glances at her leather wristwatch. 5:20pm. Plenty of time for a detour before heading home. Sliding her phone out of her back pocket, she snaps a photo of the poster and turns towards the curb in search of a taxi.

***

Half an hour later, Caitlyn’s body sways rhythmically as the taxi crosses a long bridge. She gazes through the window at a city drenched in golden light. The sun had started journeying down the sky, on its way to rest with sunrays peeking out from behind glass towers. Between the looming buildings, she catches fleeting glimpses of green, small fragments of what once was.

“What a shame,” Caitlyn thought as she imagined a once picturesque, wild, unrelenting Australian bush thriving, before being cleared in the name of urbanization. Now, true natural bush lies two hours away, exiled to the city’s fringes. In its place, the council had planted thin and pitiful, ornamental trees, their roots imprisoned in concrete environments to soften the sharpness of urban life.

Clouds, infrastructure, bustles of young people in the club strip and even more infrastructure passed by the taxi window, until finally she reached her location.

Thanking the driver, she steps out, the air heavy with exhaust and distant rain. Guided by her phone, words pop up with arrows urging her left, right, then left again. Caitlyn pivots on her heels, her eyes scanning her surroundings for any sign of the art gallery. Her chest tightens; it closes in fifteen minutes.

Crash! Pottery shatters against the pavement, leaving colourful fragments beside her feet.

Startled, Caitlyn looks up to see a young woman framed in an open window two floors above, hands clamped over her mouth in horror.

“I am so sorry!” she shouts frantically.

Moments later, she appears at the street door, rushing towards Caitlyn with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. Meanwhile, Caitlyn crouches down and gathers the broken pieces. She turns one over in her hand, and despite its fracture, the design strikes her. Painted scrub and tangled trees wrap around its surface, each brush stroke capturing the true unruliness of the Australian bush.

The young woman, Kirra, hurriedly introduces herself and nearly knocks Caitlyn over in her haste to help.

“Did you paint this vase?” Caitlyn inquired, her voice tinged with wonder.

Kirra’s blush deepens. “It’s just a hobby,” she says lightly, though her paint-stained fingertips tell another story. “If you’re interested, I can show you the rest!”

Caitlyn beams and eagerly follows Kirra up the narrow stair well.

Kirra’s apartment door creaks open and the warmth from the room was welcoming. The scent of eucalyptus oil drifts gently through the room. Every inch of the honest living room had transformed into a make-shift art gallery with various ceramics and paintings brimming with life, whispering untold stories.

And there, stacked neatly on a coffee table, is a pile of posters displaying the image which had first caught Caitlyn’s eye.

Then she sees the painting itself, titled, “Municipal Gum.”

“May I?” Caitlyn asks softly, and Kirra nods with a humble smile.

“I painted it for my grandmother,” Kirra says. Her voice is soft, and emotional. “It’s to tell her story as an Aboriginal woman who lived through displacement and the loss of her culture.”

Caitlyn steps closer until she is eye-level with the painting. The gum tree stands defiant yet strangled, its roots pushing up against the hard bitumen, desperate for a freedom that would never come.

Beside it, a cart-horse straining under an overbearing cart, castrated and broken. The horse’s head hangs low beneath its burden, its poor life wronged, and its hope long extinguished. The foreground is a sprawl of half-built houses with bitumen trapping the earth beneath it.

But just beyond it, a sliver of green.
The bush. Distant, but still there.

Caitlyn’s breath hitches as she notices more. A young English child wrenching at the bitumen around the gum tree’s trunk, innocent hands trying to help it breathe. And beside the child was their mother. Ashamed, eyes averted with one hand holding the child back.
As Caitlyn takes in the painting, she feels the weight of each brushstroke. Quiet grief and stubborn hope.

She sees, suddenly, not just a tree and a horse, but someone’s life story of being land bound and silenced. People forced to bear a weight they did not choose. And yet, even in that bleakness, something else stirs.

The child in the corner, its chubby hands clawing at the black grass of bitumen, was small and futile, still it tried. Roots pushed. Life endured.

“It’s beautiful,” Caitlyn whispers, her voice trembling with something she couldn’t name.

Kirra smiles, presses a print of the poster into Caitlyn’s hands, and says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

***

When Caitlyn steps out into the night, the city no longer feels the same. The trees she once disregarded in concrete prisons were still standing there, but now she imagines, somewhere deep within, the roots pushing back, slow and relentless.

She thinks of the words on the poster:

‘What have they done to us?’

And for the first time, she wonders if she could help those roots grow.

Sunrise on the Gallows

by Beth Patton

The sun rose on the gallows. Dawn crept over the hill, pale light spilling slowly across the chilled earth. The light settled on her wrists, bound tight, coarse rope trembling against raw skin in the harsh winter air. Cold light sprawled over the frost-slicked beam of the gallows post. Elizabeth’s eyes traced its every crack, each one whispering a memory. Each crevice bore a souvenir of a life now gone. The limbs of the post were proudly outstretched, ivory rope dropping off one arm. The left side suffered from a shallow gouge where countless knots had been tied and untied. Over the gusts of wind, she just made out the murmurs of the noose creaking gently. It hung like a pendulum, poised between life and death.

She inhaled, tasting the bitter winter air, crisp and biting, as she peered down to where she would soon be. Soil lay beneath the unfailing executioner of the gallows post, churned and dark. It too held its own testimony- worn down by the footsteps of Reverends, witches and mourners alike. It was stained by their salt-laced tears and something even more sinister that had fallen. Towering over, almost omniscient, the Gallows Post held the final judgement. Elizabeth knew that feeling now more than ever- heavy in her chest, raw on her skin.

Gallows Hill was not a merciful place. The fire pit opposite acted as a sobering reminder. Its flames danced. Its embers crackled, hungry and restless. Elizabeth could feel its heat teasing her skin- soon she would join the dance, surrendering to smoke and ash. The thought settled, cold and dark; in time, she would be left as immemorable as cinder. The mourners who began to gather knew just as well. They came wearing a variety of faces. Some would soon mourn the loss of a dear friend, sister or lover. They would kneel, shaking with violent sobs. Their whispered prayers would soon hang heavy in the winter air, begging God for mercy. Others would welcome the erasure. Grateful, even. Her riding would be nothing more than God’s hand at work. They would celebrate the cleansing. The devil, they’d say, had been driven out.

From the crowd of mourners emerged an all-too-familiar face: Reverend Danvers. Crevices of his hollow features became illuminated under the gleam of the fire and pouring embers of the sun. His sunken eyes and shrouded lips revealed the severity of the state of affairs in Havenford. He was no less exempt from the horrors of the trials than the mourners who stood around him. The way the cracks in his face began to resemble the same cracks in the gallows post confirmed that for Elizabeth. His eyes bore the same shallow gouge as the beam; his hair, the same fraying of the noose.

