the 2009 new mardi gras/nsw writers centre short story competition

22000099 NNeeww MMaarrddii GGrraass // NNSSWW WWrriitteerrss’’ CCeennttrree

SShhoorrtt SSttoorryy ccoommppeettiittiioonn

TThhee

WWaarr aanndd PPeeaacceeTThheemmee

2009 New Mardi Gras &NSW Writers’ Centre

Short Story competition1st prize winner:

Jesse Blackadder - Last Days in Byron Bay

2nd prize winner:

Cindy Jones - Wally and Brian were in love

3rd prize winner:

Teri Kelly - Onward chromosome soldiers

Under 26yo prize winner:

Hannah Cheers - Cold War

Highly Commended:

Madeline Shaw - The Julians

PJ Dwyer - A wasted year

Hayley Katzen - What was there for me to tell

Judges: Gail Hewison, Ian MacNeill, and Julie Price

Competition announced: October 2008Entries closed: 5 January 2009For Mardi Gras: Vanessa Christ

Winners announced:Tuesday 17 February at thePolo Lounge, 134 Oxford Street

© 2009 Copyright is retained by individual authors© This free pdf produced by www.gay-ebooks.com.au

22000099 NNeeww MMaarrddii GGrraass // NNSSWW WWrriitteerrss’’ CCeennttrree

SShhoorrtt SSttoorryy ccoommppeettiittiioonn

TThhee

WWaarr aanndd PPeeaacceeTThheemmee


Short Story competition1st prizeA Complimentary Nights Accommodation in a HarbourView Room with Continental Breakfast at theRendezvous Stafford – The Rocks, Sydney Value - $850;

a book voucher from Gleebooks worth $250;

and one year’s membership of the NSW Writers' Centre.

2nd prizeA Complimentary Nights Accommodation for 2 in anExecutive suite, inclusive of Full breakfast for 2 at TheMarque Hotel Sydney Value - $500;

a book voucher from The Bookshop Darlinghurst worth$150;


3rd prizeA Nights Accommodation in a Superior room at TheMarque Hotel Sydney Value - $390;

a book voucher from The Feminist Bookshop worth$75;


Under 26yo prizePrize for best entry written by an author 25 years ofage or under: $200 cash donated by gay- and lesbian-ebooks



Short Story competitionThere were fifty-six entries in the 2009 MardiGras Short Story competition.

The standard was high and theinterpretations of the theme ‘war and peace’were varied and often ingenious.

The subjects were as varied as in past MardiGras short story competitions – partnershipconflict, conflict with parents, drug issues, self-mutilation, blossoming romances, eroticfantasies, identity revelations, genderreconciliation ... HIV/Aids was not as stronglyrepresented as it had been in the past. Anumber of writers interpreted the theme withtouching stories of gay experiences during wartime and subsequent peace.

The domestic environment setting was lessevident this year. There was acknowledgementthat our community is part of the whole -sometimes with friction but increasingly less so.War touches all communities and individualswith varying intensities. Some writers exploredpost traumatic stress syndrome. Othersexplored the regular battle with life. Nearly allended with peace but not necessarily happiness.

The judges were pleased to note wit and sass,strong feelings appropriately registered, comedyand originality of vision. Genre writing such asSF and Fantasy were not evident but perhapsthese are difficult to encompass in a short wordspan. There was though a high degree ofcompetency shown in getting stories told insuch a small space.

This made the judges’ job difficult.However our choice was unanimous for ‘ColdWar’ which won the Youth Prize.

After much discussion, the judges settled on‘Last Days in Byron Bay’ as the winner in the

Judges Report

Gail HewisonIan MacNeillJulie Price

Open Section (beautiful writing, flowingnarrative, satisfying completion of story within500 word limit, and connected to localenvironmental issues).

Second was ‘Wally and Brian’ (cheeky story,great dialogue, humour, and a surprise ending).Third ‘Onward Chromosome Soldiers’ (anoriginal and witty interpretation of the theme).

The judges Highly Commended, in noparticular order, ‘The Julians’, ‘What Was Therefor Me To Tell?’, ‘A Wasted Year’.

The judges and organisers wish to thank all ofyou who entered. The judges congratulate themany entrants who made their job so difficultand to offer their encouragement for yourfurther writing endeavours. We look forward tobuying your future novels at our favouriteindependent bookshops.


Short Story competitionWe fight like electric eels, lightning strikes thatturn our insides cobalt blue. I forget how I oncetenderly stroked your soft underbelly and attack itinstead to stop you striking first.

