For our final topic this year we had 26 entries, giving us a total for the year of 96, a very pleasing result.
The following people were shortlisted for this topic, namely Eileen Jenkins, Nikki Laursen, John Farrington, David Brewster, Rosemary Low, Shannon Brookes, and a special one from me for an unusual story, Dylan Johnston.
The winner was Shannon Brookes for her story entitled ‘Wildest Dreams.’ The judges decided that this was a clever piece of imaginative writing, quite different in its approach from all the other stories.
There are now five finalists who will compete for the prize of $1000 to be published in the Voice on October 31. The competitors are Jenny Macaulay from Portarlington, Roy Mears from Ocean Grove, Christine Scheiner from Barwon Heads, Jen Eddy from Leopold, and Shannon Brookes from Ocean Grove.
Thanks to all the competitors who have contributed this year.
Alan Cobham
Shannon Brookes
In the past, writing for me was a practical exercise, like writing for my high school paper or my son’s kinder newsletter.
But entering and winning the inaugural Bellarine Writer’s Competition in 2019 really got my creative juices flowing. I have since written many short stories as well as a junior fiction chapter book with a sequel is in the pipeline.
I also love meeting with other local writers each month to keep me inspired.
Wildest Dreams by Shannon Brookes
Would you believe your wildest dreams could come true? The wild ones that come in those first few moments of slumber, just as you are floating off to sleep. Somewhere between deep sleep and consciousness, your mind goes to fantastical places, and the lines of reality are blurred. Could they come true?
Travelling home from a long day in the city, the train rocks me gently from side to side as I drift off.
Cheetahs in trees watch me as I prance through the tall savannah grass nonchalantly.
Suddenly a cheetah springs to the ground and takes chase. My prancing turns to running but no speed or distance comes until I arrive at the ravine and drop sharply to the bottom. Thud!
I land on the bottom of the elevator as the door dings open.
Ding! I stir as the train door opens to let a lonely late-night traveller enter the carriage. He is a slight man with a brown tweed suit and beige felt hat. He sits down two rows in front of me.
The scent of his cologne mixes with the aroma of the tan leather satchel he is carrying.
The doors close again. Pulling away from the platform, the train picks up speed, swaying me soothingly back to sleep.
The man with the felt hat appears above me, grinning widely. I crouch low in my chair but can’t escape his glare. He produces a dagger from his coat pocket. My eyes are drawn to the short shining blade that is dripping with blood. Is that my blood? I feel around my chest and find a damp patch on my shirt. Is that blood?
Ding! The door startles me awake and I quickly glance at my blouse and see a small spot of drool. The felt hat is still positioned two rows ahead.
A cute young couple stagger in. Once neatly dressed, her in a bright red frock, him in a pair of chinos and blue check button down, they are now dishevelled and obviously inebriated.
They sit to the right, across the aisle from the tweed suit man. They canoodle as the train chugs on.
Pangs of jealousy stir within me as I try not to watch their intimate displays of affection. I close my eyes.
Music pounds loudly in my head. I move around the dance floor, my red dress flowing around me. I pause in front of the tall, tanned blonde I have been eyeing off all evening. His athletic frame is clearly noted under his blue check dress shirt. We make eye contact as I dance provocatively in front of him. Clearly reading my signals, he moves forward, grabs me hard around the waist and pulls his hips close to mine.
Ding! I jump in my seat, jolted from the dance floor. Entering now is a middle aged businessman, wearing a grey suit and steel grey tie, loosened from a long day at the office.
He slumps into the chair across from me, hanging his head to nap.
In the dark alley behind the club, Shane, blue shirt guy and I, continue the party. A middle aged man in a grey suit appears and pushes past us. He is rushing to escape the cheetah bounding up the alley. I cling tightly to Shane, a scream sticking in my throat. Shane twirls me around my red dress following and shields himself from the approaching feline. The cheetah crouches to pounce, but suddenly Shane releases his grip on my shoulders, and I run. I run for what seems like hours, but I am making no headway down the alley. Behind me I hear screams of terror, I look back over my shoulder. The cheetah is nowhere to be seen
but a man in a beige felt hat is standing over Shane’s lifeless body pulling a short silver blade from his chest. He grins widely at me.
Ding! Thrust back to the reality of the train carriage, I see two police officers enter. Nervous, I sit upright and survey the scene. The beige felt hat is nowhere to be seen. The officers crouch low over the muscular body of ‘Shane’. Blood gushes from a gaping wound in his chest. The young women in the red dress sobs loudly at his feet. Across the aisle, the grey suited businessman attends to large scratch marks on his face with a hanky. What a mess!
Chef of Ninety-Nine by Dylan Johnston
Would you believe I’m still a chef at age 99? Yeah, I wouldn’t believe me neither. They say I don’t move around the kitchen like I used to, and it’s true I can’t
work the long hours no more, but believe me when I say this: I cook the finest Italian food in New York. But that’s only when everythin’ goes right.
Last night’s shift was rough; critics flew in from three different countries to try my food. Now look, I’ve cooked for critics before, but never so many at once. It was a lot of pressure, and if I’m honest, I may have made a few errors here and there.
First up was Antoine Croissant, a critic from France. He ordered the linguine. The pasta was al dente and the sauce was tasty, but halfway through the meal the
waiters found him asleep face down on the plate. You think he was bored with my food? Nah, forget about it. It just turned out that instead of addin’ a little salt to the sauce, I kinda tipped in a few of my sleepin’ pills. The bottle looks similar to a salt shaker, so what? The guy had a good meal and a good nap, sue me!
After him was Karl Schnitzel, the German critic. He had the lasagna, but what he didn’t expect was a side of dentures. Here’s the thing, my memory don’t work too good these days, so sometimes I forget where I leave things. It’s not a big deal if ya ask me, false teeth never killed nobody. But with the way he stormed out the place, you’d think they came alive and bit the guy.
Last was Oliver Crumpet from England. He didn’t make it past the entrée; said he had to “run to the loo”, whatever that means. The waiters told me he was in the bathroom for a good half hour; they kept givin’ me updates while I was lookin’ for my laxatives. Still haven’t found ‘em. And you wanna know how the night ended? Get this: Crumpet comes runnin’ out the bathroom, trips over the sleepyhead who had fallen out of his chair, knocks the teeth off the German’s plate, they go flyin’, and I watch as all our customers go runnin’ out the door in a panic. What a mess.