With a tattered bible in hand, he approached the gallows. A hush rippled through the crowd gathered around the roaring pit. All calamity died out. Sudden and absolute, leaving nothing but the crackling fire in its wake. Reverend Danvers began, ‘Dreadful witchcraft has broken out in the weeks past in Havenford. Elizabeth Goode has welcomed him into our midst. She has allowed him to infiltrate our very way of life. Make no mistake, Elizabeth Goode is a witch.’

Continuing, he consulted the scriptures, fingers tracing the faded pages. Revelations, Corinthians, Matthew- all condemning Elizabeth to damnation. His words echoed in the chilled air, resounding and absolute. The weight of her inevitable judgement tightened her throat and chilled her blood. She was the product of Eve, bound to suffering for her sins of selfishness. Her original sin and Elizabeth’s fall from grace. In Danvers’ denouncement, Elizabeth’s name was folded into ancient judgment; she would meet the noose just as Eve was met with eternal suffering- her punishment laid out in rope and fire.

‘Our wells have run dry. She laughs at our thirst. It is the devil's doing. Our Lord Jesus Christ knows how many devils there are in his church. He knows who they are. Just as he did, we must root them out. They walk among us. They tempt us and corrupt us. Justice must be delivered.’

A murmur erupted from the crowd. They stood, waiting with bated breath to hear of the crimes and atrocities that Elizabeth had committed. The hordes chatter ebbed and swelled- a living thing. An older woman grasped her shawl tighter, whispering behind cracked lips and hands. Heads dipped closer together. Eyes darted in every direction. The noise twisted and tangled, impossible to trace the origins of a single sound.

A familiar hush fell over the crowd. Reverend Danvers continued, ‘Just as Eve was deceived by the serpent's cunning, Elizabeth has been led astray from the Lord. She has defied God. She has been trialled, and her crime is as follows:’ Danvers' voice boomed, slicing the tense silence of the crowd, ‘The detestable and abominable crime against nature!’

The crowd absorbed the weight of the scriptures as Danvers reminded them of the judgments in Leviticus. He read, his voice thick with condemnation, ‘If any man lies with a man as he lieth with a woman, he has committed a grievous sin and an abomination before the Lord, and must surely be put to death; their guilt lies heavy upon them.’

Somewhere, a woman’s breath hitched in a strangled sob.
Mary.

Behind a cluster of bodies, Elizabeth spotted hands trembling, wiping red-rimmed, swollen eyes. The sharp chill of the winter air pierced through the crowd, a white fogged mist escaped Mary's lips- that breath. Elizabeth had seen it before, felt it, her memories colliding.

Under the pale moonlight, they met. The air bit, sharp and clean, each breath leaving a white fog that disappeared momentarily. The forest held its breath beneath a crystal sky. Stars beckoned and winked through openings in the looming canopy above. Trees hovered like silent guards, their shadows still and long, only broken by threads of moonlight seeping through branches.

From between two great oaks, a figure emerged, slow and hesitant. Mary.

Elizabeth remembered the stolen glances in church. Moments where their eyes would meet for just a second too long, long enough to mean something, but short enough to deny it. Her mind was plagued with memories of hidden moments. They always met on borrowed time, in places where the world could not see them. Every second together was censored. Even joy had to remain quiet. It remained muffled under the disguise of water fetching and harvesting.

Mary’s eyes scanned the dark, wide and alert. A twig snapped beneath her heel. Their hands brushed, Elizabeth’s arm set ablaze. The forest stilled. For a moment, everything listened with her. But as Mary came into the moonlight, Elizabeth noticed the glassy eyes that she bestowed. A single strand of hair fell across her face. It fluttered past her cheek, revealing the uneven trails where tears had slipped. She began to twist and tug on the fabric of her sleeves, fingers trembling slightly. A cold weight settled deep into her chest; this could only mean one thing.

In a shaky breath, Mary whispered, ‘Lizzy, Reverend Danvers… he knows…’, the words hung on her lips.

Each moment began to stretch into heavy silence that pressed against her ribs, squeezing out any hope, hope too fragile to hold. It was as if the ground had fallen out from beneath her.

But in her descent, she found some semblance of clarity. What if this is actually what's holy? What did Danvers know of holiness? He was not to know of their love, so how could he judge? He did not know of its nature or kind. It was something all-consuming, something for others not to know. Burning fiercely, their love raged and danced. In defiance of everything else, it weaved and flickered unendingly. If the heavens could speak, Mary would be their mouthpiece. If they could be seen, they would be found in her eyes. Elizabeth knew that well and truly.

So, she did not buckle or break under the delivery of this fateful news; instead, she replied, ‘Well, let them hang me then, for I was not alive before I met you.’

The weight of the noose being placed on her shoulders brought her back to her fateful reality, the same cold weight settling in her chest just as it did in the forest. Danvers repeated the scripture, his voice laced with judgment and scorn. ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind as womankind, for it is an abomination.’

Of those gathered from the crowd, some nodded, their eyebrows furrowed in agreement. Others stood silently like the trees in the forest, unable to meet her eyes. She did no such thing, however. She kept her gaze focused on nothing but Mary. Elizabeth’s fingers began to claw in the air, still restrained by coarse rope cuffs, desperately trying to grasp something, anything. Her heart pounded against her ribs. It thrashed over and over and over again. Every second stretched, too wide to breathe in. The crowd began to merge into a blur of mouths and eyes.

Too many.
Too loud.
Too real.
…All but Mary.

In taking her final look, Elizabeth caught it- Mary’s silent, defeated ‘I love you’. Bitter in the wake of their stolen goodbyes, Elizabeth clenched her jaw, thoughts racing. The devil hadn’t crept into Havenford through her. No- he wore the face of Danvers and the accusers, his fire flickering behind their eyes and spouted by their tongues. Talk of him moved like smoke, choking and entirely inescapable, rising from Gallows Hill through to every part of town. Those who cried the loudest accusations in the name of God knew nothing of him. For what was holy about slaughter? There was no holiness in this spilling of blood.

Reverend Danvers offered a single prayer of mercy.

The noose began to close.

Elizabeth shut her eyes- not to pray, but to remember: a hand brushing hers in the dark. A laugh escaped from behind the well. A longing look across church pews. She would not die in fear or in vain. She would die knowing that she had found something that Reverend Danvers and most of the crowd could only dream of—love purer than any of them could ever know.

The plank dropped.

A sudden crack echoed.

The noose, merciless and unforgiving, tightened within an instant. Elizabeth’s body began to jerk violently, swinging in the air, desperately clinging to life. The rope bit down- tight and final. Air became a traitor. The smell of smoke overtook her senses as white spots formed and attacked her vision. Then, the black began to creep in, swallowing her world whole. Only stillness followed.

