The finalists for the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition have been announced and voting is now open to determine this year's People's Choice category winner.
Subscribe now for unlimited access.
$0/
(min cost $0)
or signup to continue reading
Twenty-three finalists were announced this week from a vast cohort of outstanding entries to the Herald's annual short story fiction prize.
Read the works of all the finalists below and cast your vote in the poll to determine this year's People's Choice winner.
FINALISTS: 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition
It was a strange summer - glary but sunless, the sky the colour of old white undies. Thunder burbled every afternoon but it never rained. Brains softened to pavlova. Reality was harder to hold in sweaty palms.
His first flight was overbooked, it took off late, was twice delayed, he missed his connecting flight and by the time he arrived at his destination his jet lag was a filthy, raging monster that wouldn't let him sleep or eat. Then, the wedding itself was full of people he didn't know, or vaguely recollected, and his long-lost granddaughter had spent the entire night allowing her giant of a groom to stick his tongue down her throat whenever the mood took. Which apparently, was often.
Here we are my love. Your favourite place."
Richard swept a stray bit of Maria's fringe back from her eyes and stroked her cheek. Mmm was all she could muster, so entranced she was with the waves trickling into the shore.
My morning runs always consisted of an eight-kilometre stretch of beach. It was a little overcast this morning, making the sand a tiny bit damp, just enough to make the taking of steps require that bit more effort.
By the third Christmas I kind of knew he was never coming back. I was about nine by then, so not a little kid but still kind of a little kid. Like, I loved my Rumple Elephant but knew by then he wasn't as much fun as a PlayStation game. Obviously.
The ocean gifts me death for my birthday.
The first time, I am five; nose and hands pressed to excitement-smeared glass, elation surging like the sound of sirens as I watch the lights fly past.
Well, they didn't notice at first, who would? It was difficult to make out things were any different, those marks, cept when you looked from the very top of the water tank.
The fisherman waited, quietly, at ease. For him it was a form of meditation; a serene escape from the everyday mundane madness that the world had devolved into. It was difficult for him to understand just how something as small and simple as a virus could change everything so suddenly and thoroughly. His employer told him that it would be temporary, and after all, it was unrealistic to expect that the club would remain open when no customers were permitted. No customers, no club; no club, no barman. And after all, the lockdown was temporary. Only a week, two at most, they all said. All the clever people from the government.
Scarbeak looked at the wingless fisher. It was on his turf, taking fish that didn't belong to it. Where was the respect?
He ruffled his feathers and his posse followed suit. They were all experts in the shakedown, though he liked to think none had his delicacy of touch. Many fishers found themselves donating part of their catch to him and his crew.
Love can be expressed in many ways. Sometimes as a hug, or a 'how are you?', or a promise kept. Other times it's a lie.
Christmas has always been my favourite time of year. Even when I don't have much money (which is most of the time) I still love Christmas.
The words were still swirling around in her head just below the surface. Sylvie had tried unsuccessfully all day to banish them from her mind so this afternoon she had come to the ocean, hoping that the waves could rinse them away.
For the first time in her short, grey, furry existence, Ellie could sleep.
The stench of rotting potatoes hangs thick in the air. Her boots are heavy with mud as she trudges carefully, trying to avoid squishing the decaying plants. Close now, Jan reaches out, relieved she's able to grab Jim's hand. His balance has deteriorated lately, and the recent flood has made the furrows collapse and slide, the slush merging the mounds into unstable troughs. She needs to get him safely to dry, firm ground.
Charlotte Parkinson stared straight ahead, her vision narrowing until she had fixed her gaze on a spot on the horizon. It felt like when, as a child, she had looked through binoculars or a viewfinder toy and it had taken a while to focus, to have her brain catch up with what her eyes were seeing. Now, as she focused on the horizon, the reality was she wasn't seeing anything. She was unseeing . . . or trying to.
I don't know, Mum . . . I'm not sure I can do it.' Pel curved his neck deep into his shoulders, his hesitant eyes wandering over the man in front of them.
It's not so much that I can't run on the beach like that anymore which worries me, but that I can't actually remember when I could."
I saw Charlie again the other day fishing in his usual spot. Seems he is always there when the wind and tides are right. He comes with his rod and old backpack, dressed in his daggy old terry hat, flanno with more holes in than a fishing net, old boardies, and a tatty pair of well-worn boots.
The rules had been refined over the years, but a pre-game ritual was still essential. Doug and Jeanette would unload the Corolla at Dixon Park beach car park and then position the faded fold-up chairs on the incline back above the shore, before unfurling and erecting the much loved beach umbrella. Those new pod-like beach shelters were interlopers and offered limited vision. Importantly, they had to keep their eyes away from the ocean until both were seated. Only then, could the game begin. Container ships hovered on or around Newcastle's coastal horizon like black and red rectangles on a child's diorama and the race was on for the couple to count and tally them ruthlessly and efficiently.
Jimmy had gone down the local to say goodbye to another year. They were all enjoying some boozy philosophy when one poet said, "Life's a game of cards mate; did you play a good hand badly, or a bad hand well?"
What's that saying? That the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result?
There'd be a well about here, probably four or five more in this paddock, and an access road," Charlie speculated. His eyes scanned the waving wheat which stretched to the horizon. An orange-red flame billowed from a flare stack in the distance against the darkening clouds. His boots squelched in the black soil.
Six of them waddled ungainly on short bluish legs across the rocks, wings held out in balance. That was the fourth fish dropped in the bucket. The Session had decided two was reasonable and they were happy to share that much food with the fishermen. Percy gave a nod. The squadron took a few steps closer. Slowly. Unnoticed. The tension was palatable.
