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Weekly Contest #130
The shadow of Risteard’s cape cloaks me. ‘Lag Oscaid,’ freshly embroidered in Risteard’s black cape below the oxen family crest. I am to champion my crippled older brother. Accused of murdering and kidnapping a mariner’s daughter, Risteard rots shackled in a Pori labyrinth. Burly magistrate guards bust our hut and find blonde hairs in Risteard’s chamber. Hair of the missing girl. Chief Falltach’s wife shaves her own blonde hair to the scalp, days prior. A coincidence? Last summer scourge men cleave Risteard’s arms. A sacrifice defending Chi...
Weekly Contest #129
Eyes wrinkled as if squeezing out sand granules. The climbing troop leader sits revelling in his youth. “We climb zero six hundred, tomorrow,” the troop leader says. I nod. Back to reading ‘Ransom’ by David Malouf. “Gramps,” the leader taps my mahogany desk. “Listen. You listen?” I nod. Back to ‘Ransom’ where Priam and Somax are entering the Greek camp. “So, what I say?” “You will leave at six A.M to stomp on, stab with ice pics and conquer the lower slopes of Gyachung Kang.” “Ahh good,” the troop leader rubs callused hands. He offers me a c...
Weekly Contest #128
Gunpowder green tea pellets, mum’s favourite. She would have bought these in Chinatown, Melbourne. Mum visits the city once or twice a year. She piggybacks on dad’s trips to watch the Collingwood Magpies play football. Mum manages to buy herself a few treats, green tea, and Hague’s chocolate frogs. Steam billows from the kettle. It’s a Smeg kettle. Mum has always wanted ‘at least one Smeg thing’ in her kitchen. She is making a pot of green tea for her sister Greta, her niece Kala, her oldest daughter Liz, and myself. Rosebud is the town of ...
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