Violent, guttural screams escaped from Mary. She lunged forward, barely held back by the crush of bodies around her. She slashed through the air desperately, strangled sobs following. Sinking sharply into the ground, her fists pounded into the frozen soil. Knuckles white. Bones jolting on impact. Her body convulsed, wracking with fierce cries. Nails tore at the earth. Muffled gasps broke between each cry, her lungs refusing to carry on. Her throat burned. Aching wails of ‘Lizzie!’ were the only words she dared to utter. It sounded over and over again, like a hopeless prayer.

No God would answer her.

Elizabeth’s body would be returned to the fire. She would take her true form. Here, amid the crackling flames and choking smoke, she would become a living blaze of resistance. Disintegrating into something that continued to burn with defiance, just as she always had. She would burn on. Always. No noose could hold her, in death- she would become the fire itself. And again, the sun will rise on the gallows.

The Light Beyond the Trees

by Shandi Cruikshank

The snow swallowed their footsteps as if the earth itself conspired to keep them hidden – no prints, no past. No moon. No stars. Just the hush of the trees, the breath of wind, the ache of cold.

Layla held her daughter’s hand, small, cold, but still reaching, and felt a faint warmth, a quiet pulse, a fragile promise folded inside the silence. Mina’s breath came in sharp bursts, not from running, just from fear. She was only eight, but she’d already learned how to keep quiet when the thunder of footsteps passed too close.

They had walked for two nights, crossed fields stitched with ice. Slept in barns that creaked like old lungs. No names. No maps. Just forward – always forward.

The frigid wind scraped down Layla’s throat, laced with smoke and metal, old frost and gunpowder – a bitter residue that clung like something swallowed but never digested. Every tree seemed to lean closer, listening.

Layla crouched down beside Mina beneath a low branch, brushed snow from her coat, and whispered, “Do you know what I used to do when I was scared?”

Mina shook her head.

“I told myself stories.”

There was a pause, brief as breath.

“Like the one your Oma told me,” Layla continued, her voice soft as falling snow, “about a girl who wore someone else’s name so she could start again.”

Behind them, voices again. Boot on snow. Loud, searching. Mina pressed her face into her mother’s side, trembling with fear.

“I’m with you,” Layla reassured, her voice barely a whisper. “All the way.”

The words scattered in the air, small and steady, and for a moment, the wind seemed to still.

She remembered another winter. Not hers – her mother’s.

Before Layla had breath, before her name had ever been spoken, her mother ran through the ash-choked streets of Hamburg. 1944. A city unmade – not erased, but ruined. No bakery. No books. No bones left unbroken. The man she loved swallowed by fire and stone. Only smoke, silence, soot.

Layla’s mother had carried forged papers in the lining of her coat and a single photograph hidden in her boot. A sister in one hand. Fear in the other. They crossed under fences, climbed into coal carts, slept beneath cathedral ruins.

Hope came not in speeches or prayers, but in motion, in the way Oma kept walking when her feet blistered, when the torn map gave nothing but guesswork, when even the stars refused to guide them.

The story was never spoken. But Layla learned it in fragments – in the tremor beneath her mother’s voice at checkpoints, the way she folded paper like a passport, or armour, or both.

And now, in another forest, Layla walked in that silence and understood it for the first time.

The memory drifted back into the snow, as fleeting as warmth. Yet it lingered in Layla’s chest, not as pain, but as purpose. Her mother had survived with nothing but silence and a name not her own. Layla had more: a child, a reason, the weight of stories.

She looked down at Mina. Her daughter’s eyes, pale and colourless like winter ash, searched her mother’s face for answers she couldn’t ask. They held a quiet terror, as though they’d already seen too much for a child who still fit into her mother’s arms.

“There’s always something waiting on the other side,” Layla said, more to herself than anyone else.

She didn’t say the word hope. She didn’t have to.

They moved again, careful as breath, stepping through the tangle of branches and darkness, through snow that seemed deeper than it had minutes before. Layla’s legs ached. Her scarf had iced over. She could no longer feel her toes. Still – one foot, then the next, then the next. Forward.

Hours bled into each other. The forest began to thin. Not by much, but enough. Then: a break in the trees. A fence. Not barbed wire, not guarded. A simple wooden border marker, half-buried in frost.

Finland.

Layla didn’t believe it at first. She kept walking, her and Mina’s hands a single thread in a world unravelling, her daughter’s tiny, cold fingers knotted tightly in hers – fragile but refusing to let go. They stumbled forward, through the snow, through the ache, through the fear, until the trees changed shape and the air changed with them: less clenched, more forgiving.

And then: a light.

A glimmer through the trees. Yellow, warm, flickering. Unreal.

Layla hesitated only for a second, breath caught in her throat, as if afraid it might vanish if she moved too fast. Mina tugged gently at her coat, wide eyes reflecting the glow like twin lanterns.

The house was small, with smoke curling from the chimney. Not the kind that signals danger, the kind that smells of potatoes and wool and something alive. Layla knocked once. She was ready to run if she had to.

But the door opened. Just like that.

An older woman stood in the frame. Her eyes swept over them, mother, daughter, dusted with ice and silence, and she said nothing. She just stepped back and made space.

Inside, the warmth hit Layla like a memory. The kettle whistled. A single bed. A fire that breathed, steady and quiet, a heart that hadn’t given up. She reached for Mina’s coat buttons with shaking hands.

The woman handed her a towel.

Still, no one spoke. There was no need. Layla sat down, her legs folded beneath her as if forgetting how to hold. Stiff, wracked with exhaustion.

She pulled Mina close and looked out the window. Snow still fell, but it didn’t look like the same snow anymore. It was gentler now, like a hush instead of a howl, like the silence her mother had once walked through, passed down not as fear, but as the quiet pulse of resilience between them.

Tomorrow would bring questions and names. But tonight, they were warm, hand in hand, in a house full of light. And hope, still perched somewhere unseen, sang quietly in the walls.

Nate Laing-Saunders, "Deus ex Machina"--- Ignatius Park

Irene Teres Jose, "The Weight of Silence"--- St Columban's College

Yanche Neal, "The Boy I Am"—-The Cathedral School

Rumaisha Iqbal, "Incorruptibility,"—-St Margaret Mary's College

Anyley Lake, "Echoes of Kalkajaka"—-St Mary' Catholic College, Woree

The Toll of Trench Warfare

by Jasmin Pitman

An involuntary twitch seizes my fingers as consciousness creeps back in. My eyes open reluctantly to a world veiled by a blur of fatigue. As they dart around, fighting for focus, I am met with an unfamiliar white—a clinical confine that offers no comfort.

