Short Story Competition 2022

There’s Nothing Sadder Than Chinese Leftovers by Clinton Schmidt

In our backyard, Death stood before me.

A choked growl warbled over rattling bones scraping against dirt just before his black cloak fanned out, its majestic span extinguishing the sun.

Any moment now.

With one fell swoop, his blade would cut right through me, snuffing out the dull light still flickering within.

I was okay with it. He came early for you, now his scythe loomed over me. Romantic, really.

You would’ve hated that defeatist attitude. Frankly, you would’ve hated everything about me this last month.

For a time, denial was strong. A cold side of the bed meant you’d left early for work. Your dry toothbrush meant you forgot to brush before leaving. You didn’t even shower either, you heathen.

At night, it got harder to deny. Those broken routines…

I’d hear keys jangling, but the door never opened. The floorboards would creak, but you’d never appear. I’d go in the kitchen expecting to see you cooking, but the stove stood cold. Frozen dinners became a staple of my diet.

Your voice sometimes came from another room. Instinct made me draw breath to reply, but I’d stop myself because I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. I’d stifle tears because it’d give life to your death.

It wasn’t just you I denied, though. The missed calls and unanswered texts were piling up, but what was really waiting for me in my voicemail? Thoughts, prayers, condolences, and other things that didn’t matter?

Turns out, those were there, along with a few notices.

First, I no longer had a job. Apparently, employers don’t like it when you ghost them for weeks.

Second, it was time for our skin check. I figured you could skip it, what with your SPF 6-feet-under and all.

Then there was a message from your mother. They were holding a “celebration of life,” which is a memorial service with sugar coating. She left the address, as if I hadn’t been there a hundred times. She sounded well.

Is it horrible that I almost skipped it?

It was like I was dodging a series of confirmations. Unfinished business crowded the house, but I couldn’t bring myself to finish it. There’s a reason why your makeup and various skincare products stayed under the sink, or why the calendar remained on the previous month, or why there was rotten Chinese takeaway in the fridge, or why your favourite dress was left hanging on the line.

I mean, I have horrible skin, don’t care what day it is, not a fan of Chinese, and don’t have the legs to rock a dress.

These were things that meant you were still here in some way.

Truthfully, though, the fridge was starting to stink, so I decided to put on the only nice shirt I own (courtesy of you) and go to your service. If I could get through that, maybe I could throw away some festering Chinese leftovers.

At your parents’ house, the door was ajar, inviting me to confront everything I wanted to avoid. Through the door, a giant picture of you greeted me. Almost believed it was you in the flesh. Further, a little collage of your shortened life. It’s impressive how many memories are plastered on there. You really lived in the years you gave us.

Deeper inside, friends and family were littered everywhere. They smiled and idly chattered. It was like the

preparation for a surprise party. Passing time until the guest of honour arrived. I pictured the excited whispers…

the quiet shuffling into position… followed by the tense silence. So eager to scream, “SURPRISE!”

Only, you never come. Instead, everyone turns to see… me.

She’s dead, guys.

Worst surprise party ever.

I walked aimlessly, avoiding everyone, unsure of why I even came. I was an intruder. These people knew you from the start. I didn’t. All I did was see you at a bus stop with a cigarette in your mouth one day.

You exhaled. The smoke blew right back towards you, so eager to return to its divine host. Those little pesky hairs on the top of your head that you hated so much floated towards the sky, like the forces that sent you here from above desperately wanted you back, but there I was, desperate to keep you down here blessing us mere mortals.

“Careful, even goddesses get lung cancer,” I said. Lung cancer makes for a great pickup line.

You took another drag, turned to me, and said, “They’re immortal.”

I wish it were so.

If a butterfly fluttering its wings can change the course of history, what’s man capable of? As much as you

fundamentally changed my life, I’d flap my stupid arms if it meant changing your destiny. Maybe if I just walked by you, you’d still be here, somehow.

Stumbling around your service, I came across a table of assorted foods, and it proved to be my breaking point.

Sausage rolls and party pies.