I once believed women would never do this toeach other.

In Byron Bay the developers are circling thecoastal headland. They plan tasteful apartments,rendered in inoffensive Mediterranean colours,covering the last stand of coastal heath for theview to the lighthouse.

When we met, you led me down the beachtrack near the lighthouse at night. You showed mehow the beam flashed every 15 seconds andphosphorescence lit up the sand. Behind us theold fibro houses creaked and settled in their sleep.You took hold of my heart so softly that I couldnot imagine the ways we would hurt each other.

Now I strike out at you. I throw a plateperilously close to where you sit and your bluegrey eyes stare at me in shock. I don’t knowwhether to kneel in the shards with uncoveredknees or run far away in case my aim becomesdangerously steady. I don’t trust myself not toconquer you, rebuild you, renovate you, changethe colours, take out some walls, add anotherstory and a deck and then build a bypass so I candrive away.In the night the traitorous soles of my feet turninto fish and come skimming on ocean currentsacross the rippled sheets to find you. While wesleep with our backs turned to each other oursoles press together in tender disobedience, slidingto a perfect match of curves and crevices, turningin unison the way schools of fish shift directiontogether.

In the daytime I decide that I will leave you.Real estate has done well, I can sell up, collect a

small profit from our shared enterprise and moveon. Everything is ruined here. The battle is toolong and too hard. The place I fell in love with haschanged. I make plans, begin to pack. You makeup a bed in the spare room.

Under the law we separate like any othercouple now. My solicitor drafts an agreementdissolving our relationship and noting how ourassets will be dispersed. I carry it home and lay iton the table, next to the newspaper reporting onthe losing fight for the headland.

Then, on the heath someone discovers a rarenative orchid, whose unassuming beauty isenough to save the headland, and the towncelebrates.

That night we go to our separate rooms, butthen you creep to our bed with a gardenia, acommon flower whose unassuming sweetness fillsthe room. The simple fact of one sweet thing inthe darkness cracks my heart open. Your handreaches out and I clasp it. You whisper stories offlowers and phosphorescence and things worthfighting for, until I let you haul me into the safetyof your arms.

1st prize

Last Days in Byron Bay

Jesse Blackadder


Short Story competition

2nd prize

Wally and Brian

Cindy Jones

Wally and Brian were in love. They made thefront pages. They received fan mail and hatemail and protesters picketed their home.Neighbours tried to ignore them, communitygroups rallied behind them and the zookeepersshook their heads.

“Gay penguins, how fantastic,” the marketingteam squealed. The newspaper exclusive thatmorning heralded radio station and televisionproducer calls since dawn. Yes it’s true. Wally.Brian. Boys. Penguins. Gay.

“Do we know if they want babies?” themarketers asked the week before. “Are theystealing eggs?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” thechief penguin keeper laughed. He was stillamused his casual mention of Wally and Brianwas met with a visit by the blonde hairedbrunettes.

“There was a zoo in the US or in the UKwhere the gay penguins kept stealing the eggs ofthe other penguins and replacing them withstones,” blonde one said. “They were thatdesperate to have their own babies. It was reallysweet.”

“It drew the crowds,” said blonde two. “It’sMardi Gras season soon so let’s get on thebandwagon. Maybe we can tie in the Sisters ofPerpetual Indulgence again and theme thewhole event.”

“Maybe we could marry them,” both blondesscreamed.

“Maybe we should ask them first,” the non-blonde said.

“Ask them?”“Yes, ask them. The university has been

expanding the sonar work they do with dolphins

and whales. How do you think I knew they werea couple? You can’t just assume these things. Ihad to ask them when the uni guys were lasthere. It’s not that unusual, I’m not sure what allthe fuss is about. They’re coming again nextweek.”

“Perfect! We’ll let the media interview themand we can have a celebrant on hand. We betterrun and get this organised. It’s going to behuge.”

It was huge. Inside and outside the zoo.Camera crews, placards, insults traded, warcries amongst peaceful protesters, rainbow kiss-ins, parents shielding their children from thosetrying to hog the media, the crowd bored by theuniversity researchers.

At last Wally and Brian appeared.They were shy and had to be coaxed out of

their enclosure before the storm of cameras.Oh how cute, the crowd cried. Equal rights forgay penguins some chanted, protect thechildren from this sin others shouted.

A microphone was shoved under Wally’sbeak.

