My first Shortlisting

Posted on October 25, 2023 by Judd

Every year starting around September most of the writer’s groups in the region, if not the country, host all their competitions and events. I forget which one I was entering at the time, but in order to submit I had to prove I was a member of a legit and recognised writer’s association. So I hunted around for the membership prices for pretty much all of them.

Some of them wanted $170 a year. For what?! So I can enter contests? Get the PREMIUM newsletter?

Naturally, any author or member I asked for the value of such things had the same reply: Oh, it’s SO worth it. Besides, it’s not that much money.

To them, I’m sure this is true. I’m willing to bet that none of them ever lived on a Disability Pension. If I’m spending $170 a year on ANYTHING, it better be fkn good.

Well one of them wasn’t that much and, lo and behold, they had Concession rates too (something none of them offered except for one, who only started offering it after I badgered them about it and then didn’t tell me they were now offering it) so I signed up and paid instalments for a $40 membership to OOTA. I also loved the name, “Out Of The Asylum”.

OOTA has the best newsletters, hands down, because they’re literally written like a letter from some writer friend of yours who wants you to know about upcoming events and drops comments about the weather across southwest WA and the joy of grandchildren. SO GOOD.

Then I saw on their newsletter, as well as other places, their Short Story Competition called “Spilt Ink”. Which is an awesome name as well. I typically don’t enter anything that asks for money, because I never have any but also because if I did then I’d end up entering EVERYTHING and go broke pretty quick. But I paid the $12, because we could actually afford that (don’t laugh, there’s things I’ve gone without because we had $5 to last us the weekend) and entered their Short Fiction category.

At first, I chose my entry based on their word count, but then I changed my mind and found a different piece that I had to trim down. For my money, taking your 3000 or 2500-word short story and having to shave it down to 2000 words is a real lesson in how to do more with less. Every writer should have to do that to their stuff. If they did, books would probably be shorter, but WAY better.

Anyway, it was only while entering that I saw it was the “fiction” category and, technically, this particular piece is a memoir. But that was what the 500-word shave was good for too, as I could remove most of the identifying characteristics of the land and region and make it set just about anywhere with a river.

And it worked. It read well and could have been anyone, anywhere. I was pretty happy with it. Nobody at OOTA had to know it was a story from when I was 16 and I wrote it not long after hearing the news that my older brother had died. Wifeage asked what I thought “the rest of the family” would think when they read it, but then I realised that it didn’t matter to me what anyone thinks of the representations in the story.

Because they are My Truth. And if you can’t speak your truth, then you need to change some shit up.

Full Disclosure: I have a folder in my email called “submissions” but it is only named that because I’m too proud to call it “rejections”. Which is 99.99% of the emails in there. ‘Course I DID get asked for a “full” once and that’s in there too. SIGH, if only.

Since nearly all those emails read the same, I wasn’t expecting one of them to start similar to the rest but then tell me how pleased they were to tell me that I was shortlisted in OOTA’s Spilt Ink Competition. Holy balls, was I excited! I ran around the house (limping, with my cane, sure, but limping really fast and excitedly) telling Wifeage and then Teenage Offspring that I’d never received such a high honour as to be shortlisted in ANYTHING before. Hell, even the time I was published in the Stringybark Stories Anthology was only because I was “Highly Commended” and didn’t hit the shortlist there.

So we celebrated with some cookies and I started getting these wonderful emails from this lady at OOTA who told me they’re announcing the winners at their AGM and they’d love me to read some and the judge for the shortlist would be Brooke Dunnell and that got me SUPER excited because she’s one of my absolute favouritest WA authors.

So, holy shit, not only do I get to read my stuff OUT LOUD for the first time ever, because I’m on a shortlist for the first time ever, but I get to meet one of my favourite authors who has judged my stuff? AWESOME.

Then, of course, the anxiety starts to kick in, wondering things like, “I won’t win, of course, but at least I’ll get at least third!” and then the lovely OOTA lady told me that there were five of us and only three prize spots, so then I was certain that I’d get 4th or 5th and a slap on the back. But when she said it’s “bring a plate and quite informal” I said I’d make brownies and bring my wife and kids.

But then the rest of the thoughts sink in. Getting my family to go ANYWHERE is a logistical feat worth of the Army’s Corps of Engineers. Getting anywhere ON TIME is impossible and I have given up on that since the last time we were ever on time during the fabled King’s Park Meetup of 2014. Keeping everyone happy for two hours while listening to various authors drone on about their work wouldn’t be fun either. And I’m mostly talking about myself, not the offspring. They’d likely be fine, heh.

I also had a hard week. Most weeks are hard these days, because most days are hard. When I DO have a “good day” it’s flanked on either side by a bad one, so the cumulative effect is that most weeks are pretty hard. I have trouble walking, sitting, standing or just being anywhere. Hanging out for two hours, standing up for five minutes to read my shit to others, was going to suck unless it was a “good day” and I’m as unable to predict those as the Lotto.