Sausage rolls.

Party pies.

Something about it just made me furious. Here I was, torturing myself with our memories, and they had finger foods. It was like nobody cared—or worse, they bought into this celebration.

While I wondered how to exist without you, everyone ate party pies.

I couldn’t breathe. I felt the room closing in, suffocating me. Turns out, it was just your mother.

“We’ve been trying to reach you,” she said.

Snuck up on me. I didn’t look. My eyes stayed on the sausage rolls.

“Could’ve stopped by,” I said. I shouldn’t have. I know why they didn’t.

“How are you?”

I turned from the depressingly delicious pastries and looked at her. “Do you even miss her?” I asked.

She was stunned silent.

“Do you even miss her?” I asked again.

Idiotic. Instantly, I felt horrible, and that was before she covered her mouth and walked away.

I cursed myself and walked out the back door, hoping to escape unseen, hiding my shame. Unfortunately, your father was sitting on the balcony.

He was crying. Stoically, but still. I’d never seen your father show emotion.

He looked at me, wiping his eyes. I blew by him without a word and went home.

Time escaped me. I spiralled.

Grief was a house of mirrors—a twisted maze of both truth and deceit, its contorted reflections making it

difficult to tell the difference between the two.

It’s not real.

It’ll be okay.

I could’ve done something.

Life goes on.

Things will never get better.

I must stop.

I’d try to get out, pushing through the pain, the guilt—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t throw away your junk. I couldn’t flip the calendar. I couldn’t function.

But, still, I’d try.

That’s when Death came for me in our backyard.

Standing before me, still growling, readying himself. Taking his time, the fiend.

“Bird giving you trouble?”

I looked back to see your father. Then, I looked back at Death.

It was a curlew. It was angry.

Your dad shooed it. It retreated into a bush. I stared in awe. He defeated Death.

“They’ve been… aggressive… since she…” I stopped. Everything felt surreal. Sleep deprivation?

“You okay?” he asked.

“I was… doing the washing.”

He saw your dress hanging on the line, where it had been for the last month. It was no longer guarded. “Go on

then.”

Your dress blew in the wind, flowing gracefully while I stood frozen. The path was clear, but…

“I can’t,” I cried softly.

He nodded.

Before I knew it, we were in the kitchen. He’d poured us a couple drinks that we wouldn’t touch. I stared out the window into our backyard, your dress dangling. I’m a horrible host.

“Sorry I didn’t come,” he said.

Again, I knew why. “Because it’d make it real,” I said. The ensuing silence was confirmation. We both stared out at your dress. Sharing an unspoken memory, maybe. “The service—I didn’t mean what I said.”

“I know.”

“I’ve not been well.”

“I know.”

“But trying to move on makes me feel guilty.”

“I know. What’s that smell?”

He was always a man of few words.

“Month-old Chinese,” I said. “It represents her.”

“It’s rank. Gotta be a better way.”

“Maybe if I had a goldfish as a kid. Flushing one down the toilet… that would’ve taught me to let go.”

“It’s not about letting go,” he said. I felt his eyes on me. Mine stayed in our backyard. “She’s stuck in my head, too, but that’s okay.”

“Doesn’t feel okay.”

“Not now, but someday, it’ll bring me peace. Heavy as it weighs, the thought of her will lift me up eventually.

You don’t let someone go. You accept a new way to carry them.”

That sounded better than flushing you down a toilet.

Outside, the sun shifted onto your dress. It shone brightly, beautifully. As drab as everything seemed, that had life. I don’t know about God or the supernatural, but if anyone’s soul was strong enough to linger beyond death, it’d be yours.

I turned back to your father. “I really miss her,” I whispered.

He wiped the faint moisture from his eyes, nodded, patted me on the back, and stood up. I think he hit his word quota.

Or maybe he just knew we’d be okay.

“I’ll take the bins,” he said.

My hero.

I stood up and he suddenly pulled me into an awkward embrace. Maybe his first man-hug. It was the most uncomfortably touching moment of my life—maybe the discomfort I needed to remind me of the beautiful oddities of actually living.

