The Bellarine Writing Competition is now ready for the final to be held and completed by 19 October and published in the Voice on Friday, 3 November.
For Topic 5 there were 18 well-written entries and the winner, a regular contributor, Ali Holborn, produced another good story, The Victors, with clear exciting writing, keeping the reader guessing until the end.
It was a very imaginative story which used the picture in a very natural way throughout the action-packed plot. Notable mentions go to Glenn Taylor, Jenny Macaulay, Aaron Mitchell, and Wes Furyk.
The judges would like to thank all the competitors who have contributed during the year and Justin Flynn, editor of the Ocean Grove Voice for his assistance. We hope to see old and new writers next year.
Ali Holborn
To hone her skills in writing books for her children, Ali obtained a Diploma of Professional Children’s Writing through the Australian College of Journalism. Since then, she has published a few stories for various age groups, but now that she has retired to the Bellarine and started a writer’s group, is enjoying writing fiction for adults.
Ali’s other favourite hobbies are painting, playing pickleball and volleyball, yoga and enjoying our beautiful environment.
The Victors by Ali Holburn
Voices drift ahead of the footsteps striding towards me. I freeze. I thought this way would be safe! I silently curse my stupidity. Of course someone will have noticed the pale blue bike missing. Nothing escapes The Victors’ attention.
On impulse, I alight, taking care to prop it against one of the pine posts that delineates the forest walkway. Quietly, deliberately. It wouldn’t do to appear sloppy or panicked, no matter how furiously my heart hammers. I curse myself again. Their teachings have already begun to infiltrate my mind.
Shadows now, rounding the bend. I lift my makeshift pack from the bike’s wire basket and although I need to head right, I duck under the railing to my left to keep my shadow out of sight.
“Who’s there?” The Victors call.
Unsure if they’ve seen me, or just the bike, I scramble to the bushes as their footsteps hasten. One thing I have over them – running is forbidden. Told me so when I was first brought here after my kidnapping, so they won’t be able to catch me unless they break their own rules.
Through the branches, I observe The Victors reach my getaway vehicle, their hands shielding their eyes as they peer into the bushland. I can’t make out exactly which two they are, and it doesn’t help that they stole my multifocals when they abducted me, but regardless, I must remain hidden.
After an interminable length of time, they whisper to each other before seizing the handlebars and wheeling the bike back along the boardwalk.
Whispers unsettle me. Always hushed voices, controlled movements. Everything controlled.
Including me. I’ve pretended to concede during their hypnosis sessions, but the small stones secreted in my slip-on sneakers kept me alert. They won’t brainwash me as they have the others here.
I break cover from my hiding place when their footsteps fade, and clamber across the walkway into the bushland on the other side. My heart immediately calms. Good to be on the right side. Being on the left is courting with the devil. The Victors haven’t said as much, but I know it.
The sun is sinking, the unshaded patches offering little warmth now. I rummage in the pillowcase I’m using as my pack, but all that’s in there is my toothbrush and a plastic cup.
I seethe. They took all my clothing when they brought me here, and insisted I wear the same boring trousers and tunic as everyone else. Only The Victors wear different clothes to us, still a uniform though, with clip on badges with their names on. VIC IMH. They’re all called VIC IMH.
I toss the pack into the bushes and run. It’s almost dinner time and they’ll know for sure that I’m missing. I must get out before they inject me with their potions. My breath is ragged, rasping, my vision worsened by sweat now dripping into my eyes.
Voices behind me. I turn, still running forward. Trip on branches, twigs snapping. They know where I am!
My feet brake. Of course they know where I am. That’s why they weren’t worried about finding the bike with no rider. They injected me when they bundled me kicking and screaming into their kidnapping van. Bet it was a GPS. They’ve been tracking my every move!
“AAAAAAAGH!” I scream over and over.
“Steady as you go,” Victor calls out gently. Patronising.
I snatch a stick from the ground and surge towards him.
