CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR AWARD WINNING WRITERS FAYE AND CHARLIE

In August, Kill Your Darlings (KYD), an independent online magazine dedicated to arts and culture, announced the winners of the inaugural KYD School Writing Prize, which invited entries from secondary school students responding to a current social or political issue. KYD and the judges congratulate all the students who submitted their work, and thank the teachers who supported their students in entering.

Ovals, Ovals by Faye Velasquez

Faye Velasquez (Year 10) is the winner of the Kill your Darlings fiction prize. Faye's work, Ovals, Ovals was described as a compelling, confident work of lyrical, experimental prose that explores themes of migration, displacement, friendship and family.

Follow this link to check out Faye's award-winning work:

https://www.killyourdarlings.com.au/article/ovals-ovals/

Empty Words by Charlie O'Regan

Charlie O'Regan (Year 10) received a highly commended for his piece Empty Words.

The priest is talking, but it sounds deep and morphed, as if I’m listening from underwater. Everything is happening in slow motion. Pins and needles creep up my leg but I make no effort to move. I’m just watching the priest as his mouth moves, but no coherent words come out. It’s probably to do with how tired I am. It’s been hard to sleep these past couple of weeks.

And now the coffin is being taken down the aisle. There are. rows and rows of seats, but barely two are filled. It’s so silent in here. Solitude and grief will do that to people. So will death.

The casket opens. I think we’re meant to say our goodbyes now, but I have no interest in doing that. She’s gone. There is no need to kiss the forehead of an empty husk, made of dead flesh that somewhat resembles a girl I once knew.

The person on my right takes my hand and squeezes gently. Her hand radiates warmth, and I notice I didn’t realise how numb my own was. Not just my hand but my arms, legs, face. I feel stiff as a board, and unable to move a muscle, while everyone else stands.

“Ingrid. Come on, honey, let’s say our goodbyes.”

I turn to the voice and I shake my head, harder than I meant to. And suddenly waves of uncontrollable shakes force themselves upon my body and I’m crying, tears dripping down my cheeks, feeling cool against my hot, flushed, swollen skin.

The sky is rumbling while I begin the walk home. The grey clouds release and an array of puddles appear on the road. It’s typical, isn’t it. You can’t have a funeral without rain. I want to protect myself from the onslaught, but I’m too tired, too careless to reach for my umbrella.

I arrive at my block of flats and my neighbour Henry looks at me. Usually he’d say something passive aggressive, about the racket my daughter made the night before, with her loud post-punk music playing from her record player, the record player I got her for her fifteenth birthday. Today he says nothing, and it’s so, so much worse.

I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on, and listen to the water bubbling up. I open the cupboard and pull out the packet of coffee grounds. It feels light, almost empty. I could’ve sworn I’d bought more just Monday, and it’s only Friday?

I take a sip of my boiling hot long black, and feel it burn my tongue. My therapist would tell me it’s good that I’ve started to respond to physical pain again.

I walk down the hall and touch the metal door handle of my daughter’s room. I feel short of breath. Has that corridor gotten longer?

I open the door and sit on her bed. I see her record player, record still placed on top. The Offspring. I decide to press play. It’s a lot louder than expected.

The last time I was in this room she’d told me she loved me. She hadn’t said that in years. I’d wondered why, why then? Was it because I’d made enchiladas that night and those were her favourite? Was it because I’d congratulated her on her English essay score? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I wish I could’ve known, could’ve assumed, could’ve tried a little fucking harder.

Before then, every conversation had felt like empty words.

“How was your day?”

“Good.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No, Mum.”

“Okay, honey. Do you want an after school snack?”

“Mum.”

“I love you.”

And then she would gently shut the door to her room and the lock would click shut and every single time I would feel jolts of pain ripple through my body and I would make myself another coffee. Or if it had been one of those days, you know the ones, where everything was just going wrong and her shutting me out yet again, just felt like the cherry on top? Yeah. Those ones. Then maybe I’d light a cigarette out of the kitchen window.

I would listen to her music playing and I’d realise that that was all I knew about her. Each day another old punk band and I would treat it as if I was getting to know her, but I wasn’t, and I let it make me feel like I was, and I shouldn’t have.

I realise I feel trapped and decide to go for a walk, to clear my head. I notice every cyclist, car, kids on the see-saw and people walking their dogs and wonder if they’re happy. If they open up. I hope they open up. I want to shout,

“Share your emotions! Let people in! Look after yourselves, look after your fucking selves or you’re going to hurt someone!”

But I don’t, and instead I turn into a near empty cafe. It is 1.30 on a Friday afternoon, and it’s raining, after all. I sit at an empty two person table, and try to imagine her sitting across from me.

“A long black with a chocolate croissant?”

“That’s me!” I say, but my voice is overlapped by a slightly younger but just as weary looking woman as me. She lets out a chuckle, and somehow I do too. That felt good.

We both fetch our orders and for some unknown reason I feel my mouth moving and talking, saying unexpected words.

“Would - would you like to sit with me?” I utter.

She gives me a small smile and nods.

“Helen.”

“Ingrid.”

“Are you a mother too? You look tired.”

She laughs, and I do too. I nod.

“17,” I say.

“15.”

“Son or daughter?”

“Son, but that’s about all I know about him. I wish I knew how to get him to talk to me.”

I see the light reflect ever so slightly more off her pupils. They’re wet. Her nails are bitten down to the skin, and I see her gently scratching the back of her hand.

“It’s hard. It’s really hard,” I manage to say.

She takes a sip of her coffee. I stand up and reach out my hand. She looks a bit confused but she takes it and stands in front of me.

I take her into a hug.

“Don’t ever give up.” I say, “Promise me no matter how hard, don’t let it just be empty words. Make him talk, Helen, make him talk.”

She starts to cry and I pull her tighter.

“Don’t ever let it just be empty words.”

STATEMENT:

Throughout my childhood, I’ve always had a passion for writing. It was my favourite subject and pastime for my entire primary school life. I unfortunately lost this passion, partially because of mental health, and when I developed a rocky relationship with my Mum, it was very difficult for me to see any future in my abilities. Part of that is what prompted this story; the idea of losing my Mum, or my Mum losing me. I love my Mum more than anything and I’m hoping to hold onto my passion from here on out and continue to write, and create.

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