With that, he gave me another pat and chucked the putrid Chinese leftovers.

The next few days consisted of baby steps. I was learning to carry you.

One day, I’d flip the calendar. Time officially passed.

The next, I’d toss your girly products. Admittedly, I kept some lavender lotion. Trying to look after myself. I even got my job back.

Then, I’d donate your clothes to charity. It’d be weird to stumble upon someone wearing you, but someone deserved to.

One article remained, however.

Nothing stood between me and your hanging dress. No Death, no curlew, no rain. Just our backyard. They say it only takes a few hours for clothes to dry on the line. It had been over a month. It was time, I suppose.

I walked up to the line. Two pegs were all that kept you here. I plucked one off, then the next. After a moment, your dress slipped off the line, directly into my arms. I looked down at it like a newborn child… but this wasn’t a welcoming, was it?

I brought the dress up to my face and sunk myself into it. I let myself mourn. Loudly. I was never a graceful crier.

A month’s worth of elements failed to cover the faded scent of your perfume that blanketed the smell of stale cigarettes stained into the fabric.

It wasn’t elegant… but it was you.

The familiar growl of a curlew halted my ugly sobbing.

I pulled myself out of your dress and looked down to see it standing opposite of me, wings up.

It wasn’t Death. Even still, I took a few cautious steps back.

Then, out of a nearby bush, another curlew came out. Following it were two of the smallest curlews I’d ever seen. They seemed completely oblivious to the world. While their father screamed at me, one of them scrambled to my feet, squeaking incessantly.

Slowly, I knelt. With tears and snot caking my face and your dress draped over my shoulder, I gently offered my hand to the chick. It spread its little wings, jutted its pea-head forward, and delicately pecked my finger before turning and running back to its family. They reunited and ran off together, fleeing across our backyard.

I stood up, unsure of what had just happened. Life had been so peculiar. Again, maybe sleep deprivation. Either way, I thought, she would’ve loved that.

And that made me happy.

In My Post-Apocalyptic Backyard by James Byrne

layers of linen, aimed at providing comfort in the morning chill. As I sat up slightly, my head turned to the window flanked by white curtains. In an orange glow of the autumn dawn, the neatly-trimmed lawn and the lone tree were sitting within it.

I brought forward my right wrist from under the quilt, staring at my watch through sleepy eyes. It was around half past seven, with the minute hand just arriving around the “VI” on the circle of Roman numerals. Old

fashioned as that may sound, this watch was perfect for this occasion, as it didn’t need batteries or electricity. It kept on ticking even when recorded time had grown less demanding.

Beckoned by the time, I finally decided to lift myself off the bed. While changing, I saw my pyjama shirt was a simple white cotton tee with “I Love Milne Bay” on it, harkening back to my volunteering days in Papua New Guinea. Those days brought me to where I was now. My dreams these nights have always called back to those days, but now they were gone…

My eyes turned to the worn calendar on the far wall. Five years, I realised… Five long years… That’s how long it was since the Great Collapse. It was an AI War… the evolution of automation, machine learning, and AI radically changed the way wars were fought in the future. For a time, we were feeling happy. Then, it turned into a war of the Terminators vs. Us, essentially. It all went downhill from there, as I had to flee my hometown while the skies rained fire around me. Now, here I am…

As I put my wallet in my pocket, I noticed my ID still in it. It told of a guy named Jim Crewkerne, born in 1997 and allowed to drive up to a date long gone. That date part no longer mattered, but in the end, I still knew who I was.

As I got ready, I could hear voices from the other side of the house. Everyone was wide awake, and conversing around a table of breakfast. This house was the property of Bill Windhover, a prominent figure in this part of Queensland’s old west. In his seventy-two years of living here, he had been a grazier, volunteer and even a member of the local council. Now, he continued that legacy by leading us into our next mission.

