2020 Award Recipients:
Cover Design Award, on behalf of Damon Carr — My Pure Land by Coco, Year 11,Star of the Sea College
Cover Design Award, on behalf of Damon Carr — Transition, by Jon, Year 12, Whitefriars College
CCI Photography Award — Adventure 1, by Kevin, Year 11, Whitefriars College
CCI Art Award — Look Beyond, by Sonany, Year 10, Catholic Regional College, St Albans
ACU Writing Award — Homeward, by Claudia, Year 12, Kolbe Catholic College
Access Education Poetry Award -- What Lies Beyond the Red Door? by Marli, Year 8, Nazareth College
Cover Design Award, on behalf of Damon Carr — Transition, by Jon, Year 12, Whitefriars College
CCI Photography Award — Adventure 1, by Kevin, Year 11, Whitefriars College
CCI Art Award — Look Beyond, by Sonany, Year 10, Catholic Regional College, St Albans
ACU Writing Award — Homeward, by Claudia, Year 12, Kolbe Catholic College
Access Education Poetry Award -- What Lies Beyond the Red Door? by Marli, Year 8, Nazareth College
Homeward by Claudia, Kolbe Catholic College
A tear swells in the corner of her eye, overflows and drops onto her already dampened cheek, falls to the concrete and gets lost in the rain. The bell echoes out of the church tower to tell her it’s 3 o’clock. Her eyes are puffy and red. Almost as red as the tractor the day it happened. That damned tractor. She sits where the road meets the sidewalk, crying silently. A cry that feels surreal, unhomely in a sense. And this time the tears fall lifelessly from her sunken face.
You know Frank. He wouldn’t want you to be like this. He wouldn’t want this.
Steady hand, she wipes a tear that's fallen into the crevice between her lips. Her other hand gripping the umbrella that hangs over her head like a dead weight. Nevertheless, it’s her only source of comfort.
In the moments before she received the phone call, she smelt his familiar sweaty yet warm scent that reminded her of home, and her mouth filled with the taste of dried blood. Death is one of the senses. The voice on the other end of the line seemed so detached, and the numb feeling that came with it was one that she almost welcomed.
Is he better off now, in a better place now?
Sitting there in the kitchen, unable to gather her thoughts, she recalls placing the news-bearing phone face down on the wooden table Frank had once built for them. Small enough for two, but big enough for everything that came between them.
The call was in no way a surprise. She had left Frank in ICU that morning to go home and pack his things. But she had only packed enough to last three days in the hospital. Almost like she knew he wouldn’t see the fourth. The pneumonia came back, this time it had overtaken Frank’s already weakened body, and when the phone rang at ten past eight that same night, she knew before her finger even hit the green button on the screen. The death certificate states that he died on the 7th.
That’s a lie. He died long before that.
Looking out into the faceless crowd, she knows just as well as them. They shouldn’t be here. Why now? Frank would have said the same too. Standing there behind the lectern, almost hiding, she recites the words neatly handwritten on the pale piece of paper staring up at her. The words come out easy. Almost too easy. Rehearsed. Not from the heart. Why should she speak any different? The people who are here aren't actually here. These are not tears of grief for a life lost too soon, too innocently; a tragedy. Instead, tears of relief, for a suffering that lasted far too long; a mercy.
She imagines herself eventually running into the neighbour’s wife at the hair salon. She sees herself telling her how it was for the better. The more she tells others, the easier it will be to accept it herself. Thinking, just itching to say to her, I need someone to know I once loved him enough to lie to everyone who knew me, about how things really were between us. I need someone to know that there was a weight on my chest in the shape of his mouth.
But she knows better. That opening her mouth, like Pandora’s box, would only cause more harm than good.
As people silently file out of the church, some stop to pay respects, and attempt to remind her of how strong she is.
How strong I am?
She doesn’t need others to tell her she is only becoming strong now. Not now. When this may just be the easiest part.
It’s still raining outside, a little heavier than before. But she’s all too familiar with the sombre feeling that comes with a storm during the day. Puddles pool together on the ground outside. They remind her of the farm on a winter’s day, when Frank would limp back in the house dripping wet, too indifferent to acknowledge the warm dinner she had set out for him. In spite of thoughts like these reminding her of an inevitable widowed life, she feels somewhat relieved. That all those days, months and years he spent hollowing her out, she might be able to feel whole without him.
The neatly stacked pile of memorial cards sit untouched on the kitchen table for the past 2 days. They don’t bother her as much as expected. The newly installed chrome railings in the shower are about as useful as the walking frame that’s parked in the corner of the bedroom. Her grocery shopping that morning took 15 minutes instead of 45. There are less clothes in the washer when she goes to collect them and hang them out to dry. On her way back inside, she knocks a glass from the corner of the kitchen table near the cards. But the shatter of the glass isn’t followed by a look of disappointment from over her shoulder. Instead, she carries on cleaning the broken pieces, picking up every one, realising how small yet free each piece looks on its own.
She locks the door behind her and places the keys in her coat pocket, hearing their familiar jangle. The sun falls behind a row of trees off in the distance, leaving a clear pink sky behind. The farmlands that span the horizon look bigger than they usually did. More spacious. Walking over to the sign that is boarded up on the front lawn, she pulls out a red sticker from her bag, and smiles as she presses down on the 4 letter word sprawled across the face of it.