“Wally, Brian, this is a wonderful world welive in where penguins can be gay and acceptedby all in the community. Do you want to sharethis commitment with everyone and be marriedtoday? Do you want to be parents?”

“Married? Parents?” Both the penguinsspoke and their strangled voices rang out inEnglish from the speakers above. The crowdwent silent.

“Fuck off,” Wally huffed and waddled away.Brian followed and shouted back “We want

to join the army, wear khaki and blow shit up!”



3rd prize

Onward chromosomesoldiers

Teri Kelly

The initial skirmishes took me completelyoffguard. Dusky maidens attired in pinkfatigues stole into my pre-pubescent mind andplayed havoc with my wiring. At that stage ofmy development, I was ill-equipped to handlesuch sabotage, despite being of sound mind andbody, well, sound body at least. But, the boyarmy within, rallied itself somewhat, and, formany years maintained what can best bedescribed, as an uneasy truce where both sidesalternatively claimed victory and denied defeat.Outwardly, I remained the same cheerful boywhom everyone loved. Inwardly, I was a totalwreck; a human bio-hazard not yet categorisedby modern medicine.

The girl army undertook a big pushsometime around my seventeenth birthday,and, in what is now regarded as the Battle ofthe Pituitary Gland, seized all but total controlof my hormonal weigh station. Obviously, thiswas a crushing blow to the boy brigade, whoretreated en masse to the nether regions andtook up a rearguard action bunkered downabout the scrotum plain.

Outwardly I remained the same passiveaggressive young man that everyone loved.

The years rolled by. Winters ofdiscontent.

Occassionally there came a cessation ofhostilities thereby allowing me the briefopportunity to interact with the world beyondmy mind on an even keel. What had begun as aguerilla campaign, however, had manifestedinto a mistressplan for all-out assault. The girlarmy, bouyed by its new found allies in themedical profession, mustered its resources,and, equipped with a whole stockpile of new-

fangled pharmaceutical weaponry, blitzkriegedon my fortieth anniversary as a humanwasteland. It was over so quickly and socompletely - give or take a few renegade boycells dug in here and there, that outwardly noone knew the person I now was, or, claimed tohave once been.

'Operation O' had been a campaign ofattrition. To celebrate, I was afforded the rareopportunity to enjoy a second puberty. So I did.Peace had fallen; shroud-like. The boy army re-grouped, attempted one last, desperate assault,on the fortress that was now my girl brain . . .and, fleetingly, it managed to not only scale theramparts, but amazingly, wrestle back theautopilot control. Just as the war looked certainto flare again, came a bona fide miracle – theboy army retreated. I was free, liberated,inwardly and outwardly I was finally one andthe same. I had survived. My peace is anewfound gift of exquisite beauty. A preciousthing, a new thing. Alas, I see war all aroundme. Human misery. I see different communitiesof loving people being denied equality. I seehate. I have the same eyes, only, they areprotected by new sentinels. I see clearly most ofthe time . . . I see that victory comes with ahigh cost, that no matter the reason Y,regrettably, war is always a precursor to peace.Unlike Tolstoy, my struggle, not my work, is mymagnum opus.



Under 26yo prize

Cold war

Hannah Cheers

Gossip gets around so fast. Gossip is the food ofteenage girls and my little secret had becomethe extra nutritious special on every Catholicgirls menu. One tiny little party turned into ahuge revelation that I really didn't want andnow I couldn't take it back. School would neverbe the same now that they all knew. It felt likeeveryone in the world knew, they might as welljust put it on a fucking blimp, I'm queer.

I knew that if I didn't go to school I'd onlyendure more torture later so I built up enoughcourage to walk through the gates. It was likewhen I walked through them for the first time. Iwas the same nervous, petrified little balldreading what awaited me. Of course, it wasn'tthe first time, I'd walked through these gateshundreds of times before but it was the firsttime I'd walked through them feeling so nakedand vulnerable. My stomach was erupting and Icouldn't feel my tongue.

I knew everyone would be against me. Thesmall-minded girls, the up-tight teachers, thenuns next door, none of them would ever wantanything to do with “a gay.” How mortifyingthat would be. Maybe if we lived way into thefuture or in ancient Greece then the idea mightnot be so repulsive. But not now. Now, theyhated me. It was silent hatred. A cold war.