With my work gear donned, I strode toward the voices in the kitchen. On the way there I walked past a bookshelf that contained many of Old Windhover’s age-old reads. I saw various pieces of Tom Clancy, John Grisham and Dale Brown scattered around it. Some of those apocalyptic ones hadn’t aged well…

In the kitchen, I saw my comrades gathered around the mahogany wooden table. They were chatting and making breakfast.

The first guy to notice me was my close friend Alex. He was Old Windhover’s grandson, and it showed all right. I had known him since primary school, and it was through him that I became a member of this community.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said as soon as he saw me.

“Hey, come on,” I replied light-heartedly, “Night patrollers like me get a pass.”

I sat down to eat my buttered toast. I reached to the centre of the table to apply some homegrown honey from the nearby town of Prairie. That old country town that I treasured going out to was one of few treasures left…

As well as Alex, joining me was Kevin Oakley. He was a true engineering wizard who was about to graduate before the apocalypse happened. Now, he regularly controlled our drones watching the area and re-wired captured robots.

Next to him was newcomer Frank Cheltenham. A young country bloke brought here by chance. In his left

breast pocket was his silver harmonica, which he usually sat and played when he was bored. His common rendition of Bold Jack Donahue was just one of those little things in life.

Together, we made up the Flinders Division of the Volunteer Defence Corps. It is indeed a call back to the last World War, where the Australian Army was split into the small full-time Permanent Military Forces and the larger part-time Militia. My training was a series of lectures and courses. There were designated leaders and fixed regulations. I met them in Charters Towers, when I was taking shelter in my Uncle’s old property. From there, we linked up with some soldiers who managed to escape Lavarack Barracks before it was captured. It was there that we joined the Defence Corps.

“Did you hear there might have been a raid to the south of Augustus down?” asked Alex.

“I was too busy hearing that someone tried to rob the back of Sunshine Outstation…” said Frank.

“And there’s been a battle outside Hell’s Gate Roadhouse,” Kevin added.

It was amazing to me... Even when the grid was fried and communications were lost, word was still travelling far.

I guess we really didn’t need fancy wires to get the message through. All we just needed was the Bush Telegraph.

Pure Australian magic indeed…

“What’s the next step on our end?” I asked Old Man Windhover.

“The push north into the plains is finally happening!” he said.

The whole table cheered. We were finally on a mission again, taking the long road up to the plains…

“The latest telegraph from the Volunteer Defence Corps radio,” he continued, “We’re to marshal at the

homestead up north and wait for the main force. Make sure your rigs are as battle ready as you make it! I want to see us dominate in this fight!”

“Let’s do it!” Alex cheered.

“After this, drinks are on me,” I said.

“Count me in too!” said Alex’s cousin from the armchair in the living room, “I got a new reason to make it home alive.”

Laughing slightly at the cousin’s jesting, I put my plate back in the kitchen and opened the flyscreen door. I strode out into the cool breeze and made my way to the backyard.

This had been my home for the last two years. Prior to current events, the backyard of the Windhovers was like a scrapyard. Outside the fenced area was a large, aluminium shed, large enough to be an airplane hangar, which stored a large assortment of tools, bikes and cars. Now, though, the scrapyard had expanded to at least three times its previous size. Trucks, construction vehicles and cars were scattered around, under shelter roofs, across several hundred metres. One thing that was certainly different was the presence of weapons.

Then again, it was no secret that the average Aussie farmer has a couple of rifles, a shotgun, half a crate of jelly properties are capable of being independent for food and water, enormous quantities of fuel, underground tanks, and it’s very common to have a well-equipped workshop that can make anything from a tractor to a machinegun.

Now, I had the floor…

I strode forward toward my ride. Before the apocalypse, I had a tan-coloured, old-school Toyota RAV4. It

wasn’t anything special, just my car to take me to Point A to Point B throughout Townsville. But when the chaos had come to my shores, I packed up and regrouped with my friends at a property near Major’s Creek, and this

car was my primary weapon ever since… Bull bars jutted out from its front, steel mesh guarded the door, and the windows were reinforced and bulletproof.

