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Winners of the 2024 Martha Richardson Memorial Poetry prize

December 1, 2024 / / 0 Comments

We are delighted to announce that the winners of this year’s contest with the theme of The Bush are:

1st prize Cassandra Arnold, To Map a Myth

2nd prize Roxeena Bidgood, Bush Pastoral

3rd Richenda Rudman, The Pioneer

Our judge, Melissa Watts made these comments in general:

It has been a pleasure to read the entries for the 2024 Martha Richardson Memorial Poetry Prize. In Australia, The Bush is a slippery, amorphous term and I was eager to see how each poet would respond to the topic. The competition provided varied responses from references to actual shrubs to ‘the bush’ as a physical location, a theoretical way of life, people who live in regional areas, concerns and issues of regional life. There were also politically-styled poems on climate change and tree clearing. The competition was stylistically varied including sonnets, elegies, couplets, ekphrastic, pastoral and free-verse poems. This wide scope, both stylistically and thematically demonstrated a high quality of work. Thank you to all who entered for the time and dedication put towards your work.

Here are the winning entries in full, with her specific comments after each one.

FIRST PLACE

To Map a Myth, by Cassandra Arnold

The Bush is a myth. 
(A whitefella-invader-colonialist-construct.)

Not   quite 	
     	       as   distant   as   
			
                                                    the outback

but still hauntingly coloured outside the lines
for our office drones and Uber drudges.

     A vast cultural backyard copper,
     it will boil up your longings and dreams,
     send them back to you in a scented stream to condense 
     in no-salt-tears on the bleak/bleached fabric of your days.

To the settlers/squatters
it was untouched (unearned) wealth: terra nullius
where man-the-hunter-and-tamer could wield the axe of progress, 
cut away invisible histories, sow a crop of copied names:

     Gloucester   Newcastle   Stroud   Brighton
     Adelaide   Augusta   Bacchus Marsh   Melbourne 

Clinging to lost safeties/customs, scared/scarred strangers
stamped old impressions on (their) new-claimed land.

     The Bush. Like Easter and Christmas, 
     the phrase comes laden with glamour and baubles.
     Host of picnics, summer camps, barbeques, 
     it is rendered both small and huge in your block-sized life. 


Old charts show 	

                            nothingness


undifferentiated space
  
                      a place to get lost in
                 
                                              to die in
                                  
    						           to blame


The inhabitants knew differently. 
Know its seasons, harvests, shelters, risks.
Know its stories and promises. 
(Already grieve its stolen future.)

The Bush.
Mutter it with me one last time, lips curved in an ironic smile.
Myths are not always maps after all.

Comments from Melissa:

“The Bush is a myth. Full Stop.

From the first line of this poem, we are challenged. This first-person perspective is not a gentle invitation to a debate but rather a statement with no way out. This does not mean, however, that the poem is combative. The line spacing feeds beautifully back into the cartographic title, creating a pace in which to reflect, to luxuriate within the poetic form to allow the reader to think and consider. Unlike our ‘block-sized’, lives this poem creates a sense of scale with The Bush as a place of erased histories and copied histories. Asa place of ‘picnics, summer camps and barbeques’ but also a ‘place to get lost in/to die in/ to blame.’

The poem makes strong use of poetic devices. There is a beautiful use of assonance and strong imagery, in particular in the italicized stanzas. Certain phraseology made me stop and re-read. I particularly like ‘hauntingly coloured outside the lines’, ‘sow a crop of copied names’, and the idea of a block-sized life.’ I also admire the accomplished use of punctuation, particularly hyphens, slashes and brackets to further arguments and images.

Finally, the last line made me wonder – had I been led down the garden path? Did I fully understand the argument? This poem had me thinking long after I read it, which is a sign of a proficient poet with a masterful poem.”

SECOND PLACE
Bush Pastoral, by Roxeena Bidgood

Fading into landscapes 
of repetitive days.
Oh! remember to look outside 
the habitual eyeline.
It takes a glance, just one to the side 
and focus exhales to expand into 
vistas beyond the linear.

