Competition

First Prize

Salty Memories
by Kirsty McCormack
Redbank Plains, Qld

Twirling her tongue around the bright red head of a stick figure
like the sun overhead that silences the dozy tree-dwellers
and drowns out the birds with the sizzling of melting road,
The tar clings to her thongs, slap slap slap,
gooey, pulling them from her sandy feet
as she tromps her way across to the fish and chip shop
that everyone used to go to before the old Bernie the owner's heart conked out;
Too much fish and chips they reckon. He was a nice old man.

Ting. Door chime. Slap slap slap on cracking lino.
Crack. Her lollipop snapped in her mouth,
she holds up the forsaken gummy papery stick in dismay
as her tongue fiddles with shards of sugary sweetness.
Bizzzt chuckunk. The fans on the peeling painted roof
noisily clang above, groaning and wheezing as it puffs
its hot smelly breath around the room .
like an old grandma's whose teeth are decaying
and never quite gave up the ciggies
when she slobbers on your cheek in a lipstick smearing kiss.
Bizzzt bizzzzzzzzzt chunkunkunk zzzclunk
The air goes still. The smell of two day old fish and sweaty oil
slobbers the girl's senses. Quiet.

She remembered the hoards that used to gather
like seagulls on the beach, squawking and shrieking
diving for territory. Polka-dot, stripes and flowery patterns
carpeting the yellow sand until the polka-dots, stripes and flowers
disappear under the flying dust; Tomatoes laze around becoming beetroots;
bare white butts of the babies that got away shining like flashlights,
reflecting the searing sun on pale skin;
Old ladies slathered in sunscreen, reclining on beach chairs
in the weak shade of multi-coloured umbrellas
and aging prunes of men who really shouldn't be wearing Speedo's;
Women clad in triangles of colourful spandex,
splashing, squealing as cool white foam rushes over their skin
and other women wearing even less lying on stomachs on their towels;
And of course the young men like seagulls to a discarded chip swarming them, wearing brand names across their butts.

She remembered the park benches swamped by
couples, families, friends, random strangers hoarded together,
all the tables adorned with white paper ripped hastily
to find their prize. Salty faces and greasy fingers of happy holidayers,
fish, chips, scallops, calamari, chiko rolls filling empty stomachs.
More people were crammed into that little fish and chip shop
than Catholics in the Vatican on Christmas,
all pushing and shoving and shouting
at flustered teens with holidays Jobs who didn't know they signed up
for harassment by starving, sun-crazed strawberries,
aggravated by stinging flesh and the overwhelming heat.
And Bernie the owner out the front chatting with the locals
as they laughed at the English tourists who forgot the sunscreen
and complained about the price of petrol over the holiday season
and gas-bagged about the rising prices at the surf club
who got rid of two for Tuesday dinners because they couldn't handle the over-flow.

That new development quarter of an hour up main road
opened up the year after that,
all five-star accommodation and complex shopping centres
that need their own refidex to navigate
and indoor swimming pools and resorts and retirement retreats
and tourist parks and hotels with their own fish and chip shops.
No more campers and caravan parks, or bustling markets
or shoddy old beaches that were always covered in ciggie butts
and beach bum locals who liked the quiet life.
Bernie the owner died that year, so did their little beach,
their outta-the-way, peeling park-benched, sea-gull infested
sandy beach with Bernie's Fish and Chippie over the road.

Clunkuchunka bzzzzzzzt. The fans interrupted her day dream
as the electricity flickered back on, too many air-cons
from those expensive hotels overloading the power grid.
Breathing the hot stinking air, sucking on the left-overs
of her sickly sweet lolly, blinking sweat out of her eyes.
"Nething ya want, darl?" drawling words around a fag
sticking outta the gap in his teeth; Jack the new owner wasn't Bernie the owner.
He never would be.
Bzzzt of the fans, Slap slap slap on cracking lino,
Ting of the door bell, she left the dingy old shop,
choking on the thick hot air as it smashed into her
like a semi. But it was sweet. Traced with the salt and sand
that had forever laced her wind-swept, sun-bleached hair
since she was one of those bare-butt babes. This was her home.
She turned. The B of Bernie's Fish and Chippie was peeling away,
the screen door didn't quite close, graffiti sprawled over its mustardy walls.
Bernie the owner always said, "Them crims should get their index finger cut off!"
as he slathered a new coat over paint over "spid" and "CaZ" and all those indecipherable scrawls.
Bernie the owner would be turning in his grave.