Hollow faces. Blood-soaked blades. Men, green-faced, frothing at the mouth. The haunting images are etched into my mind, yet I am unable to grasp onto the memories. I am unable to make any connections to this sterile, quiet place.

As memories continue to elude me, fear gnaws at me from within, consuming any semblance of calm and threatening to unravel my fragile grip on reality. Before long, the hum of medical machinery merges with the echoing explosions in my mind, transforming twitches into tremors and leaving me desperate for air. I try to contain the violent shakes in my hands, but it proves futile. I draw air in deeply, but my lungs only fill shallowly. Each breath becomes a battle for my weary body.

“Nurse! Doctor!” I gasp.

Blank stares.

“Doctor!” I manage once more.

A figure in white turns to me briefly.

“Yes; all right, all right.” He mutters.

It is too late. A fiery pain sears deep within my chest. Sweat slickens my skin as shivers course through me. The world blurs once more; the room swirls before me.

My head hits the pillow as darkness consumes the entire place.

This is not the hero’s welcome I had imagined.

***

Upon signing my name on the enlistment form, visions of heroism and glory danced in my mind. As I shook the recruiter’s hand and took my uniform from him, it felt as if I’d been given a badge of honour. I was a hero in the making, ready to prove my courage in a fight for a noble cause—the safety of my country.

Upon arrival at the frontlines, I observed the soldiers. Noticing their sunken eyes and their hollow faces, my anticipation of glory gave way to fear. Stone-cold fear. The young men moved about as if their minds were elsewhere, haunted by horrors far beyond their years. In that moment, clarity struck. I knew I’d face two stark options—lose my life or lose my mind. The weight of the weapon in my hand was unbearable. I held it tightly, my hands trembling and my fingers clammy.

Coward. Where was my courage? I pushed the shameful fear aside, forcing my fingers to steady against the cold metal. With each breath, I fought for composure, swallowing the lump in my throat. Soon, with a determined exhale, I was able to move on. But it was not long before the fear returned, even stronger.

The whistle blew, signalling that it was time. The field erupted with chaos as we went over the top and across no-man’s-land. Bullets flew. Shells exploded. Men fell. Determined, we pushed on towards the enemy lines. But they had decided to make a move in response.

Men launched themselves out of the trenches and closed the distance between us in no time. Suddenly, my eyes met with those of an enemy soldier and steel clashed with steel. I swung and thrusted my bayonet, allowing instinct to guide my movement as I waited for on opening. When it came, I sunk my blade into him, digging deep into his flesh with desperation. He staggered back, his eyes wide with shock, his face pale as he met death’s door. I could only stand there—frozen.

That night brought no relief. As I lay in my dugout, paralysed by panic, I tried and failed to slip into sleep. His face—so young, so full of fear, then suddenly so lifeless—haunted my mind. It caused tremors to travel through my body and my hands to spasm. This time, I found myself unable to suppress the overwhelming emotions and remained unable to calm my agitated body. This did not feel glorious.

Weeks passed. I endured the horrors during the daytime and became a slave to them in the night. Little did I know the worst was yet to come.

That dead, quiet night, screams pierced the silence and echoed through the trench.

“Gas! Gas!” They cried out hoarsely.

As the green fog—a silent but deadly predator—crept over the trench walk and into our lungs, we fumbled desperately for our gas masks. Some of us managed to secure them in time.

Others weren’t so fortunate.

Beneath my mask, I gasped. Just a hint of that gas was enough for me to taste the bitterness and to feel the insides of my throat bubbling and blistering. The sensation suffocated me as nightmares unfolded before me.

Men stumbled around, clawing at their throats, vomiting uncontrollably. Their eyes writhed. Their faces twisted in agony beneath blistered skin. Then, they collapsed into the mud, losing their breath, and soon, their lives.

Fear held me in place as I witnessed the atrocities—helpless to ease the soldiers’ suffering. Their harrowing screams mingled with the sound of my pounding heart. This was not heroism. Unable to bear it all any longer, I stumbled onto the duckboards, and my body convulsed as reality slipped away.

***

Now, confined to my hospital bed, my body is on the mend, but my mind remains trapped in those trenches. Doctors speak of bronchitis subsiding, blisters fading, lungs strengthening, but no one addresses the trembling that takes control of my entire body. No one addresses the flashbacks that tear through my thoughts like shrapnel. They just stare with judgement and neglect, never providing comfort. Not even when the letter comes, calling me back to war.

Back in the trenches, the stench of decay and gunpowder greets me, accompanied by an unshakeable fear. It is not long before it is triggered by a soldier’s tragic fall.

His body hits the ground, and so does mine. I convulse, my body bending as if it’s trying to break itself. Tears tumble down my cheeks as my limbs twist and turn and tremble in puddles of mud and rotten flesh. As darkness closes in, a bitter truth settles in my gut. I am neither a coward nor a hero. There is no glory in war, only relentless, crushing fear.

[Two short quotes included, from Wilfrid Owen’s poem, “Conscious”]

[requested not to be published]

“Aftermath” by Mia Parlapiano, Cairns State High School;
“The Circle of Life” by Maya Hadar Pagliari, Cairns State High School;
“Burning Ballerina” by Sierra Squire, Cairns State High School;
“When I Flew Over” by Tate Hastie, Ignatius Park College;
“Pleading Guilty” by Summer Cassells, Kirwan State High School;
“Windows to the Soul” by Jack McCosker, The Cathedral School;
“Poster Girl” by Lana Campbell, Tully State High School;
“Snowflakes” by Stefanie van Tonder, Tully State High School;
“Whispering Walls” by Natasha Davis, Atherton State High School;
“Solitude” by Ariarn Mann, St Ursula’s College Yeppoon.

Lake Of Dust

by Christian Blackburn

Wind shrieked past his exposed ears; the swirling clouds of dust that blasted across his layers of ragged clothing ripped and tugged like binding as he forced his way through the storm. His thick goggles did little to prevent the stinging brown air from seeping into his eyes. Madly blinking to no avail, he stumbled blindly, hoping desperately to locate shelter from the vicious storm. He took another step into the buffeting brown ocean, which repeatedly washed over him like a relentless tide.

Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet gave way, the dust billowing beneath his worn boots, littered with splits and cuts. For a brief moment, he felt he was flying away - like an albatross or some other majestic avian. He was unable to stop his face from greeting the dust-blanketed pebbles as he tumbled to the ground. He groaned as he heaved himself up with his makeshift-gloved hands.

‘Bad idea,’ he thought, as the dust whirled around him and swam into his chest, clawing down his throat along the way. A raspy wheeze was expelled from him as he sat up. Around him was a shallow crater, giving much needed protection against the roaring brown ocean above and enabling his ears to breathe now they were out of the constant pummelling of the storm.