And you are there, forming
from paddock’s limb
long and slender in curve of hip
and thigh of broken and unbroken
swathes of green and husk-dry grassland.
While branches bend and sway 
with leaf-shed tears that fall on earth-skin
dry and curl in organic layers 
to become food for trees.
Where memory threads
are strung out on morning dew-clad
strands of spider web.

Nod and bounce tiptoe tightrope walker
of yellow puffs against green 
and silver light beyond gold.
That dull illusive shine
caught in transit between trunk 
and trunk. One slight dip in the skin
below shoulder blade and the nape 
of an elegant neck curving up to 
cascades of gold woven with branches
dominating negative spaces 
filled with light.

And you are there, a slanting light 
to fetch silence slow as indrawn breath
and cry out in windblown heights
of sky-clad ceilings brushed by
scattered fringing and spirit-fingered
reaching of unclad branches.
With fingers gnarled by wisdom 
reaching, to tap a shoulder
to tap and capture
vistas beyond the linear.

Comments from Melissa:

“This poem prompts its readers to look beyond our ‘habitual eyelines’ and ‘expand into vistas beyond the linear’ to avoid fading ‘into landscapes of repetitive days’. And what a prompt it is. The poem continues to deliver to the reader the type of beauty and peace that can be found when we look towards the bush. Full of imagery, I can see the bushland forming from a wide view at the ‘paddock’s limb’ to the minute view of ‘dew-clad strands of spider web.’ It’s impossible to rush this poem. The density of imagery makes us travel slowly as we take in colour (where the poet has so beautifully blended colour with light and shine), shape (curves, negative spaces and slanting light), and sound. I felt that the ‘you’ in this poem could have referred to The Bush, a single tree, a spirit or ancestral being, or God. This ambiguity made the poem more interesting and changing as I read and re-read the work.”

THIRD PLACE

The Pioneer, by Richenda Rudman

Inspired by Frederick McCubbin’s painting, The Pioneer (1904)

Wistfully, a woman gazes through bush 
at the brindle girths of trees like ogres in her mother’s tales. 
And the greens of leavesolive and sage, so dense 
she can barely catch the bold sky winking, 
as if to say, these trees are for taming.

Cleverness, she thinks, watching creatures scratch the earth; 
they are subjects of their sovereign tree, 
whose roots and shade commune to feed 
and grow all in their dominion.

She is remembering the darkness she’s walked before 
the broken promises of emerald farms, their yield 
nought but the shredded people in shredded clothes,
scratching the earth for seeds, for moss.

Toil on toil, the bush is cleared 
for the sun’s sceptre to bless a garden,
for its body parts to make a house,
for a child to be born.

Tree by tree, the bush is sacrificed 
for harvests of crops and clusters of buildings. 

A man crouches before a rough wooden cross; 
it marks the place
that beds the body, which rests and rots and feeds the bush

To grow and be cut down again,
in this duopoly of life and death.

Comments from Melissa:

“As I read the title of this poem I was aware that the poem referred to the famous triptych of the same name. However, I decided to use my first reading of the poem detached from my (foggy) memory of the artwork to consider if the poem worked on its own. I believe that it did that. This poem provides a third-person perspective of a woman in the bush and her personal history, traumatic and dark. Juxtaposed with the unnamed woman’s narrative is the personification of the natural world, bright and colourful – the ‘bold sky winking/as if to say, these trees are for taming’ the ‘sovereign tree’, ‘the sun’s sceptre to bless a garden’ and the bush’s ‘body parts to make a house’. The second part of the poem introduces a man crouching before a grave. Again the juxtaposition of human and bush builds to the poem’s final couplet, reminding us that like the bush we will ‘grow and be cut down again/in this duopoly of life and death.’ As a final note I’d like to add that upon reading the poem with the artwork (which is, of course, the purpose of ekphrastic poetry) I felt that the two artworks complemented each other, with the poem encouraging the reader to consider the unseen within the painting.”

Congratulations again to the winners, and to all of you who submited such quality work.

It’s that time of the year again with the Pamela Miller Prize, our annual flash fiction competition.