The problem immediately before me was a dent in the right door. The steel mesh on it had been wrecked as the result of last week’s encounter with a drone in Torrens Creek. Using a drill, I unscrewed the mangled mess from its hinges and tossed it aside. I went over to the table housing my new side armour – A series of sawn-off van doors.

That may have been an odd choice at first, but screwing those things in place, I made my car looked like a knight wearing his armour. All he needed was a sword…

Frank was working on a ball-shaped device on the roof of my car. The bug-zapper, as we called, was a high-tech radio jammer that scrambled the systems of any drone it locked on to. That would either bring them down or pause them while my armed comrades brought them down.

“It’s still good to go, mate,” Frank told me, “Just don’t push your luck.”

“You know I don’t,” I replied, “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here now.”

“One part that, and two parts pure luck,” Alex added, “Let’s get your new engine sorted.”

Alex took control of the engine hoist. With a whirr, the engine was slowly lifted out from under the hood. No wonder he was eager to have it replaced. This thing held out for two years, but was really showing its age. As he dropped it onto the floor of the garage, I went over to the crate lying within range of the hoist.

I lifted the lid of the crate to find a shiny new engine. It set me back a great deal of gold at the Armory in the Winton Safe Zone, but it was worth it!

As Alex said about the duty of rigging the engine up to the car, I took a moment to head over to the radio in the corner of the shed. I looked at my watch, and it was time for the latest report. I turned the volume knob up so everyone else could hear, and an old country voice began to speak through the airwaves…

“Latest report: Operation Prairie Fire reported successful. Australian Army forces have taken back the Bowen area.

Gulf Hammer in play. Say again, Gulf Hammer is in play. This is the VDC Reporting Service, from Gracemere.”

“Gulf Hammer…” I said, “That’s the airborne and amphibious assault on the Northern Territory area.”

“Sure is…” Alex said, up to date with military ops himself, “We’ll help out with that soon. There is hope yet.”

“That’s right…” Frank said, “Wide open battle in Far North Queensland. Northern Territory frontlines been rolling back for weeks.”

“All because of people like you,” said Old Man Windhover as he strode into the shed, “You made the difference… Heck… You are the difference.”

With renewed enthusiasm, I climbed into my ride and turned the key. The new engine activated smoothly, and the morning work had yielded splendid results. I slowly advanced out of the garage and out into the open, where my friends were waiting.

“Prairie Company Lead,” said Alex’s voice over the radio, “Can I get a radio check?”

So began the rollcall. Frank was at the wheel of his cattle truck, which he turned into a big mobile fort. Alex was in a heavily decked-out Subaru Brumby, and his cousin was beside him in an even older Land Cruiser. Four of Old Windhover’s jackaroos were on motorcycles. In the house, Kevin was controlling our eye in the sky.

“Copy all,” said Alex after everyone reported in, “Moving out!”

With that, Alex’s Brumby drove forward, Frank followed, and then I slid into the column formation as we

pushed down the long dirt road. The still, dusty plains reverberated with the sound of our engines. First, quite low, then loud, and then at last with a jazzy melody!

Soon, we left the gate guarding the property and drove out into the Plains. We raced towards our goal with our heads held high and our hands at the wheel. Nothing could stop us now.

Artificial Intelligence, here we come!

The Well by Jake Nona

Erik sat in his bedroom, gazing out at his rain-sodden backyard. With the power out and his mother at work, he had nothing to occupy himself with but this singular window. His own little portal to the outside world, where he watched raindrops race down the glass and. . .

How strange. Eriks eyes landed on an unfamiliar object. An old stone well jutting out just above the bushes.

Odd that he had never seen it before. He simply must go out and explore it! Without wasting a fraction of a second, he bounded down the stairs, like an excited puppy. Erik skidded through the kitchen and up to the back door. Throwing open the heavy oak slab his heart sank.