“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” I threaten him with my sword.
“Shh, everything will be okay,” Victor says.
He’s scared. I can tell by the way his hands are held in surrender. Emboldened, I lunge at him.
He steps back, startled. “We’re just here to help.”
“Help? I don’t want help. Don’t want to be indoctrinated into your stupid cult. Let me go home!”
Victor sighs. “How about we go inside, mate, clean you up a bit.” He takes a tentative step towards me.
I take a step back, shaking my head furiously. Arms grab me from behind and the hypodermic pierces my skin.
I awake sometime later shackled to my bed. I’m groggy but feel calm and peaceful.
“Here you go,” Victor says, gently pushing my glasses onto my face. “You must have dropped them when you first came in. Found them this morning.”
And finally, I have clarity. Beneath the bold VIC IMH lettering on his badge – Victorian Institute for Mental Health, along with his name – George.
The Last Ride by Glenn Taylor (runner-up)
We were a team, it felt like we did everything together. If anyone saw one of us, the other was not far away. I particularly love how she looks after me and others around her. The thoughtfulness of her touch, and her care.
I particularly liked our daily rides, grab some food, check the tyres and off we would go. Exploring the region together, stopping at various places and enjoying the moment. Her never ending sharing of stories as we rode. She gave intimate details of relationships old and new. I never tired of the time we shared and the experiences lived. The rides included going to the parks, to the beach and to visit our other friends. A few times they joined us on the rides but really I enjoyed it most when it was just the two of us.
We have been inseparable since her parents passed away in August around five or six years ago. I can remember our first time meeting around then. Her being upset but keen to ‘start a new life’ and we started riding together. Originally the rides did include going to the cemetery. I heard about her parents and the love they shared. I felt at times my role was to replace them, but this thought was never shared. I was glad that I was there for her at the times she needed something to distract her.
We loved going to the city. She would always make sure we caught the off peak train so bikes could come along. We would alight at an outer suburban station and she would share her knowledge of outer Melbourne suburbs using awesome bike tracks. Park ourselves at a cafe, and her university friends would be there. They talked about their university days and challenges of life. I enjoyed her admiring glances, I felt needed and an important part of her life. When she was with this group she always appeared younger, as if the stories took her back to a care free time and the whole group seemed to share this positive outlook. Her university friends are a close group and they did try to make me feel included but I never felt we shared many common interests. They all preferred to walk or catch a tram than ride with us. Once one of them did ride a bike but it was just a phase for the inner city hipster. Nice bike though, pastel green with a tan coloured seat. Even had a small pannier and bag set, leather with little tassels.
Our other regular ride was to the local beach. We would ride over the bridge and a few kilometres to this really quiet beach. Unload the front basket of the food and wine, and sit and talk again for hours, we sat and enjoyed each other’s company for hours. Time never seemed to matter, she would talk, I would listen and together we would enjoy whatever time we had together.
Over the last few weeks I noticed a change. We stopped going to Melbourne and her conversations became shorter. She had stopped talking about her parents. We would still go for rides but her checking on me and how I was going stopped. She held herself in a heavy way, she no longer sat high in the saddle, she slumped and her riding appeared weighted and less enthusiastic. I did not really know how to help. Her conversations continued to get shorter and the topic when she spoke I could feel her tears.
Today she didn’t check my tyre pressures and she put a small white envelope into the carry basket.
We got to the bridge near the beach. I can see it now, she left me against the railing, putting her hand out toward me as if to stop me. “I’m sorry.” She said as she turned. It was then I could see the tears. She slowly walked to the middle of the bridge. I looked up as she stood on the railing; she looked toward the sky and then stepped outward. I will never forget the sound of the splash of water and then nothing.
Silence, now I am left leaning against the railing. No-one to clean my pastel blue frame, that gentle twist of the valve cap, pump up my tyres, fill my basket with goodies, or give me that admiring glance. Our rides together have come to an abrupt ending.