May 21, 2024 / / 0 Comments

The winner of the Pamela Miller Prize 2024 will receive a certificate and $100 first prize, as well as publication in the Ballarat Writers newsletter and website. The winner will be announced at the Ballarat Writers July members’ night. 

The Pamela Miller Prize first ran in 2015, in memory of Pamela Miller, who was a very active and productive member of Ballarat Writers. She was a writer of short stories and poetry, and won the short story competition with ‘Murder at MADE’ in 2014. Early in 2015, Pamela wrote a very popular poem called ‘Bronze Heads—The Prime Minister’s Walk’ as part of a Ballarat Writers project during the Begonia Festival.

Entries open: Saturday June 1

Entries close: Sunday June 30

Ballarat Writers is accepting fictional prose entries of up to 500 words on the theme Fire.

Entry is free. 

This is limited to members of Ballarat Writers, so make sure you’ve joined or renewed your membership!

All entries must:

  • be original and unpublished
  • be written by a current member of Ballarat Writers (judging committee members cannot enter)
  • engage with the theme Fire, and be 500 words in length or less (not including the title)
  • be sent to competitions@ballaratwriters.com with the subject line ‘2024 Pamela Miller Prize Entry’.

As the competition will be a blind judging, please do not include your name or contact details on the entry. 

You can read more about the Pamela Miller prize here.

Good luck and happy writing!

The results of the Southern Cross Short Story Competition 2023

December 3, 2023 / / 0 Comments

The winning entries of the 2023 Southern Cross Short Story Competition were announced at the Ballarat Writers members’ night on 29 November.

The successful entries were selected by judge Graeme Simsion from a long-list as selected by the reading committee from a pool of 95 entries. Graeme’s comments about the winners and entries are available to read here, and the winning entry here.

Congratulations to the winners, and all those who made the shortlist!

Winner ($1000): Maxwell Han: A Boy in a Raincoat and a Boy in a Bus Stop

First runner-up ($400): Janeen Samuel: Branch Lines

Second runner-up ($100): Nakita Kitson: Digging

Highly commendeds: “Over Your Souls” by Rebecca Higgie and “Summer’s Desire” by Shelley Dark.

Southern Cross Short Story Competition 2023 – Judge’s Report

December 3, 2023 / / 0 Comments

Graeme Simsion

Thank you for the opportunity to read the twenty-one shortlisted entries in the above competition and for entrusting me with the responsibility of judging them.

First, by the standards of competitions I’ve been involved in before, this was a strong collection. While the intents and styles differed, the writing was consistently assured, and, I sensed, had benefited from careful revision and editing. Any criticisms should be taken in that context.

Selecting the winner, place-getters and highly-commended entries was difficult, and necessarily subjective. I suspect that if there had been multiple judges, we would have found it easy to agree on the ten best stories, but would have had plenty of debate as to the order in which to place them.

On first read, I rated the stories on each of four criteria: quality of prose, story, originality and engagement – incorporating other factors such as character and sense of place under those headings.

I did not consider fidelity to the theme tracks of desire. I assumed the pre-readers would have confirmed that hurdle had been cleared, but generally it seemed to have been addressed – sometimes fundamentally, sometimes cleverly, sometimes as a box-check!

I returned to the stories some time later and flagged those which had stayed with me –  another criterion to consider. I ended up with a short-short list of seven stories, which I re-read and reflected on before making final choices.

As noted earlier, the prose was consistently of a high standard.

Most stories had a strong sense of place and period, from seventeenth century London to Italy to the street where I live. The descriptions of physical environment featured some of the best writing, and were overall stronger than those of character. Emotions were vivid on the page; motivation sometimes less clear.

The best stories had a good balance of ‘show’ and ‘tell’, some of the less successful ones could have used more dialogue and action. No surprise there for writing teachers!

It was in the domain of story that writers took advantage of the convention that short stories need not follow the beginning-middle-end structures of popular fiction. But I felt that overall, the storytelling, in the broadest sense of how events and revelations unfolded, was not as developed as the prose: the authors hadn’t always realised the full potential of some promising ideas.