It was still raining. Mother never let him out when it rained, droning on about how he would get mud all over the carpet and fall sick. Half-heartedly Erik began to close the door, sad that he wouldn’t get to explore the well. Just as the lock was about to click back into place a thought occurred to him. Mother wasn’t home, so she couldn’t yell at him for being in the rain. Besides, he would only be out there for a few minutes, so she would never know! Filled with renewed vigor, Erik tore open the door and ran towards the well. His bare feet kicked and splashed through

hidden puddles that lay just beneath the grass, soaking the cuffs of his PJ legs. He leapt over a frog, letting out a childish giggle as his feet landed with a squelch. Barreling through the bushes, he looked for his prize. Pulling apart bushes and branches, Erik searched. Just as he thought he had lost the stone structure, there it was.

The weathered cobble structure sat at the very edge of his property, nestled in between large blueberry bushes.

The well was strange. Thick vines snaked up its exterior. A rope, thick and crude descended into the depths of the well. Eric felt an overwhelming urge to descend into the abyss. To find out what treasures lay just beyond the inky blackness. Tentatively Erik placed a hand on the rope, contemplating his next actions. Hoisting himself onto the edge, he took a deep breath, grabbed onto the rope and eased himself down. As he descended further, less and less light penetrated the darkness.

Suddenly, the rope slipped from his grasp. Erik’s heart skipped a beat as his hands scrambled desperately for the lifeline. He tumbled uncontrollably down the well, bashing his head against the cold wall, sending his vision into a blur.

With a thump, he landed on the soft ground, sending a puff of white in all directions. Groaning, Erik pulled himself up, wincing at the bruises he had sustained. The ground felt cold. Opening his eyes, Erik was greeted by a strange sight. Snow, and pine trees, as far as the eye could see. Casting his eyes up, he could see the base of the well above him.

The sound of crunching snow drew his attention. Wheeling around, Erik found himself face to face with a mole.

A mole wearing a large fur hat. Erik’s jaw fell open at the strange sight. It was tall for a rodent, standing at waist height to Erik. And old, with a knobbly cane and grey fur.

“I must say, you are one odd-looking individual,” The elder mole said, tugging on his white velvety beard. Erik recoiled slightly, offended by the rude statement.

“I’m odd? You’re a talking mole!” Erik retorted. The mole let out a warm chuckle. “Indeed, youngin’” He mused.

“Now, you must forgive me, my eyes ain’t so good now” Reaching into his rucksack he retrieved a pair of worn spectacles. Sliding them on, he leaned in, squinting his already tiny eyes. He let out a muffled gasp.

“My, your one of them surface folk ain’t ya? One of those Hoo-men’s” He mused, rolling the last word around in his mouth. Erik furrowed his brow in confusion.

“You mean human?”

“Mhm, yes, Hoo-man” He clasped his paws behind his back, shuffling past Erik.

The old mole wheeled around in the snow. He brought up his knobbly cane, poking Erik in the chest. “Your kind is trouble!” He settled his spectacles back onto their perch. “We moles see how Hoo-mans live, fighting and killing. Always hurting each other. We want nothing of it!”

Erik sat stunned at the sudden change in tone. The old mole’s sudden outburst had caught him off guard.

“We’re not all bad” Erik pouted. Mole raised a grey eyebrow. His small beady eye looked the small boy up and down. Letting out a sigh, mole leaned on his cane.

“I suppose YOU ain’t a bad one. But you can’t stay here” Mole again reached into his sack, this time pulling out a

small vile. Grabbing Erik’s hand, he shoved the glass vile into his hands.

“Drink” Mole commanded.

Erik stared at the strange purple liquid that sloshed around the narrow tube. “What is it?”

“I said drink! You don’t need to worry about such folly”

Hesitantly, Erik unscrewed the cork plug, gazing in at the concoction. He looked back at mole, who only

motioned him to continue. Holding his breath, he downed the putrid liquid in one swift gulp, gaging as it went down. Mole gave a satisfied nod. Before Erik could ask what came next, a wave of drowsiness hit him. Within moments, the world had yet again faded into black.