He glanced around from where his face had met the dust-coated pebbles. Thankfully, the layer of dust was thick enough not to add another scratch or crack to his goggles. He picked up one of the pebbles and - after using the back of his glove to wipe away a few layers of dust from his coated goggles - he peered into the silt that fell away as he gently shook it in his palm.

Working as a ranger for five years told him that the darker, finer sediment that fell away belonged to one of the Earth’s once beautiful lakes. Not that being a ranger mattered anymore. Not after the Cataclysm. The nuclear war had decimated the Earth, blasting all of the beautiful natural paradises into oblivion - or at least enough of them to cause ecosystems to collapse and the rest of the Earth to fade to dust.

He shimmied over to the nearest wall to rest his aching back, which felt like he’d tried carrying a mountain through the storm above him. He stared into its aggressive winds and tried to imagine what this place could have looked like pre-Cataclysm.

His father would have loved it. He was sure. The crystal clear water would have glistened as its surface reflected the warm sun’s rays, contrasting with how cold nuclear winter has been. There would have been so much green. Trees, grasses, all sorts of native flowers blooming brilliantly in the spring. Fish, all of varying sizes and colours, must have swum about, while elegant birds above dived into the refreshing water to catch their prey. His father loved birds. Why he would throw this all away seemed inconceivable. Utterly incomprehensible. Yet he had said yes. Yes to all of this - the Cataclysm. He could have said no, leave Australia out of the mess, but he was the Minister of Defence at the time. He did this to his country, his world.

The ranger sighed deeply and returned his gaze to the dusty crater floor. He’d tried countless times to talk his father out of ‘pushing the button’ but he was helpless. Only after his father realised the horrors he’d unleashed on his people did regret swamp him. Now, everyone was out to get him, preventing the ranger from entering any of the small clusters of survivors in case they ever learnt his identity. Try as he might, the ranger never found his father after the apocalypse began in Australia. They were both alone together.

A distressed croak from beyond the crater caught the ranger’s attention. He glanced up to see a break in the storm above. Carefully, he crept up the side of the crater and peered out. The dusty land looked as desolate as ever.

Exposed earth and rocks appeared to levitate after the vicious storm stripped the ground clean from underneath them. The ranger squinted hard into the distance and could just make out the brown ocean, barely illuminated by the blood red sun.

The noise pierced through the silence that rang in the ranger’s ears, shocking him back into focus. A brown shape with long black legs appeared from behind a cluster of rocks - a bird with a red patch of feathers atop its head. The brolga scooped its long neck and stared at the ranger. His heart panged with surprise, guilt and sorrow. He realised it was probably one of the few creatures to survive the Cataclysm, perhaps the last of its kind.

He felt around in his torn clothes, digging deep into the pockets, hoping the maze of holes hadn’t caused the tin to slip out. He grasped it, checking the label - canned fish – before returning it to his pocket. His last can of food.

Slowly, so as not to scare the bird, he heaved himself out of the crater and crouched low to appear less intimidating. As he approached the brolga he peeled off his dust-clad goggles – the remaining dust swirled to cling to his clothes - and maintained eye contact. The brolga stood, frozen. The ranger could now see its protruding ribs. It was almost gone. He produced the tin.

The brolga stared back at the human clad in ragged clothes. The human offered a small shiny object in his outstretched hand, freeing the familiar salty smell of fish. From then on, they’d be alone together.

“Ice and Fire”

a short story inspired by Kathy Jetnil-Kijner & Aka Niviâna’s poem “Rise”

by Kiran Craperi

The icy waters of the north Atlantic sprayed and raged relentlessly against the heaving hull of the vessel – the Eldurìs*. Fog swirled around outside the salt-covered windows of the bridge, obscuring my vision of the illuminated deck below. I staggered towards the cabin door, forcing it open against the howling night wind to get a view of my crew.

Hard at work my seasoned seamen hauled in a 700lb metal cage brimming with the speckled orange of Atlantic snow crabs – a much needed reward after a long three weeks at sea with little to nothing to show for it. My brother stood out like a sore thumb. His weak and frail frame fought pathetically against the controls on the crane. Another wave surged against the rusted bow, throwing him against the controls and smashing the cage with a thunderous crack against the side of the vessel. The tethers snapped, releasing the trap - along with our best catch in a month - into the icy depths.

I swore, roiled into a fiery, rage-fuelled fit of aggression as I stormed onto the deck. I grabbed the back of Gylfi’s jacket and hurled him against the gunnel. Blood gushed from his temple.

“Johann! No! I’m sorry, it was an accident.” Gylfi cowered against the gunnel, drenched in blood and seawater, bracing for a second assault.

I grabbed his outstretched arm and dragged him by the wrist towards the cabins below deck. Reaching the edge of the steep steel-edged stairs, I flung him. I left Gylfi huddled and whimpering at the bottom of the stairs like a whipped dog. The fire ebbed, quenched by a cold wave of guilt.

Spinning on my heel I faced my crew. They were silent in shock, not daring to make eye contact with me.

Bjorn! Go clean him up.” I knew I could trust that surprisingly soft heart hiding behind a towering frame to care for Gylfi, in a way I couldn’t.

“As for the rest of you. Back to work!” I shouted, half-heartedly trying to regain control of the situation.

Only as I slumped back at the helm did it dawn on me what I’d done. Why had our mother insisted I take him aboard? I knew he couldn’t handle it. Ever since we were kids Gylfi was always more suited to an academic’s life. Cleverness and wit doesn’t get you anywhere on the deck of a crab boat. It had been a few weeks and he was still getting hazed brutally by the rest of the crew. All they wanted from him was a show of strength or promise of a backbone, but he had none. It was better to let it happen. Even someone as pathetic as my little brother would eventually adapt if circumstances demanded it. This icy hell has always demanded it.

When Dad died, all he left was this vessel, a rusted-out relic of an era past and gone. There was no money in it anymore. As the waters warmed there was less and less catch. It was a dying industry suffocated by the cruelty of an ever-changing world. Born and raised in Suoureyi, a backwater Icelandic fishing village, there was no other option - no other source of income. That’s why Gylfi could never go to university; that’s why he ended up aboard the Eldurìs.

The sun began to rise over the cresting waves, spilling bloody red light across the sky that shot through the fog like red streaks through cold granite. It illuminated the underbelly of the thick storm-clouds, grey-black giving way to beautiful shades of orange and red. Everything seemed slower. The distant call of seagulls cut through the drone of the engine; the heaving of the vessel seemed gentler than before. The howling wind seemed to subside.

My focus shifted back to the deck, where the crew was hard at work. Yells and grunts carried in the wind as they sifted through yet another disappointing catch. Movement from the stairwell caught my eye as Bjorn and Gylfi stumbled back onto the deck. I didn’t expect him back so soon. The brother I knew wouldn’t have been back until at least noon the next day. Perhaps he was tougher than he looked.

