David McMillan with his story, Alas and Alack. Congratulations David!
Second place went to Wendie Daniels for With What Remains, and third place to Barry Kay for The Last Act.
There were 23 entries this year, on the theme of THE LAST ACT. The judges were BWI members Liam Monaghan, Cassandra Arnold, AJ Lyndon and Bruna Pomella.
Now, for your delight, here is the winning story in full:
Alas and Alack
“At last, a last act. An actual act, a finale, a finish, a final fucking finish. That’s it for me Smith. Alas, as they say, alas and alack…”
Dobson was delirious. Raving. Spittle drooled from his slack mouth.
His jaundiced face gaunt, cheekbones protruding like volcanic hills over deep valleys, pale blue irises desert billabongs ringed with dirty yellow clay.
I sat at the bedside holding his skeletal hand, muttering blandishments.
“It’s okay. I’m here. It’ll be alright. The doctor will be here soon.”
I glanced toward the doorway, to the hospital corridor that glowed like a luminescent portal to the bright business of life, contrasting as it did with the darkened palliative care room. They called it a comfort room, comfort care. Euphemisms abounded in this place. It was furnished like a chapel, or maybe a funeral home, wood panelled walls, soft carpet, bland prints on the walls, and yet a hospital bed.
He, Dobson, would hate it, would have railed against the ersatz religious surroundings, the attempt to deny ‘the last act, the final fucking finish’ as he had ranted.
“It’s that bastard, over there.”
He squirmed in the hospital bed and tried to point toward the corner of the room where I’d hung my coat, his arms twisting, IV tubes snagging.
“Get him out of here. That bastard. Smith? Get him out of here. Smith?”
He turned to face me, untrimmed fingernails digging into the callused skin of my fist.
“I’m here mate. Don’t worry. He’s not there. It’s just you and me comrade.”
“Comrade. Yeah that’s right. We fought the good fight didn’t we.”
“We did. Didn’t we?”
“Sure, we did Dobbo.”
“Where are we Smith? Why’s it so dark? Like a bloody confessional. You sure he’s not here?”
“Who?”
“That bastard in the black cassock. You remember him don’t you. Just a minute ago in the corner. Over there.” His finger shook as he pointed to the shadows, knuckles like swollen wasp galls.
I took a teaspoon of the ice chips the nurse – the older one, not the pretty one – had brought with an expression that said, ‘I’m being kind here, you can see that, but there’s no hope’. A grim twist of the lips.
Dobbo’s lips were dry and cracked, his tongue the colour and texture of mould on cheese. He lapped at the ice greedily, bright eyes beseeching.
“You remember don’t you? The confessional. The sacristy?”
“Nah mate, that was you. You’re the ‘mick’ not me.”
“You don’t remember? The belfry? Come up for a smoke, he said.”
“More…” I spooned ice.
Dobson swallowed and stared at me intently.
“He touched. I pushed. Surplice flapping. Gold and white. Thought he might fly like a bird. More like a stone in the end.”
“Shit, mate.”
“Yeah. Flapping in the wind like those coloured ribbons on a church fence. It’s all shit. Help me mate. I’m scared.”
Dobson closed his eyes and sighed. His grip relaxed. His breathing stopped.
* * *
Congratulations to everyone who entered and especially to the winner once again!
The winner of the October flash fiction contest, keyword monkeys, was Maureen Riches.