A deep breathe felt necessary, so I tried one.I failed pathetically and exploded into acoughing fit choking on my own saliva. I gasped

for air as I tried to gather the books and foldersI'd dropped in my pitiful attempt at the world'ssimplest task. I must have looked beyondridiculous. I saw a pair of feet and newly-shavenlegs standing directly in front of me. Iimmediately knew who they belonged to,Bridget Edwards the school super-skank, withtits to die for. She's a major bitch and a well-known slut, so naturally I hate the fact that I'mincredibly attracted to her and feel all tinglywhen she speaks to me. Suddenly, images of theparty flashed back into my mind. She was thereand I know that she knows I'm gay. So had shecome to spit on me, laugh at me or call me adyke? Much to my surprise she bent down andtried to help me pick up my stuff.

“Thanks...” I said, so surprised it was almostrude.

She smiled. But it was somehow different toher usual smile. It was sincere.

“You're welcome and...it's OK. To be... thatway. I mean... you know... You're not the onlyone.” She had this really awkward expressionon her face and she spoke with restraint tryingnot to give anything away. She already had. Itwas obvious, super-skank Bridget Edwards, withtits to die for, was queer.



Highly Commended

The Julians

Madeline Shaw

“Since when do macadamias have prickles?”I squeeze the red tip of my finger. Three little

prickles.“Have some coffee,” Ahmed says, pouring me a

one inch cup.Black. Thick. Sweet.“Do you always drink that?” I ask.“Always,” Ahmed replies.Where’s he from, I wonder.

Ahmed holds my empty bucket out to me. I grabit and follow him back into the rows of dark greentrees. Thousands of macadamia nuts lie in the cleanred dirt. The coffee sends calculations spinningthrough my mind. 6 AM to 9. We nutted 18 buckets.Not bad but not good enough.

There are two methods for nutting. One - on yourknees (padded), crawl forward. Roll nuts into bucket.Two - on your feet, half crouched, collect nuts withhands. Drop nuts into bucket. I’m on my knees,crawling. Ahmed’s doing a crouching quickstep inthe leafy shadows.

“Where did you get the Superman thighs?” I ask.“Military service. Three years. Turkish army,” he

replies.

I’m rolling nuts fast. Turkish? I thought he wasGreek. I’m nutting with a Turkish soldier. That’sspeedy. We fill two buckets in less than eightminutes. It’s a record. I wonder what he would thinkif I told him I’m a dyke? Probably not such a goodidea if he is Turkish. Why do I think that?

“So how did you get to be nutting maccas inByron Bay?” I ask.

“Less talk, more nuts” Ahmed replies.

When we get to The Julians’ lookout, we abide bya rule we made yesterday. A one minute lie down inthe dirt allowed. Our gaze crosses the valley below.There they are. Close to the horizon. Just rocks -standing noble in the ocean. Peering to the north,we get a fifteen second glimpse of Mt. Warning withits pointy staggered head.

“Past that mountain…that’s how I came from theTurkish army to Byron Bay..by sea.. past Mt.Warning, hiding in the ceiling of a ship’s cabin forfive weeks.”

A silence falls between us – about laws and fear.Ahmed jumps up and runs away down the hill

with our buckets.

Sarah runs down the hill after me.“I’ll take the white bucket,” she yells. “It’s better!”She thinks I’m fit. Every part of my body aches. It

is three days since I have uncurled from my home inthe cabin ceiling. I won’t tell her anything aboutAnkara, the police or jail. I won’t tell her I ran awayfrom the army – not today. I won’t tell her I’m gay. Ijust want to run through the rows of trees withsomeone who doesn’t know anything about me.

“Do you play any musical instruments?” Sarahasks.

“Just the Irish flute,” I reply.“How come a Turkish soldier on the run from the

army who’s stowed away to Byron plays the Irishflute?” she asks.

“An Irish boyfriend taught me” I reply.“Are you always so honest?” Sarah asks.“Always,” I reply.



Highly Commended

A Wasted Year

PJ Dwyer

Michael arrived at the park in the early afternoonand found a shady spot under the Jacaranda Treethat had almost finished flowering. Like most ofthe year that had just ended, he was alone. In daysgone by this would have bothered him. He wouldhave questioned why in a city of over 5 millionpeople, were there no other souls around. It wasafter all a Saturday; the temperature was in thehigh 20’s; and the sky was blue – not a cloud insight.

Spreading the picnic blanket he had been givenfor a Christmas present, Michael peeled off hisshirt, kicked his thongs off then lay down. Todaywas going to mark the start of a new beginning. Hehad made a resolution on New Year’s Eve that inthe coming year, he would set a list of goals toachieve. It was all part of a master plan to be moreproductive. No longer would he sit by waiting forthings to happen, for the phone to ring or forothers to make decisions on his behalf. No,starting this day, things would be different.