My eyes followed his path. I watched him struggle to attach the crane harness to the cage, straining against the weight as he hoisted it over the gunnel. Everything was running as smoothly as possible. The crew worked as a unit, Gylfi determinedly sorting, heaving, and bracing against the waves at a pace I would have thought impossible only a few minutes before.  This newfound strength wouldn’t last long, but my icy heart was thawed by his straining effort and his desperation to impress me. Maybe I had been too hard on him – too impatient.

The crew began to lift another cage over the side. Working quickly, Gylfi lifted, his foot planted firmly in the centre of a coil of rope attached to the cage. An alarm bell rang in my mind – a rookie mistake, but one that was potentially fatal. I sprang into action, sprinting onto the deck as they released the cage. The coil tightened around his leg like a python and began ripping him overboard into the unforgiving abyss. Moments spent in icy waters of the North Atlantic would be anyone’s last, and the cage would bear him downward in a relentless death roll.

Just in time, I grabbed the rope. Frantically I sawed the frayed rope against the edge of the hull with my pocketknife. Gylfi slammed against the deck, eyes wide in shock, too dazed to comprehend what had just happened. Too stunned to realise how close he had been to becoming a permanent feature of the sea-floor.

I reached down and gruffly pulled him to his feet. He began to plead, fearful of my fiery temper, but then quickly stuttered to silent relief. I pulled him into an awkward embrace. “Go sleep. You’ve done enough for one day.”

*Translates to “ice and fire” in Icelandic

Ace of Hearts

by Hailey Penna-Collins

“You know I’ll love you no matter what you are, right?” Grace said, as Amelia tumbled into the car, long limbs creating a sprawling mess as she tossed her school bag in the back seat. It landed with a thump, a heavy reminder of the work needing to be complete by Monday.

“Uh huh.” Already she was plotting out how to fit in the movies with Jess between study. “Love you too, mum.”

Grace sighed as she flicked the indicator on. She weaved through the cars with practised ease, scrunching her face in a well-practised apology for ‘accidentally’ cutting off a blue mini. “You know what I mean though, don’t you, Ames. Lord knows I had my share of fun when I was your age.”

Amelia wasn’t lying when she said she loved her mother, and she appreciated her constant barrage of self-confidence kicks, but they had gotten repetitive over the years.

“It’s true!” Grace laughed. “Of course, I never went below, but I don’t mind if you do.”

At this, Amelia’s head snapped up.

“Not that I don’t want you being safe, of course,” she quickly tacked on.

It was at that point that it clicked. “Mum, you don't… think I’m gay do you?”

Grace fixed her daughter with a pointed stare. “You can’t deny that you’ve always been, um, different. The only guy you’ve ever had a crush on was Liam … and he’s your cousin.”

“For the last time, I was five! I wasn’t actually going to marry him!”

Amelia slumped back in her seat, twisting the hem of her dress tight between her fist. If Grace had met the guys at her school, she’d understand her determination to stay far, far away from them.

Amelia should be glad she wasn’t ditching class on whim and sneaking out after dark, meeting with illicit infatuations.

Amelia thought of Jess and the long trail of broken hearts she’d left behind. There had been countless since the start of secondary, and she was sure the list would only grow as Jess did. Amelia had always admired her for that.

But when Jess would tug her to the side of the corridor, when she’d write her a note in Literature, it was too much. The lewd stories. The anecdotes. The little comments about her night. More often than not, it went beyond what Amelia could handle. And Jess would laugh, and tell her she was a prude, and they’d move on.

But now she wondered.

It was true she’d never lusted after the boys in her grade, or any for that matter. And that wasn’t to say there weren’t options. The day Carter Wostole had asked her out would forever be burnt into her brain.

It had been just before third period, and she’d been rummaging through her locker looking for a lost worksheet when he’d popped up, strong arm laid across the top of the door. He was a full head taller than her, and she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

“Hey, Ames,” he had said. He’d linked his arm with hers, and took her books without pause.

And who says chivalry is dead? Amelia had thought, as she followed him to History. He’d been slightly chattier than normal, but no less confident, and even when he took an awkward turn towards the music block, he had hushed her admonitions.

“So I had a dream,” he began.

Immediately she was regretting this, but she played along, regardless. “Queen Mab pay a visit, did she?” she murmured, even as she attempted to talk a half step back, meeting brick wall.

He huffed a short laugh. “You’re such a nerd, Ames.”

She bristled slightly at his amusement. “I’m cultured,” she said, sounding the word out carefully as though he were a small child.

“You’re gorgeous.”

He took the point of her chin between his fingers, cradling it gently. “In this dream, you and me… we had something good.”

“Is that so?”

Later, Amelia would look back, and wonder how the sarcasm had been misconstrued as flirting.

“Can I kiss you?”

He seemed to take her baffled silence as permission.

His lips pressed against hers, rough and chapped, and his hand wavered awkwardly in the air, unsure whether to go higher or lower, before settling on groping at her waist. She could feel the pitted blisters on his skin from woodworking, even through the cotton of her dress, and she recoiled in repulsed.

“Yeah?” he asked, mistaking her quivers for excitement.

No.

“Um, Carter, I don’t -”

“Relax.” He pressed his finger to her mouth, shushing her. “No one’s around.”

No.

His tongue plunged past the barriers of her lips, swirling in her mouth. Bile rose up the back of her throat, and when she made to push him away, he deftly caught her wrists and arranged her arms around his torso.

“N-no!” she yelled, half gurgled against his mouth. He drew back, surprised.

“Ames?”

“I’m sorry - I - class. Sorry.”

She’d rushed to History, cheeks aflame, still trembling. She’d been late, but her teacher had taken one look at her distraught face, and let her quietly take her seat and hide behind her textbook.

Minutes later, Carter had walked in, and she’d determinately read the same passage over and over, refusing to make eye contact, even when he threw wadded up balls of paper at her back.

She tried to keep her distance after that. She wanted to be Switzerland, but he wouldn’t stop invading. She was forced to defend with the tactical ‘Decline Call’ button, returning fire by leaving his messages on ‘read’ and ‘open’. She’d told Jess, of course, who’d gone up to him and chewed him out in front of half the grade, careful not to let anything personal slip in front of their audience.

She’d always been there for Amelia. Always. Sometimes in incredibly weird, awkwardly timed ways, but just as important nevertheless. Which is what led to a perfectly innocent meet up at the cinema becoming the location for Amelia’s second kiss.

“I mean, I don’t think I am,” Amelia whispered, as she and Jess took their seats, pushing their handbags to the side and divvying up the snacks. “How would I even know?”