She doesn’t dream of him anymore. The last dream she had of him was a month ago. He was pounding his fists on the low ceilings and narrow corridors of their house, begging her to tell him the way out.
And so, she did.
You know Frank. He wouldn’t want you to be like this. He wouldn’t want this.
Steady hand, she wipes a tear that's fallen into the crevice between her lips. Her other hand gripping the umbrella that hangs over her head like a dead weight. Nevertheless, it’s her only source of comfort.
In the moments before she received the phone call, she smelt his familiar sweaty yet warm scent that reminded her of home, and her mouth filled with the taste of dried blood. Death is one of the senses. The voice on the other end of the line seemed so detached, and the numb feeling that came with it was one that she almost welcomed.
Is he better off now, in a better place now?
Sitting there in the kitchen, unable to gather her thoughts, she recalls placing the news-bearing phone face down on the wooden table Frank had once built for them. Small enough for two, but big enough for everything that came between them.
The call was in no way a surprise. She had left Frank in ICU that morning to go home and pack his things. But she had only packed enough to last three days in the hospital. Almost like she knew he wouldn’t see the fourth. The pneumonia came back, this time it had overtaken Frank’s already weakened body, and when the phone rang at ten past eight that same night, she knew before her finger even hit the green button on the screen. The death certificate states that he died on the 7th.
That’s a lie. He died long before that.
Looking out into the faceless crowd, she knows just as well as them. They shouldn’t be here. Why now? Frank would have said the same too. Standing there behind the lectern, almost hiding, she recites the words neatly handwritten on the pale piece of paper staring up at her. The words come out easy. Almost too easy. Rehearsed. Not from the heart. Why should she speak any different? The people who are here aren't actually here. These are not tears of grief for a life lost too soon, too innocently; a tragedy. Instead, tears of relief, for a suffering that lasted far too long; a mercy.
She imagines herself eventually running into the neighbour’s wife at the hair salon. She sees herself telling her how it was for the better. The more she tells others, the easier it will be to accept it herself. Thinking, just itching to say to her, I need someone to know I once loved him enough to lie to everyone who knew me, about how things really were between us. I need someone to know that there was a weight on my chest in the shape of his mouth.
But she knows better. That opening her mouth, like Pandora’s box, would only cause more harm than good.
As people silently file out of the church, some stop to pay respects, and attempt to remind her of how strong she is.
How strong I am?
She doesn’t need others to tell her she is only becoming strong now. Not now. When this may just be the easiest part.
It’s still raining outside, a little heavier than before. But she’s all too familiar with the sombre feeling that comes with a storm during the day. Puddles pool together on the ground outside. They remind her of the farm on a winter’s day, when Frank would limp back in the house dripping wet, too indifferent to acknowledge the warm dinner she had set out for him. In spite of thoughts like these reminding her of an inevitable widowed life, she feels somewhat relieved. That all those days, months and years he spent hollowing her out, she might be able to feel whole without him.
The neatly stacked pile of memorial cards sit untouched on the kitchen table for the past 2 days. They don’t bother her as much as expected. The newly installed chrome railings in the shower are about as useful as the walking frame that’s parked in the corner of the bedroom. Her grocery shopping that morning took 15 minutes instead of 45. There are less clothes in the washer when she goes to collect them and hang them out to dry. On her way back inside, she knocks a glass from the corner of the kitchen table near the cards. But the shatter of the glass isn’t followed by a look of disappointment from over her shoulder. Instead, she carries on cleaning the broken pieces, picking up every one, realising how small yet free each piece looks on its own.
She locks the door behind her and places the keys in her coat pocket, hearing their familiar jangle. The sun falls behind a row of trees off in the distance, leaving a clear pink sky behind. The farmlands that span the horizon look bigger than they usually did. More spacious. Walking over to the sign that is boarded up on the front lawn, she pulls out a red sticker from her bag, and smiles as she presses down on the 4 letter word sprawled across the face of it.
She doesn’t dream of him anymore. The last dream she had of him was a month ago. He was pounding his fists on the low ceilings and narrow corridors of their house, begging her to tell him the way out.
And so, she did.
What Lies Beyond The Red Door, by Marli, Nazareth College
What lies beyond the red door, was written during an extended period of online schooling with restrictions in place in response to the COVID-19 pandemic.
What lies beyond the red door?
Sitting alone
in a room absorbed in dust and madness.
Where the truth shall prevail.
The darkness fills the void
of psychedelic insanity.
Deep in the soul of the room
beats the heart of a monster.
It waits in a grotesque, gruelling silence,
its breath pounding.
My legs are swamped
with the inability to operate.
For the length of time spent in this room
is unknown
to me.
To the world I coveted,
to which I shall never return.
Fate has bound me.
Once again I’m left behind
in the dust absorbed room,
waiting for the monster of truth
to consume me.
It inches nearer and nearer.
The king rises.
The red door awaits.
What lies beyond the red door?
Sitting alone
in a room absorbed in dust and madness.
Where the truth shall prevail.
The darkness fills the void
of psychedelic insanity.
Deep in the soul of the room
beats the heart of a monster.
It waits in a grotesque, gruelling silence,
its breath pounding.
My legs are swamped
with the inability to operate.
For the length of time spent in this room
is unknown
to me.
To the world I coveted,
to which I shall never return.
Fate has bound me.
Once again I’m left behind
in the dust absorbed room,
waiting for the monster of truth
to consume me.
It inches nearer and nearer.
The king rises.
The red door awaits.