Waking up with a splitting headache, Erik took in his surroundings. The soft white snow and tall pine trees that surrounded him mere moments before were replaced by the familiar walls of his bedroom, the evening shadows already setting in. Baffled, Erik leapt from his bed, rushing over to the window, his eyes franticly searching his backyard.

There, in the bushes almost out of sight was Mole. He glanced back and tipped his fur hat, before disappearing back into the well.

Danger in the Sky by Dorian Locke

Danger! The word flooded her mind, repeated a dozen more times. Fear gripped her as she looked up and frantically searched the sky.

The sounds of panic and running footsteps pounding the ground reached her. She dropped what she was carrying and started to run.

Only moments before Indy had been enjoying the sunny day. The birds twittering and flying from tree to tree … she and her younger sisters gleefully playing…

But now, something soared above them in the sky, its shadow sweeping across the green grass. It was huge it was coming straight for Indy and her siblings. All she could think was that she had to get them to safety. She was the eldest, they were her responsibility.

She called out to her sisters, urging them all to take cover. She ducked her head to get under an abandoned trailer, its wheels muddy and metal frame worn and starting to rust.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked out from her hiding spot and searched the area for her sisters.

They were nowhere in sight and she hoped they had all found a place to hide.

The haunting cross-like shadow suddenly shot forward across the grass and Indy realised with horror that it had spotted her sister Maya.

She leapt up, calling out to Maya to follow her, and they both dashed across a vast concrete floor and squeezed into a tiny opening between a large metal box and a brick wall.

Breathless, Indy asked about her other sister and Maya replied that she had seen Daisy jump over the gate and hadn’t seen her since.

Indy was surprised, she and her siblings were not allowed to go past the gate, and certainly not beyond the house or grounds. But then again, this was no ordinary day.

Daisy was not safe while the danger flew across the yard and Indy could not let her be found.

They would have to risk crossing open ground. The two girls set out carefully, slowly, with an eye on the sky, as they crept toward the gate.

Finally arriving at the gate, Indy realised how high it was.

She was amazed that Daisy had found a way past it. It was white, wooden and sharply pointed at the end of each plank.

A small square of metal connected two chains that kept the gate from opening.

A feeling of dread began to fill Indy up. She knew that the danger could be upon them at any moment, they had to get over the gate, even though it could expose them both.

She eyed the top of the fence, took a huge breath in, and leapt over and into the yard on the other side. Indy immediately followed, and as she did, the shadow loomed over them in the sky.

They fled together onto a long dark path that was streaked with white lines. She heard the call of her own name on the other side of the concrete river and she dashed towards the voice, Maya close behind her. When they got to the other side, they found Daisy crouched under a small, overhanging tree.

Relieved that she had found both her siblings, they started back towards the gate and the safety of home.

Suddenly, a deafening, angry call sounded behind them. Indy spun her head and saw a monstrous brown dog with mean yellow teeth charging at them.

In terror, Indy, Maya and Daisy dashed across the dark river, the dog barking and right on their heels, its breath on the back of Indy’s neck. A screech of the danger in the sky sounded from above and the wind of its passage came close.

The three girls half leapt and half flew over the gate, and made a break for the house at the end of the yard. The dog stopped at the gate but continued barking and growling.

As they ran the last few meters to safety, Indy knew the winged creature’s fierce claws were only moments from snatching her. She ran with everything she had and dove through the door after her sisters, to safety.

As she peered back out of the small wooden hatch of their chicken house she saw the huge hawk snap its beak in frustration just above the door, before beating its jagged wings to the sky, and disappearing into the distance.

That Day by Elsie Reeve

one people, one family, this tribe was ours, this land was ours. We were independent and free, with no-one to boss us and no-one to betray us. Nothing could take that away. Until that day…

Our yard was vast, with trees that swayed and animals that roamed. Our huts were like mansions to us.

Boomerangs and spears helped feed us. We hunted and lived in harmony with the land.

One day, in a flash, our backyard changed forever. White men came in uniforms and tall ships. Confusion and anxiety were rife. Blood pulsed like a hurricane through my veins. My stomach churned, and what happened next was immense.