“At least your mum is being positive,” Jess reminded her, a point which Amelia had to concede was true. She’d never felt awkward about speaking with her mum; even ‘The Talk’ had been a casual conversation, albeit with printed diagrams and a naked Barbie.

“What’s that?”

“The vagina. That’s where -”

“Boring! How are twins made?”

So enwrapped in her thoughts was Amelia, that she almost missed what Jess had suggested. “You want to make out?” she hissed, as the words caught up to her brain. Behind them, a woman coughed

pointedly before making a violent gesture with her hand.

“Oh, piss off!” Jess said, snapping around to glare at her. Amelia muffled her laughter with her hand.

“And who else, exactly, are you going to experiment with?”

Amelia blinked at Jess, before taking a nervous look at the many patrons seated around them. "But now?" she asked incredulously.

“Why not? Do you know how many times I’ve made out in the back of the movie theatre?”

Amelia fixed her with a stare, aware of her many, many escapades. If anything, at least she would be experienced.

Kissing Jess was nothing like Carter. She was… not passive, exactly, but she let Amelia take charge, matching her pace. Amelia could smell her floral scent, the same perfume she’d had since puberty, and the silk of her blouse was nothing like the rough fabric of Carter’s uniform. If Amelia had a scoreboard, she’d give Jess a solid 10 for personal hygiene and general considerateness, if nothing else. But there was no tingle. There was no rush of endorphins, no butterflies flying rampant in her stomach, only the disappointing absence of a magical musical ensemble waiting at the curtains, ready to burst into song at the beauty of the moment.

Anyone else would have flipped off the guys in the back row wolf whistling, but Jess simply blew them a series of confident air kisses, leaning back in her chair, a satisfied smile stretching across her face. She raised a single eyebrow in lieu of a question.

“You were fine.”

“‘Fine’? I was ‘fine’?” Jess scowled at her, muttering obscenities under her breath. “I cannot believe I

wasted a perfectly good make out sesh with you. Ridiculous. No appreciation, your generation.

None.”

“I am literally three weeks younger than you.”

“Just ‘fine’, she says. This country is going to the dogs.”

“Sit back and watch the movie.”

Jess rolled her eyes, but curled up on her chair as a particularly gruesome jumpscare took place.

Amelia offered her the box of popcorn in apology, which was readily taken, and that was that. It wasn’t until later, when Jess was driving her home, her headlights illuminating the familiar roads they’d travelled as children, that she finally ventured to ask.

“I’m a good kisser,” she started, voice bolstered by well-earnt confidence. “I’ve heard that from several reputable sources.”

Amelia nodded.

“Not just guys.”

Amelia was well aware of Jess’ indifference when it came to genitalia; a body was a body, and if it was hot, well… Jess was interested. And Amelia loved that about her friend. Loved how open she was, how daring. She wasn’t frightened by anything or anyone, and she was always in control.

“It was better than Carter,” Amelia tentatively offered.

“Pah! Of course it was.”

Jess drummed her fingers against the wheel, silent for the moment, before saying, “Ames, my dearest, darlingest friend… have you considered the fact you might be ace?”

Ace. The word reverberated in her mind. With it, came conjurations of plants and asexual reproduction, but then flashing images of demented men in straitjackets with their indecipherable, crazed writing decorating the walls. “I’m not crazy,” she said, feeling all of a sudden it was important to make that clear. “I do have feelings.”

“I know,” Jess quickly placated. “I know. But - and correct me if I’m wrong - maybe not sexual ones?”

Amelia stared at her nails.

“I mean, have you ever actually looked at someone and thought, ‘Get them in me now!’?”

“Jessica!” And then, much quieter, “No.”

“I mean sometimes you act a little psycho, sure -”

“Hey!”

“- but being ace doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings. It’s not like you can’t still get married. Or, like you still have to get married. Do whatever you want. Fuck the patriarchy.”

Jess gave her a wide grin, which Amelia slowly returned. “Thanks, Jess,” she said quietly.

The rest of the ride home was silent.

When they arrived at Amelia’s house, she clambered out of the car, half-dazed by the sudden revelation, barely able to toss Jess a pitiful ‘goodnight’. Amelia raced through talking with her mum, citing homework as an excuse to dash into her room. She perched on the edge of her seat, slowly opening her laptop lid, even as her heart thumped frantically.

Starting simple was the goal. She typed in ‘asexual’, and had to quickly refine it to ‘asexual people’ when it immediately came up with certain types of vegetation and annelid worms. Soon, hundreds of

articles were staring at her.

Sounds Fake, But Okay: Exploring The Asexual Fad

Asexuality Is A Mental Disorder

But then:

Asexuality: Finding A Place In Pride

Being Asexual Is Totally Fine

Finally, she came across a site. It was plain, especially in comparison to the bright, rainbow-laden ones she’d been staring at for an hour. And there, underlined and in bold, was the title of a quiz:

LGBTQIA+ : Am I Asexual?

Her cursor circled the link, darting back and forth as the blaring question seemed to egg her on.

‘What’s the worst that could happen, Ames?’ Jess’ voice said inside her.

She clicked on the link.

Six Hours of Introspection

by Sasha White

Never in my seventeen years of life did I think that I’d be here, writing this. But who else am I supposed to confide in? Delilah is dead. No one else will listen. They just keep trying to console me with lies like: “You can talk to me,” and “I’m here for you.” But truthfully, they’re not supporting me. Because if they were, I wouldn’t be here, staring at the clock, desperate for an ounce of solace from places that, four days ago, would have never been up for consideration. For as long as I can remember, it’s been her and me. Forever. I just wish I’d known forever would have ended so soon.

Six hours left.

“Why can’t you just be supportive of me?!” The anger-fuelled question echoed around the house as she hurled the door closed with enough force to shatter the whole wall. Three days later, the same question echoes in my mind. Why couldn’t I have just let her be? Why did I have to choose that night to pick a fight with her? Our argument plays on repeat in my mind, incessant and unabating. I should have begged her to stay, instead of throwing her out, ultimately sealing her fate.

“You’re making such a bad decision!”

“Don’t tell me what is or isn’t a good idea.”

“All I’m saying is that going back to him will make you miserable! We’ve been here before, and you know how it will end.”

“I’m so sick of you telling me what to do with my life.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you!”

“Stop doing that! I can make my own decisions, and I most certainly do not need your input!”

“Maybe you should just leave.” The silence that hung in the air between us was deafening, both of us looking at each other, the depths of hell circling in our eyes. Until she turned around and walked away. Walked away from me to her death.

We’d never argued so viciously before, but even then, when things had seemed so particularly bad, we should have been able to reconcile. But this time, we wouldn’t get the chance to. I shouldn’t have kicked her out. Even more, I shouldn’t have started the argument. I was just jealous that she’d go and spend more time with him, leaving me all alone---until he decided to break her heart again. It’s not fair for me to think of her like that. She would’ve done anything for me. So why did I have to try to jeopardise her shot at happiness?