Several of the stories alternated between two situations (one past, one present), an entirely workable structure, but there was often room for clearer causal or thematic links between the two threads.

The old-fashioned twist is still alive though not necessarily well. To work effectively, it needs to change the reader’s understanding of and response to what has gone before in a fundamental way. In several cases, the ‘reveal’ was of something less central with correspondingly less impact. Indeed, few of the stories hit me with an emotional punch; their power was steady rather than sudden.

Originality lay largely in the choice of subjects. Prose and structure were consistently familiar rather than experimental or confronting, and there was little that was attention-seeking or distracting.

A couple of stories ventured into non-literal territory, but there were guideposts for readers. The overwhelming majority of the writing would have sat comfortably in a mainstream novel.

Which is also to say that most authors did not take advantage of the short-story format to experiment with styles that the reader might find tiring in a longer work. About half the stories were written in present tense and about half in first-person, and a couple chose omniscient points of view. But not much to scare the horses.

‘Desire’ was predominantly sexual and the sexuality conventionally straight or gay male (which was well represented). Within that, there were a couple of quite distinct voices and unusual settings. Unfortunately, the most original ideas didn’t correspond with the strongest execution.

I included ‘engagement’ as a catch-all for how interested I was, how much I wanted to keep reading and what impact the story might have on me – and, by extension, other readers. Most of these stories were easy and, yes, engaging, to read, and, as noted earlier, the styles would happily lend themselves to full-length novels.

My involvement in the stories was mostly emotional rather than intellectual; I tended to finish with a feeling rather than something to think about. And emotionally, there was definitely more ‘down’ than ‘up’ – not a lot of happy endings! Writers sometimes forget the emotional power of an instance of human kindness or decency in an otherwise grim scenario. And humour, even in the form of a wry observation, was thin on the ground.

When I returned to the stories, there were five that had stayed with me more than the others. It’s perhaps interesting that they were already all in my short-short list.

So:

The Winner: A Boy in a Raincoat and a Boy in a Bus Stop.

The most demanding of the stories, and the most rewarding to read a second time. A finely controlled piece which explores connection and disconnection and alternates deftly between the allegorical and the literal, and between authorial and character points of view. As much about what it evokes as what it says.

Second:  Branch Lines

Assured writing that would be at home in a contemporary novel of family life. The narrator’s desire to know her history is ever-present but elegantly understated. The sharp but not showy observation of place and character lift it above the ordinary.

Third: Digging

The strongest conventional storytelling: two stories linked by the central character. One gives us a powerful description of place and physical jeopardy; the other, memorable characters and emotional conflict.

Highly Commended

Over Your Souls
Summer’s Desire

A boy in a raincoat and a boy in a bus-stop

December 3, 2023 / / 0 Comments

by Maxwell Han.

Winner of the BWI Southern Cross Short Story Competition 2023

There is a boy in a bus-stop. Let’s call him the-boy-in-the-bus-stop. He waits for a bus that never comes. The waiting is the best part.

There is a boy in a raincoat. Let’s call him the-boy-in-the-raincoat. He stands beside the bus-stop, pretending not to watch the boy inside. The watching is the best part.

Because there is so nothing to see in this summertime stasis. Sunburnt tiles. Skateboards struggling to roll through the thick, humid air. The wildlife of modern suburbia – dogs, cats, girls, all endangered species – dying of thirst in every cul-de-sac, every driveway, every hollowed-out house. Boys with banged up knees flirting with death, with each other. There is nothing to see, but the-boy-in-the-bus-stop.

The bus-stop boy doesn’t like being watched. He prefers to be pretentious alone. “Did you want something?” he asks as the eleventh minute ticks by.

“Many things,” the raincoat boy says. He yawns out to give off a veneer of nonchalance but, really, he’s enthralled. Finally!

“Like what?”

“Summer, maybe.”

