Mark Towse is the latest winner of the Bellarine Writing Competition.
Mark won $200 for his entry and goes into the grand final for the $1000 first prize. There were 25 well-written entries in this competition making the choice of the winner very difficult.
Mark’s entry had to include a splash, a person with a limp and the words ‘button’, ‘mask’ and ‘twisted.’
The 2022 Short Story competition is open to anyone aged 16 and above. With a maximum of 750 words.
Next month’s topic is ‘Disguised’ and will be the chance for someone to be the fifth person to be able to compete for the $1000 prize.
Entries close Firday August 26 and must be sent to barrysproull@gmail.com. The winner will be notified by August 29.
Mark Towse is an Englishman living in Australia. He would sell his soul to the devil or anyone buying if it meant he could write full-time. Alas, he left it very late to begin this journey, penning his first story since primary school at the ripe old age of forty-six. Since then, he’s been published in anthologies and journals, and his work has also appeared on many exceptional podcasts such as The No Sleep Podcast, Creepy, Tales to Terrify, etc. His most recent novella, ‘One Last Shindig’ from D&T Publishing, was published in March 2022.
By Mark Towse
She’s dead.
Behind the eyes, I mean.
She moves the items over the barcode scanner with undeniable poetry, but I guess it isn’t rocket science. Momentarily, I consider the idea of a checkout monkey and a giggle sneaks out, but alas nothing from—Bethany? That’s the name on the badge anyway.
“How was your day, sir?” she asks empathetically, hitting another button with the pad of her finger, the oversized bright red nail ruling anything higher an exclusion zone.
Bethany. What a funny name for a chimp that would be. And then I think, what wouldn’t be?
Monica? Marge?
“Well, I met a giraffe on the corner of Mulberry Crescent,” I say, studying her for a flicker of acknowledgement beneath the pale mask. “Told me he swallowed a toy jet, and that it was a right plane in the neck.”
“That’s good, sir.”
Beep. Beep. Be—
The explosion sends me reeling to the floor: a thunderclap of shattered glass. I feel some impact on my right side, but no pain registers. Above the ringing in my ears and the pulsating blood, I hear pained screams and high-pitched cries. Magnificent red begins seeping through my crisp white shirt, and I realise I forgot to pick up any laundry powder.
Near aisle five, I see someone slowly getting up: a young man, perhaps in his twenties. He begins limping forward while dusting himself off with his remaining hand, only managing four steps before he goes back down, splashing into the puddle of red. As he reaches towards his severed arm next to the blood-spattered basket, we catch sight of each other. I’ve never seen him before, yet I feel close to him.
With shock no doubt wearing off, my body starts to sting. I grimace and push myself up, studying the conveyer belt covered in broken glass and making a note to put the lettuce back.
Bethany’s face is a mess, cut to shreds by shards of glass that remain embedded in her skin and sparkle in the evening sun like diamonds.
As I move towards her, she looks directly at me for the first time. Something isn’t right. I’ve seen trauma affect people differently, but her eyes are as dead as they were before, with no sign of distress. She turns back to the conveyor belt and picks up the lettuce. “Do you want to change it for another?”
The ringing in my ear begins to subside, as do the screams and cries of the dying.
Bethany has just asked if I want to change my lettuce.
I scream at her, “What’s wrong with you?”
“It has a caterpillar on it,” she replies sheepishly.
“Are you insane, woman?”
For the first time, I see some fear in her eyes.
Someone pulls at my shirt. “Hey, buddy, are you okay?”
I turn to see the guy from earlier, but any closeness has gone. He’s unscathed, unmarked, both arms intact. Over his shoulder, I see a man approaching the next checkout with a broom and bucket. He mumbles something under his breath and begins sweeping the broken jar of pasta sauce from the floor.
Three years now, but it still isn’t getting any better.
I look towards the street outside and spy the enemy amongst the crumbling buildings and twisted bodies. The reflection in the window projects a much younger version of myself: gun in hand, full uniform, ready for action.