After ten or so minutes of resting – some mightsay procrastinating – Michael rolled over to hisstomach. Reaching into his back pack, heretrieved a spiral bound note pad complete with ahard cover in his favourite colour that was tobecome his journal.

Starting with the date Michael began to recordhow the previous year had been for him. Thebiggest concern was that he was still single after solong. It bothered him that he would never find ahusband.

As Michael poured out his feelings and concernsat the deepening loneliness he felt, somethingcaught his eye. A magpie had landed near him andwas intently looking in his direction. Michaelreturned the gaze and was overwhelmed by asense of peacefulness which had descended upon

him. In some strange way the magpie reassuredMichael that everything would be ok.

The sun had dropped a little in the sky and therays struck Michael’s back. He rolled over and satup. At that moment in time, everything was still inthe park. There were no cars driving by, nor werethere planes above. The warmth of the sunenveloped Michael, giving him the sensation ofsomeone hugging him. It dawned on him that hehad just achieved his first goal of the New Year.Michael was finally at peace knowing he may neverhave someone to share his life.



Highly commended

What was there for meto tell

Hayley Katzen

It’s Boxing Day. Paul’s in his recliner watchingcricket. He promised he’d turn it off whenAndrea arrives. I stare at the screen, crossingand re-crossing my legs.

‘It’s them,’ I say as a car turns into ourdriveway.

‘That’s a turn-up,’ Paul says, glancing at thewhite hatchback outside. ‘Better than what’sher name’s panel-van.’

‘Suza. You know her name. And they’vebroken up. Andrea’s bringing her new friend forlunch. Please, Paul, don’t fight.’

Once a year we have lunch as a family. Myhusband and daughter declare a truce - for me.Kisses hello are usually followed by a warduring main course. Last year Paul asked forthe salt.

I leapt up saying, ‘Sorry, I’ll get it.’Andrea said ‘Let him get it, Mum.’And then they were off, spears raised, shields

flashing in the red and green tinseled light. Shestruck him with some international law aboutwomen’s rights, he tossed a ‘this is my house,get out if you don’t like it.’

When I open the front door Andrea and herfriend are arm in arm, bodies tacked together. Iblink. Andrea’s new friend is a man. He has aginger goatee and almond shaped eyes fringedwith curly lashes.

‘This is Shaun, Mum.’It’s an awkward greeting; neither of us know

whether to kiss or shake hands.Andrea leads Shaun inside by the hand. She

kisses Paul and introduces Shaun.Paul stares; he cocks his head like a

confused kelpie. Eventually, he heaves himselfup, stretches out his hand and says, ‘Well,Shaun, well. Nice to meet you.’

‘What’s the score, Mr Carnell?’ Shaun asks,his eyes on the television.

‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Paul says casting me agloating glance. ‘And please, call me Paul.’

Shaun melts into the leather couch. ‘Shouldbe a good game,’ he says.

Over the roast dinner, Paul pontificatesabout sledging, about the moral degeneracy oftoday’s cricketers. Shaun nods. Then likeschoolboys, they slink back to the television.

Andrea and Sean leave after 5. Not a crossword all afternoon.

‘Nice chap,’ Paul says, gathering the empties.I stack the desert bowls.‘Finally. We don’t have to put up with

weirdos.’A high pitched laugh brays out of me. I hear

myself say, ‘He’s one too.’‘What’re you talking about?’‘Shaun. He’s what you’d call a ‘weirdo’. He’s

not a man. Not like you.’‘Of course he’s a man. Held his grog too. Six

beers and you’d never have known.’I bite my top lip. ‘He was born a woman.

Andrea told me, in the kitchen.’‘Bloody hell,’ Paul says, frowning at the

bottles in his hands.I lick congealed custard from my index

finger.Paul flexes his nostrils. ‘Why the bloody hell

didn’t you tell me?’My breath has steadied. My heart’s not

pounding. Our gay daughter and her partnercame for lunch. We spent a peaceful afternoon.

‘What was there for me to tell you?’ I say,meeting his eyes.

the 2009 new mardi gras/nsw writers centre short story competition

Documents

anumber of writers

years membership

yo prize winner

love3rd prize winner

book voucher

years ofage

byron bay2nd prize winner

rd prizea nights accommodation