First Place:

Kitchen Benediction

By Sarah Hirons

Afternoon light falls in stripes across the lino, catching in a scatter of flour. Her apron hangs from a hook, limp.

The stepladder lives behind the door - old, one rubber foot missing, hinges stiff.

I set it down and trace the groove made by her slippers, polished over decades of reaching for oats and golden syrup. 

The smell of biscuits and marmalade lingers. 

I can almost hear her voice; It’s good to see you.

The ladder supports me, and for a moment, so does she. This is how it feels to be left, yet still held in the making.

Second Place:

Age Begets Age

By Lily Shadbolt

There’s no chance of falling with Mother holding me tight. Of course, I’m only on the first rung, but with her hands on my hips there is nothing I can’t do.

Don’t let go, I say.

She calls back, but when I climb her voice gets quieter, her arms looser, and as my own skin starts to sag and my hair fills with grey, I realise arms that once gripped me tight are no longer there. I have loved and lived without her embrace, carried her memory in my palms; I am older now than she ever grew to be.

Third Place:

Tragedy at Khumbu Icefall

By Verdon Massy

Yangtu yells over the fierce winds of Khumbu Icefall.  “Brothers, pray with me.” Shivering in the icy shadows, they pray.

It’s dangerous but tedious work, setting ladders over yawning crevasses. Yangtu imagines his young wife’s rosy cheeks reflected in the sparkling snow, hears the shy rustle of her garments in the wind. 

Then a deafening crack, the glacier screaming as it fractures.

Yangtu tightly grips his ladder, blinded by blowing snow, battered by vicious shards of ice.

Then white silence.

He hangs over a black, bottomless crevasse, the ladder slowly swinging.

Their prayers couldn’t appease fate.

His shaking grip loosens.

Fourth Place:

No Stairway to Heaven

By Carl Maguire

Daddy’s a minister. He goes door-to-door, telling people how much Jesus loves them. But preaching doesn’t put food on the table, so Daddy washes windows.

He has four girls and I’m the youngest. We take turns helping him on the odd job, but mostly we’re just there to foot the ladder.

Daddy is up the ladder when Mrs McCarthy’s car pulls into her drive. She could wait, but I see the impatience in her eyes. Her front right tire clips the rail and the ladder topples.

Daddy was a minister, but he’s with Jesus now.