“It is summer.” The heat is a living thing. A tumour, malignant. An invasive species, eating away at the cool until there’s only this residential desert left behind. The daylight darts after him like an apex predator and his only escape from the sun’s scowl is the shade of the bus-stop.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. Look.” The raincoat-boy flaps his arm, the bright yellow sleeves swishing so hard it provides the first cool wind the bus-stop boy’s felt in ages.

No, it isn’t. The bus-stop boy doesn’t even bother to look.

*

The next day, the bus-stop boy returns. Let’s call him Sai. He’s waiting again for that bus that never comes. Sometimes, he imagines it – as yellow and hot as everything else in this town – coming to a stop right in front of him. The bus driver tells him that it’s going far away, and it’s not coming back.

The boy in the raincoat returns. Let’s call him Oliver. He’s watching again, keen for another conversation. It isn’t every day that you find something that’s actually living in this place.

“You again,” Sai says, without looking Oliver’s way. The bus shelter was his hiding place, his respite. Here, the heat hounds after you. It’s every boy for himself.

“It’s raining again.”

“It’s not.” If only!

“It is.”

“Prove it.”

Sai shifts on the silver seat a little to make room for Oliver, who stomps his way over. Sai wants to tell him to shush; the heat will hear them.

Now there are two boys in the bus-stop.

“Well,” Oliver says.

Sai turns to him.

“Take my hand.”

“…No.”

“C’mon. Take my hand.”

He tugs at Sai, who stumbles after him, and they step onto the road.

At first, it’s just a droplet. Sai gasps at the unwelcome sensation, a slight prickle on the back of his neck. He instinctively touches it, ghosting the injured area with his free hand. He brings it up to his face, expecting to be stained with the red of blood.

He casts his eyes skyward. The sun sets like a lover not wanting to leave — but when she finally disappears a thousand clouds take her place. Thunderclaps like applause echo in the distance. Lightning illuminates the blackening world. Then, it really begins. Rain like he’s never seen before begins to wash over him in rounds, as if heaven is shooting harmless gunfire. Maybe this is how the Flood began. The deluge showers over him in cascades until the downpour is no longer distinguishable from the deep. He’s drowning in it, but now he can finally breathe.

“It’s extraordinary!” says Sai over the roar of the rainstorm, feeling its lashes against his flesh.

“Don’t you have a raincoat at home?”

“…No, I don’t.”

“OK. Wear mine.” Oliver’s already shrugging it off.

Sai’s scowl deepens. “I’m not wearing your stupid raincoat!”

“OK then.”

Oliver discards his raincoat anyway, tossing the ugly thing on the drenched concrete and watching it get washed away in the torrent. Oliver gives Sai a small smile, like a gift.

Now they aren’t boys in bus-stops or in raincoats. They are just boys.

*

Let’s say these just-boys become just-best-friends. Let’s say it comes as easily as the pavement catches the rain, or as the stars give the night kisses, or as a raincoat gets lost in an ocean. It comes to them like the raindrops do every time Sai’s hand touches Oliver’s. A daily deluge. A stormy sanctuary. It comes to them like they come to explore different places in their town, leaving muddy footprints in their wakes. Sai has never seen the town like this – roofs leaking like every house is crying of laughter, pruned bushes in perfect front yards carried away by the sea, silent streets suddenly full of the drumbeat of rainfall.

They fall into patterns, and Sai wants to fall faster. They meet every day at the bus-stop, but not inside it. They walk hand-in-hand through puddle after puddle, talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes, where the water is particularly deep, they have to swim together and it’s terribly awkward and they keep knocking into one another but they’re laughing the entire time. Sai comes to dread when the sun comes up and he has to let go.

*

Sometimes, they are boys in trouble. One day, Sai’s not there.

Oliver’s surprised. Neither Sai nor Oliver have ever been late before. If anything, they come early, like how in winter the moon arrives prematurely because she’s too excited for night-time. Oliver waits for a little while, squatting in the storm, and counts for ten lightning strikes. On the eleventh, he leaps up and goes looking for his best friend.

