Mark Towse is the winner of this year’s Bellarine Writer’s Competition.
Mark’s story about a troubled man jumping off a building is graphically expressed.
The conversation between the two main characters, Tom and Frank, with reminiscences and pointed questions, maintains the tension to the end.
It is deftly crafted, a complex combination of the internal thoughts and dialogue which make it unique and entertaining to the reader.
Mark’s winning entry signalled the end of another high-quality competition that is the brainchild of Alan Cobham.
“The judges of the Bellarine Writers’ Competition would like to thank the 60 people who have entered the competition this year and particularly the five finalists for their contributions,” he said.
“We are looking forward to receiving lots of entries during 2023.”
AN ACCIDENTAL MEETING
Mark Towse
Through swirling morning mist, I can only just make out the busy streets below.
Blood whooshes in my ears. My head spins, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. What if I give it one more week?
What if Mary has a sudden change of heart? What if I don’t die, the permanence of any injuries a constant reminder of such hopelessness?
Stop it, Tom. You’re 70 floors high, for Christ’s sake.
Got to do it, got to jump before I chicken out again.
Come on!
I close my eyes, anxiously twirling my wedding ring.
This is it. Three. Two.
I’m falling, stomach tumbling and the wind in my face, braced for an impact I’ll not feel.
“Good morning.”
Startled, I snap my head around to see a pot-bellied man dressed in a three-piece suit, his smile almost disguised by a thick turned-down moustache. In contrast, there’s not a hair on his head. An image forms of him ushering lions into a cage.
“Name’s Frank,” he says, running his fingers along the impressive moustache. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“What the hell are you doing up here?” I say, taking a step back from the ledge. “Have you been sent to talk me down?”
He offers a burly laugh. “I have seen you up here before, but I can assure you that our paths crossing today is purely accidental.”
Showing his palms, he takes a few steps forward. “I often come here to sit with my thoughts. Clear my head.”
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, Frank, but will you please vamoose, skedaddle, bugger off.” My abruptness surprises me. “No offence, but I’m not here for a chinwag.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you, my friend. I’ve been there, though, standing on that same ledge. Know what you’re going through.”
I’m beginning to get annoyed. “Frank, I—”
“Divorce? Separated? Kids want nothing to do with you? Retrenched? Money problems?”
“As I said, I didn’t come here to make friends.”
“Me neither. But we’re here now. What’s your name?”
I think about lying, but there seems little point. “Tom. It’s Tom.”
“You drink, Tom?”
“Bourbon, but not before 8am.”
That laugh again. “Wasn’t an invite. Single malt Scotch whisky.
Aah, yes. I went there once – the Highlands. Beautiful. Full of history and culture, not like this godforsaken place.”
This is insane. Adamant he won’t dissuade me, I shuffle across until my shoes once again poke over the edge. Car horns puncture the otherwise monotonous thrum of traffic, and faint music adds to the haunting effect of the now-thinning mist. Tyres squeal on tarmac, and sirens blare—orchestral notes of the city and a fitting soundtrack for my death.
“What was she like? Your wife, I mean, when you first met.”
We danced and howled with laughter. By evening’s end, her mascara was nothing but a stream of black running down to her chin. We were so free back then, ready for anything. We struck a deal that we would always be honest and open, cleansing wounds before allowing them to heal. Alas, we let ourselves get shackled, buried alive in the concrete jungle. I was going to be a writer. Mary had dreams of opening a yoga studio.
“How many children? One? Two? Three?”
A boy and a girl. Adam and Sophie. Adults now, of course. Both despise me. We were a close family once, sticklers for traditions: movie night, game night, even the bake-off and God-awful talent shows that Sophie used to organise. I’m even thinking about the house now, the one we swore we’d never leave. Full of warmth and joy in the earlier years, but more recently a battleground of resentment and disappointment, the inevitable wave of
conformity eroding our dreams. Sorrow washes over me as I grieve for those earlier days of promise.
Get a grip, Tom!
“What are your favourite smells?”
Woodland. The scent of pine, petrichor, adventure. We often used to hike in the nearest forest. The kids and I had an ideal spot off the trail where we’d hide, making loud farting noises with our armpits as people walked by. And the smells of Sunday afternoon baking, rooms filling with a wholesomeness that we could smell for days afterwards. And my wife’s perfume.
Come on, Tom!
“Three,” I say firmly.
“Favourite food?”
Steak with peppercorn sauce. “Two.”
“Do you remember the first time you made love?”
Vanessa Taylor. Her parents were away for the weekend.
“One.”
“What will you miss most, Tom?”
God. I can’t do this. I don’t want to die.
As I step back and double over, thoughts and memories race through my head, this time filling me with hope rather than emptiness.
“I mean, aside from people, estranged or not. Will it be the sunsets? Smells? The touch of the wind? The taste of bourbon?”
With some changes, I can make it work. A fresh start, a second chance. Yes!
“It’s the little things that hit hard, Tom.”
The last wisps of mist dissipate, but I can’t feel the breeze responsible. And it occurs to me that I haven’t been able to for some time. Below, I see ant-sized people urgently gathering
around red flashing lights.
No, wait. That can’t be.
But as I turn to the circus master, he bows his head. “It’s a strange feeling, for sure. Takes some getting used to,” he says nonchalantly. “A kind of disconnect.”
“I jumped?”
“Wasn’t much of a jump. Three out of ten.”
“No, that’s not possible. I—I—”
“Bit late for regrets, my new friend.”
I feel dizzy. Light-headed. “So, I’m—”
“Part of the gang now, Tom.”
Feeling an overwhelming urge to hug my children, I turn my attention to the streets below, where life continues and the music plays on.
“There are seven of us sorry souls, and you’ll meet them soon. We spend a lot of time up here with our thoughts and memories, chewing the fat, talking about little things.”
