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Submitted to Contest #340
The sun set early in winter. Street lamps glowed on the pavement long before the office workers began their pilgrimage home. The Antarctic wind whipped down the town bringing with it a gusting, biting rain. It promised to not be a night for going out and about. A night where everyone should be tucked away by a fire, warm and dry. Here and there beacons of light spilled out of the shops onto the roadway. Highlighting the puddles in the potholes. The shop attendants focused on watches, on clocks on the wall. Waiting for that moment they could ...
Submitted to Contest #338
Newcastle was corrupt. Everyone knew it. Not a single person threw straight dice. And those that did, didn’t for very long. You couldn’t live in Newcastle during the 1990’s and not feel it in some way. Those on the outside assumed the immaculate corruption of New South Wales was limited to Sydney. Limited to the scope of the Wood Royal Commission. How could they not? The Luna Park Ghost Train fire of 1979 had cracked open the lid. A fire over land development that took seven people to the afterlife and a trail that supposedly led all the way...
Submitted to Contest #335
There was always something odd about the Hunter Street Mall. A ghost town. Shops boarded up. Shutters permanently closed. Graffiti tags spritzing the walls. And yet, every weekend, at night it was full of people. Coming and going. Marching and staggering. Traipsing from the pubs and nightclubs at either end of it. Lights shone through the upstairs windows, even though there was no visible doors to enter the buildings. The escalator to the food court had rusted solid. The sea salt air and the tables concreted into the floor with no chairs. Mu...
Submitted to Contest #334
TRANSCRIPT: DIGITAL VOICE RECORDER. Exhibit Number: 251181131-25812382315Recovered from abandoned vehicle, west of Silverton, NSW.Battery status inconsistent.ENTRY ONE Right. Testing. Red light’s on. I think that means it’s working? Testing, testing. Okay good. This is Dennis Parkes. I’m recording this in case my phone dies. It’s on about thirty percent battery , but there’s not much call for it out here. No reception. Haven’t heard a peep from it in hours. I’m on the road, somewhere past Broken Hill I think. West. I’m driving from Sydney t...
Submitted to Contest #333
CW: Themes and/or references to violence, murder, implied cannibalism The house was too warm. Even for a warm summer’s evening in February, where the day had reached deep into the 40’s. Not the stale warmth of a building long sealed up. The kind that comes from a day’s work. Where the house was busy all day. Comings and goings. The fans in the ceilings pushed the air around, providing some breeze. But the air was hot, long after the sun went down. Walls soaked in heat. Floorboards hot underfoot. The faint, fading savoury smell. Detective Ha...
Submitted to Contest #330
The bell rang for the end of the school day. Bree was out of her classroom, packing up her desk in the teachers lounge almost before her students had left her room. She’d had enough for the day. For the week. It had been such a trying week. So many little incidents, so many demands on her time. Twice this week she nearly wet herself because she simply didn’t have time to go to the toilet. Such is the life of many teachers. Working long, thankless hours. Constantly being berated and teased by friends and family members over the holidays. “It ...
Submitted to Contest #329
Tamara Nguyen never meant to return to Newcastle. Not after the job on Kooragang went sideways. Not after her partner Jason vanished into the night with two murderous men chasing after him. And certainly not after her Vietnamese parents found out. They’d left Vietnam to escape crime. They’d sacrificed everything. Only to see their beloved daughter swim in those deep waters and take a white boy as her lover. So Tamara left, seeking gainful employment in Sydney. A receptionist. Answering phones with a sweet smile and a sweet, lightly accented ...
Submitted to Contest #327
The neighbours were, quite rightly, angry. Night after night, the little tuxedo cat caterwauled. As long and as loud as he could. Sitting high off the ground in the branches of the fig tree that dominated Jenny Lloyd’s backyard. His call carried across fences, into bedrooms. A thin and haunting sound that screamed of sadness, piercing walls and movies on the television. Nothing would stop him and Jenny didn’t seem to care. Nothing done but the occasional shout of “shuddup”. But no matter what the threat, the bribe, the cat always maintained ...
Submitted to Contest #326
It had been weeks since that night at Sarah’s flat. Weeks since Andrew realised just how far down he’d sunk. He’d been so lost, looking for her, dreaming of her. Chasing the dragon had cost him everything. After Craig had thrown him out, hearing Sarah call him trash – lying at the bottom of the stairs was like a veil being lifted from his eyes. He’d wandered the streets, returning to his place of solace. The lighthouse. And when he threw the cheap pawn-shop engagement ring into the river, the ring he’d been holding onto for weeks, months, ye...
Submitted to Contest #325
Honeysuckle Heat The wind off the harbour bit into Claire’s face. Sharp and salty. The tang of rust and diesel from the tugboats hauling yet another coal ship into the port. The stacks of the steelworks pouring fallout into the air. A bitterly cold night, the dead of winter. Those icy fingers made it perfect for tonight’s work. Anyone who didn’t absolutely have to be out was tucked up in bed. And those that had to be avoided the harbour. It funnelled the ocean’s Antarctic breeze deep into Newcastle. Honeysuckle, the future playground vision....
Submitted to Contest #324
The Incoming Tide. Newcastle was cold that evening in late July. Andrew leant on a railing on the headland at Nobby’s lighthouse, cigarette dangling from his fingers. On one side the sea raged, pounding waves, not even the surfers would brave that break. The other, the Hunter River churned, a restless animal. Dark and indifferent. Swollen from the winter rains. Waves tossed the ferry around, threatening to pull it under. The sea fighting the river. The Antarctic winds whipped at Andrew, biting through his coat. He played with the tiny box in...
Submitted to Contest #292
Carrington. One of the oldest parts of Newcastle, itself one of the oldest cities in Australia, Carrington was always teeming with the comings and goings of the underclasses. The place the rich and wealthy never set foot. The place where the mighty cargo ships would dock, resupply, off-load and load up on all sorts of goods. Once wide streets for bullock trains had evolved into a maze of semi-permanent constructions housing all manner of cheap delights and depravity. An intricate web, designed and curated to ensnare the multitude of sailors ...
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