Oliver knows where to go, of course. As best friends, they know each other better than anyone else does. Oliver knows Sai pretends he doesn’t want a raincoat, but really it would help with the weather sometimes; Oliver also knows Sai likes to think he’s a fan of waiting, but really he’s an impatient bastard; and Oliver knows Sai’s house address, but also know he’s not allowed to visit. Every step squelches. Every raindrop rings out. It feels strange to walk these streets with no one by your side, chatting in your ear.

On the way, Oliver notices something bright sticking out of a gutter, so stark because of the dreary weather. He bounds towards it – it’s his raincoat! He wonders whether he should pick it up or not. Oliver’s fine with the rain; he doesn’t need a raincoat anymore but perhaps Sai can have it, and then he won’t forget to meet at the bus-stop anymore.

When Oliver gets to Sai’s house, smaller and shoddier than the rest, he doesn’t hesitate to knock. A man opens up the door, but only a little so Oliver can barely see inside. Like everyone else’s in this town, the man’s face is hard to make out.

“Who are you?” His voice is monotone.

Oliver blinks. “You must be Sai’s dad. I’m Oliver.”

“Who?”

Oliver bristles. “Sai’s best friend.”

The man makes a low sound. “Sai,” he calls. “Someone’s here for you.”

After a few moments, Oliver hears footsteps. The man opens the door a little wider, so that Oliver can see Sai, who looks so small next to his father.

“Sai!”

“…Oliver. Now’s not a good time.”

“You didn’t come today.”

“It’s too hot outside.” The man frowns down at Oliver. “Sai will get sunburnt.”

“The sun’s not even out. It’s raining,” Oliver says, laughing even if the man’s frown deepens. Oliver waves the raincoat in the air, getting water everywhere. “Tell him, Sai. Tell him it’s raining.”

Sai can’t meet his watery eyes.

“I think you should go,” says the man. This time, Oliver agrees.

*

Now, they are boys in a spat.

When Sai finally musters the courage to leave his house and look for Oliver, he regrets it immediately. Every step on the red-hot concrete burns the soles of his feet. The sun beats down at him like a divine punishment, like the flaming eye of God glaring at him and Sai can’t glare back. The heat has caught up to him, a living beast that has now evolved to hound at him every chance it gets.

Sai is about to burst into flames.

Look, what was Oliver thinking, showing up to his house like that? Oliver knows what Sai’s family is like; they’ve spent entire rainstorms talking about it. Oliver is lucky, Sai thinks, luckier than he’ll ever be. Oliver gets raincoats; Oliver gets the rain. What does Sai get?

Third-degree-burns, if he doesn’t get back inside.

In any case, why’s he bothering to look for Oliver? It’s too bright out anyways – even a celestial being like Oliver can’t be made out in this blindingly-white town. Even if Oliver were to put that awful raincoat on, summertime has metastasised and spread to Sai’s eyes, a myopia blocking out all else. The heat is relentless; the rain is nowhere to be found.

But can it be?

It’s always raining, isn’t it? Not just for Oliver, or for Sai. Some things just are, like the need to breathe, or the ticking of time. Sai breathes. Time passes. It rains.

And just like the first time he felt it, he gasps when the first drop touches him. His gasps turn into laughter as the sun dies and the sky blackens and the world floods. Rain cleanses his eyes and his feet, and his arms still have those burns, but they’ll fade. He turns his face upward and drinks in the torrent, so much so that he chokes and begins to drown in it – but instead of sinking, he ascends.

And when he submerges, there’s Oliver, his second sun, outshining anything else in the town. More surprisingly, there’s a bus at the bus-stop, the one he’s been waiting for all this time. Its wheels have tracked desire all over the muddy road; its engine thrums with the magic of something more.

“You know,” says Oliver, “I think it’s been waiting for you.”

Sai believes it.

“Well?” Oliver grins. “Are you getting on?”

Sai smiles back.

Now they are boys in a bus, but soon enough they will be somewhere else. Who knows where they’ll be, where that bus will take them? But perhaps it doesn’t matter where they are – just who they are.

Pamela Miller Prize 2023 Winning Story

July 27, 2023 / / 0 Comments

The Artist

by Nicole Kelly

Her hands are assured and confident. A skilled professional. 