Five hours left.

The past three days have been restless; any successful unconscious encounter harboured the most horrific hallucinations. The realm of the awake offers no comfort either. Instead, I am hyper-aware of every whisper of wind outside my window, every disturbance in the still air of my room, every hushed voice outside my door, concerned about my wellbeing. My skull feels like it’s imploding, and my lungs constrict every time I take a breath, as if a fist is tightening around them. A glance at the clock reveals that it is 5:48pm. Only 36 minutes of sleep, and it wasn’t pleasant. I dreamt about all the ways her death is my fault. Her limp body on my knife, a gunshot through her skull, my hands holding her lifeless body underwater. Scars and bruises. Blood and bones. Cuts and gashes. It never ends. Thirty-six whole minutes of pure torture. When we were younger, we used to console each other after nightmares. Back then, they seemed like the biggest problems in the world; the monster under the bed, the bad guy in the mask, the weird superhuman with world-ending powers. She always comforted me more than I did her, but she didn’t seem to mind. Sleepless nights never appeared to bother her; she’d do anything for me. I hope she knows that I’d do anything for her too.

Four hours left.

The scene of the accident was worse than I could have ever imagined; an unidentifiable mess of limbs contorted in angles that I did not know were possible. After she left – the house eerily vacant without her – I realised that the last thing I wanted was to go to bed with us mad at each other, so I’d set off to her house to apologise and make things right again. Only, I never made it that far. The blinding lights of the ambulances piqued my curiosity on the drive; but I was not prepared for the horrors I’d witness. I see the scene of the accident every time I close my eyes.

A body so mangled that it would be unidentifiable, if it were not for the number plate on the road nearby – her number plate. The car, an inferno licking at the paint just moments before, remains as a charred mess. An ambulance is on the scene, but it’s futile. It would take a miracle to survive something like this. The emergency responders, a mix of firefighters and paramedics, consider their options for getting her out of the car, noting that it would be impossible to pull her out in one piece. Her body would disintegrate into pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle. The emergency responders don’t need to announce that she’s dead to the gathering crowd of onlookers. Everyone knows. Time of death: 10:23pm

I wish there was a type of bleach for my brain – the memories of my best friend are forever tainted by the impression of her dismembered body.

Three hours left.

I’m trying to think of happier memories to distract myself from reality, but I feel so guilty. I should be feeling sad right now. I should be curled up in a ball surrounded by piles of tear-soaked tissues, not searching for particles of serotonin in the corners of my brain. Why should I be happy when she’s not here to remind me of the good times? The one I’m thinking of now, the one that my brain is choosing to torment me with, is when we went to the fair together. A memory so dear to me; nothing else even comes close. If I close my eyes hard enough, I can block out the death scene and imagine we’re still there instead.

Holding each other’s hands so tightly that it’s a wonder that our circulation hasn’t cut off. The carnival ride begins to swing from side to side, a pendulum of happy terror that cannot be replicated elsewhere. We’d waited over thirty minutes in line for this; the best view of the whole showground. Bright lights and the smell of overpriced fried food, combined with the fast swinging, overwhelm our senses, only adding to the enjoyment of the ride. Finally, the ride gains enough momentum for us to go upside-down, providing us with a thrill like no other. Moments like these make me happiest. I can just look at her and feel the rest of the world fade away. As long as I’m with her, life is okay.

But if I think about it too hard, the memory leaves a sour aftertaste that makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out, so I can never be graced with any pleasant experiences without her ever again. We went upside-down – so did her car. We screamed our lungs out – so did she. We went on the ride together – she died alone. Every memory I think of becomes corrupted. Even the most innocuous ones, where we’re just having the strangest conversations – ones which I could not have with anyone else, because she just gets me.

“Ink freaks me out.”

“What does that even mean?”

“On sheet music Delilah.”

“Oh…”

“The rhythms are too fast, and there’s too many of them. My brain can’t keep up!”

“Well if you just cover them up, they won’t be there…”

“You’re a genius.”

“I know!”

She wasn’t a musician like I am, but she always got involved, supporting me at every performance, no matter how small. And she’d always show up with a bouquet, apparently the “least she could do.” My biggest fan from day one. And of course, I was hers too.

“Knee up, toe up, heel down. Knee up, toe up, heel down.”

“What on Earth are you going on about?”

“Coach has been on my case about my running form lately. I need to fix it before the next

competition, or he’ll be furious.”

“I’ve seen him mad before. It’s kind of funny. His face turns purple and you can almost see the steam coming out of his ears.”

“Funny to see, not funny to be on the receiving end of.”

“I can help you practice if you want?”

“Please.”

We were opposites in the hobby sense. Her an athlete, and me a musician. Maybe that’s why we worked so well – complemented each other perfectly. The yin to my yang. I don’t know how to live without her.

Two hours left.

I think I’m losing my mind – the effects of sleeplessness forcing me to confront the manifestations of my mental state. The shadows cast by the meek light in my room have established themselves as people, with their voices circling around the room – hushed whispers, attacking me with their blame. Accusations and threats and criticisms and whatever other degrading things they can come up with. Blaming me for her death. Maybe they’re not wrong? I wish I knew how to fix things.

The voices change. From raspy, snide comments, to her voice – crystal clear and reassuring. A wave of peace washes over me. She’s here, in my room! In my room, with me, and I’m not alone anymore. The grip on my lungs has been released, and I take my first deep breath in days. I wanted to spend eternity with her, and maybe I can. Maybe there’s a way to be with her once more? She’s here, right in front of me, and life is okay again. Because as long as we’re together, I feel whole and complete.

One hour left.

I’m so grateful that Delilah is here to show me how to tie this rope properly. Her graceful hands mimic the movements that I need to follow. Without her I’d be so lost, and my creation wouldn’t be nearly as effective. The sooner Death arrives to escort me to the afterlife, the better. If this is the only way to restore my life to how it should be, then so be it. I just need to be together with her again. She is my everything and shall be for eternity.

I string the rope up, my beautiful creation begging me to utilise it; make use of its intended purpose. It looks so inviting… How can I say no? I won’t say no. Delilah is encouraging me, even offering to give me a leg up if I need one. She’s always been considerate and compassionate, her best attributes never failing to shine through, regardless of the situation. I can tell that she only wants what’s best for me, as she always has. I can even smell the sweet perfume of the bouquet she’s brought for me. After a bit of a struggle, I  put my neck through the little loop I’ve created. Delilah watches. Her mouth doesn’t move, but her voice echoes around the room: “I’ve got you,” and “We can be together again!” and “I’m always here for you,” and-

Zero hours left.

I fixed everything.