As the sun rose the next day, I could sense my mother was worried about our tribe. When I was playing outside with my sister, a strange man in a blue uniform approached and said, “You there, come here. This is our land now, our backyard”. He aimed his long metal weapon and threatened to shoot. I ran to tell my mother. She was paralysed with fear, flat on the floor, not moving a muscle.

As the men in blue rushed towards our tribe, they drew their metal weapons and blasted small hard metal balls at our heads and hearts. My father defended bravely with spears but was no match for their power. He took his last breath right there, on the ground of our backyard.

My eyes turned into waterfalls. My sister comforted me. All our cousins were crying for their parents, but it was in vain - they couldn’t respond. They took us and forced us to do unimaginable things. Our culture was stripped from us. They forced us to be like their kids. We were puppets, slaves and many of us never saw our families again. No home. No family. No identity. Nothing. No more backyard. When would this nightmare end?

Instead of families, strangers. Instead of friends, foes. Wild, claustrophobic, fear, suffocating. We thought our tribe and way of life was eternal. It was, until that day.

The Day an Alien Cried in our Backyard by Bethany de Leon

Boom! Crash!

The sudden loud noise made me jump. I peeked in the kitchen. Maybe a pot came crashing down. It didn’t. I went to my brother’s room. Perhaps, he was playing with trucks. He wasn’t.

“Did you hear that?” We asked each other simultaneously.

We went out to investigate. In our backyard was a damaged UFO! There was dirt everywhere. The UFO landed straight in mother’s prized roses. The garden gnomes were all shattered in pieces. Shards of metal lay across the vegetable patch.

The UFO was glowing. My brother and I held each other’s hands as we approached the flying-saucer. We were about to touch it and …

Hhhhiisssss!

The door opened. We screamed and hid behind the huge mango tree.

A green furry alien and huge yellow eyes came out. I grabbed dad’s spiked rake. We thought it was going to eat

the carrots and tomatoes in our vegetable garden and then gobble us up. But this alien just sat there and started … crying?

“Beep-Bop-Beep,” the alien cried.

Ralph and I emerged slowly from our hiding spot, rake still up. “Uhm …. hello?” I spoke.

The alien looked at us, “I came from Planet Nomega. I’m on assignment to study Earth colours and report back.”

“O-kay,” Ralph said, “But why are you crying?”

“I can only see gray, Beep-Bop-Beep!” the alien cried.

“Stop crying! We’ll help you!” Ralph said.

Ralph took a blooming rose with a broken stem and exclaimed, “See, this is red!”

“What is red, Beep-Bop?”

“Red is uh …” Ralph didn’t know how to explain

I grabbed the alien by its soft fluffy hand and made it stand in the heat of the sun.

“Hot,” the alien said.

“Red is the heat you feel. How do you feel when you can’t tell colours apart?” I asked.

“Embarrassed. Angry,” it replied.

“Yes! That’s red. Red is the color of burn from anger or shame!”

“Oooh!” Ralph said excitedly as he showed the alien our pool, shimmering blue under the blazing sun, “How about blue?”

“Blue, Beep-bop?”

Ralph turned the sprinklers on and upon getting wet, the alien recoiled first but then looked serene. “Blue is the colour of coolness, peace and relaxation.”

The alien nodded, seeming to understand. The alien scratched his foot along the green, wet, freshly cut, grass.

His nose twitched with the unfamiliar scent.

“That’s green,” I said, “That fresh, earthy smell? It’s the color and scent of life.”

The alien smiled.

“Beep-Bop, I understand now. I can go back home.”

With a wave of the alien’s hand, the UFO is magically fixed. It went inside and gave us a hearty wave of goodbye.

The UFO flew up high, disappearing into the vast blue sky streaked with white clouds.

“What on earth happened to my garden?!” Mum yelled, nostrils flaring, hands on her hips.

We stood there frozen.

“Yup, that’s the colour red,” Ralph whispered.

I tried to hide my smile but ended up bursting into laughter.