“An artist for the modern world—truly exceptional” – The Age 

His skin is soft and doughy in her hands. He is a monster of a man, but his bulk seems less imposing now he lays prostrate on the studio floor, leaking into every corner of her tiny room. This is the place where she feels capable—not scared and cowering.  

The stark white of his nakedness catches the golden glow of the moonlight from outside, which streams through the window, lighting her work.  

 “What Mallard can do with a piece of lino is astounding. Her cuts are sharp and clean; the resulting pieces have both imagination and darkness. – The Art Review 

The small scalpel resting in her hand is her favourite, handle smooth from use. She uses the familiar blade to create the distinct, intricate patterns in hard linoleum squares. Swift, sure cuts to make thick, intersecting lines.  

“Mallard’s designs are sharp, witty and astute. Just when you think you know her work, she turns it, and you, on your head.” – H. Golding (Reviewer) 

Her artist’s mind opens her to the exquisite beauty around her. A dawn sky greeting her after a night of frenetic creation. The same shades of pink and purple which he patterned across the tops of her arms when she said she would leave.  

He had stolen her voice. Left her to only speak through her work. So now he is her canvas. 

“Mallard is an expert in making us feel. Feel something. Feel anything. Feel everything.” – National Gallery 

She reaches her hands deep into his chest cavity. The space she has opened in her husband, expecting to find only emptiness. She cradles the lump of muscle which had once drummed the rhythm of life in his chest. Each beat of his heart marking time, as his fists slammed into her in a syncopated tempo.  

‘There is both fragility and strength in Mallard’s pieces. When you see the strength of her lines contrasting with the whimsical nature of her prints.’ – Art Links Magazine 

They were the inverse of each other. Her and him. She had loved his strength and he her fragility. Until her own strength emerged, growing more potent with every success. His fear drove him to hold on tighter. Until his hands became a noose around her neck.  

 “In her hands, everything is art.” – Art Monthly 

She dips her finger in the sticky liquid, thick as honey. Scrawls her initials across the bare wall above where he lay. She smiles. No matter their reviews, the world will be sure that she is the artist. 

Something Overhead

August 17, 2022 / / 0 Comments

by Roland Renyi

Winner of the 2022 Pamela Miller Prize

Coffee in hand, Richard climbed up to his and Ruth’s bedroom in time for the weekly web team meeting that he chaired. He could feel the stillness of the house now that Ruth and the kids had gone for the day.

Across from the open bedroom window a skylark was trilling and coming from overhead was the almost continuous sound of the planes on their approach to the airport. They made him think of Danylo and whatever might be in the skies above him.

He looked at his monitor, strategically placed so that their bed was out of view, and sipped his coffee. He and Ruth had bought a Krups coffee maker right after the kitchen units had been put in, a funky one that actually hissed as the steam escaped. Now they had temporarily run out of money to finish off the kitchen floor. But if he was going to work from home, he was going to drink good coffee.

Brita called in just ahead of time. Sometimes he could hear church bells from the square outside her apartment in Verona.  ‘Richard,’ she said in a scolding voice, her Italian accent emphasising the second half of his name, ‘I told you not to cut your hair like that. I can’t believe that Ruth would find that sexy.’

‘Lockdown’ said Richard protectively. ‘I got used to cutting it myself. And we’re budgeting. The kitchen floor, remember.’

George’s round face popped up from his shared house in Kelowna, British Columbia. He had once told Richard that his window looked across a lake towards sloping vines. Consequently, Richard had put him under orders to place his laptop opposite a blank wall.

‘Danylo?’ asked Brita.

They had all been following the news, but Danylo’s one condition for remaining on the project team was that it was not to be discussed.

‘We’ll give him another minute’ said Richard. ‘So. Cucumber or strawberries? Aside from lemon. Which goes better with gin and tonic?’

The consensus so far was that cucumber was better with Kendricks while strawberry worked with Gordons.

Richard exhaled when he heard the ping of Danylo’s login. He looked just the same, with his pointed beard, square glasses and shaved head, a typical web designer. He was calling from what looked like a high-tech designer office, recessed lights, potted plants and abstract paintings on the wall. A bottle of Kendricks was on the shelf behind him, next to a bowl filled with limes, cucumber and strawberries.

Then with a jolt Richard realised the obvious, that the background was completely fake; a digital dream constructed by their Ukranian colleague Danylo, who had never missed a call.

‘Sorry to be late’ he said. ‘There was something…’ then Richard heard the tremor in his voice ‘…There was something overhead. But we have internet. And it’s cucumber, guys. Always cucumber.’

‘Well, that’s great – really, Danylo’ said Richard. ‘Now, there’s a problem with the functionality of table 17. Shall we start with that?’

The 2022 Pamela Miller Prize

May 1, 2022 / / 0 Comments

It’s that time of the year again with the Pamela Miller Prize, our annual flash fiction competition.

The winner of the Pamela Miller Prize will receive a certificate and $100 first prize, as well as publication in the Ballarat Writers newsletter and website. The winner will be announced at the Ballarat Writers July members’ night. 

The Pamela Miller Prize first ran in 2015, in memory of Pamela Miller, who was a very active and productive member of Ballarat Writers. She was a writer of short stories and poetry, and won the short story competition with ‘Murder at MADE’ in 2014. Early in 2015, Pamela wrote a very popular poem called ‘Bronze Heads—The Prime Minister’s Walk’ as part of a Ballarat Writers project during the Begonia Festival.

Entries open: Sunday 1st May

Entries close: Wednesday 1st June

Ballarat Writers is accepting fictional prose entries of up to 500 words on the theme Something Overhead. Entry is free. 

This is limited to members of Ballarat Writers, so make sure you’ve joined or renewed your membership!

All entries must:

  • be original and unpublished
  • be written by a current member of Ballarat Writers (committee members are not allowed to enter)
  • engage with the theme Something Overhead, and be 500 words in length or less (not including the title
  • be sent to competitions@ballaratwriters.com with the subject line, ‘2022 Pamela Miller Prize Entry’

As the competition will be a blind judging, please do not include your name or contact details on the entry. 

You can read more about the Pamela Miller prize here.

Good luck and happy writing!

The results of the Southern Cross Short Story Competition 2021

November 24, 2021 /

The winning entries of the 2021 Southern Cross Short Story Competition were announced at the Ballarat Writers members’ night on 24 November.

The successful entries were selected by judge Julie Koh from a shortlist provided by a panel. Julie’s comments about the winners and entries are available to read here and the winning entry here.

Congratulations to the winners, and all those who made the shortlist!

Winner ($1000): ‘Wheeler’ by Benjamin Forbes

First runner-up ($400): ‘Epilogue’ by Rosemary Stride

Second runner-up ($100): ‘How To Leave Your Childhood Behind’ by Ros Thomas

Highly commendeds: ‘Dogs’ by Timothy Loveday; ‘The Cakemaker’ by David Campbell

Southern Cross Short Story Competition shortlist announced

November 10, 2021 / / 0 Comments

Ballarat Writers is excited to announce the final shortlist for the Southern Cross Short Story Competition. These final 12 stories were chosen from an initial 215 entries, which is a magnificent achievement.

Judge Julie Koh is working hard to decide a winner from this strong bunch of stories. Winners will be announced at the Ballarat Writers’ November meeting on Wednesday the 24th. This is scheduled to be held at the Bunch of Grapes hotel in Pleasant Street, Ballarat, from 7.30pm.

Congratulations to the shortlisted writers, in no particular order:

Body Parts by Helga Jermy

How To Leave Your Childhood Behind by Ros Thomas

Millie Lorraine by Josephine Sarvaas

The Cakemaker by David Campbell

Dogs by Timothy Loveday

Orbit by Jake Dean

Listing by Ian Reid

Epilogue by Rosemary Stride

Be Your Own Hero by Vicky Daddo

Driving by Christine Kearney

Feeling Through The Blue by Taylor Mitchell

Wheeler by Benjamin Forbes

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