So it would likely be a hard day no matter which way you cut it. Driving for 40 minutes into Nedlands wouldn’t help either. My body’s just not cut out for some of this Life shit anymore. Not until I can get in for the surgery they promised me nearly a year ago now.

I had no way of knowing how to say this though. How to explain things like how even if we got lucky that I could move that day, my mental health is so soured that it’s nearly impossible for me to get up for ANY human interaction, let alone a building full of people I don’t know. Especially when my experience with groups of any genre tends to be that they are mostly not my cup of tea, and I end up not being theirs.

So I lied. I’m sorry lovely lady of OOTA, you are lovely and I feel guilty for lying, but I told her I had COVID and wouldn’t be able to make it to the AGM. I knew I wouldn’t know if it was a “good day” until about an hour after I had to be there, and I didn’t want to stupidly live in denial about it like Homer chasing the barbecue pig down the embankment and into the river. I had to pull the pin early so nobody was depending on me.

Then, on the day, I’ll be completely honest and admit that I forgot the AGM thing was going on. I’d resigned myself to Not Placing and had moved on with making the most of my Saturday. Which included, but was not limited to, figuring out if I could make it to the shops for kale and red wine or not. Spoilers: I didn’t. And I was simply taking a small wander to the kitchen to get smallest offspring a snack when the phone rang.

It was lovely OOTA lady, and she opened with how they had the AGM meeting earlier and she was sorry to inform me that I didn’t win. Which I totally expected. Then she said, “But I’m so pleased to tell you that you got second!” I was so happy that I froze up inside, and proceeded to make only smalltalk about the AGM and the other folk until the OOTA lady told me about one of my favourite authors reading an excerpt of MY work and giving her thoughts and feedback on the writing she’d judged.

Fucking WOW. I had barely hung up as I was on the way outside to tell Wifeage about it. Beautiful thing she is, she couldn’t take the news sitting down and hopped to her feet and announced “Comin’ in!” before wrapping her arms around me. Her warmth, her congratulations, were just about the best thing I could feel. Then we told Teenage Offspring together, and daughter did the same thing! Hopped up and was like, “Comin’ in!” and we had a Congratulatory Cuddle Puddle of Exleys.

So here I am, feeling rejuvenated for my Writing Career. A recognised talent. Prize-winning and published. For as much or as little as that counts, it feels pretty damn good.

The Captain – Short Story

Posted on October 16, 2023 by Judd

Every month, the Australian Writer’s Centre holds the Furious Fiction contest, where they give a handful of writing prompts, limit you to 500 words and see what you come up with.

I’ve been ‘longlisted’ for the comp before, and this one got me on there again, so I’m happy enough with that.

The prompts for September were:

Your story must start and end with the same sentence.
Your story must feature something being inflated.
Your story must include the words FLAG, FLAME, FLASH and FLATTER.

** The Captain **

Nobody would ever suspect the captain. He’s expected to lead from the front, to make the key plays, to inspire, to encourage, to extract the best from his teammates at all times. To see the truth, they think it would be someone weaker, lesser. Their vision blurred by decades of wilful ignorance.

They’ll never know the strength it took to stay true to one’s heart while playing such a prominent role. Fan’s perception is that such a facet would be easier to spot and wouldn’t last in the most important position. At best, a flash in the pan. At worst, a shameful admission that statistical breakdowns that affect the rest of the globe had somehow touched their beloved sport.

As he pulls the laces tight and breathes in, deep in concentration, he knows who he is. He knows what he’s been through to get here. He’s had to do more than just laugh along with off-colour jokes in the locker room, pretend he’s indoctrinated with the same subtle bigotry running rife through the professional sporting world. He’s had to stare down an old flame, now playing on a rival team, both hiding in plain sight, and try his hardest not to imagine the questions their well-known friendship would bring should the truth come out.

More than just abilities and athletic prowess, it’s taken every bit of smarts to get here and stay here. The politics of being the captain, the bureaucratic bullshit one must wade through on a daily basis. It’s more than just hiding who you are at times, it’s actively trying to be someone else. Someone whose merits should speak for themselves but who must instead also use all their connections, all their nous and canny observations to work the egos of the ultimate decision-makers.

A true leader knows when to compromise, of course, and will compliment to the point just short of sucking up, using flattery to the point just short of being obsequious, in order to maintain their position at the top. Be they a coach or a manager, there’s not a one of them that doesn’t visibly swell as they breathe in the sweet air of their own pitard.

So he’ll lead from the front, and he’ll do it with the spirit of a true leader. One who puts others’ dreams above his own. His teammates stomp up the tunnel and out into glory with stars in their eyes, a flag the ultimate goal for nearly every single one of them. None would ever know that he’s put this paramount above his own, that all he really wants is to finally settle down with someone special, have a quiet wedding, a modest house, hopefully a couple of kids.

Not a single one of them, from the dozens he shares a jersey with to the thousands upon thousands that might soon be chanting his name, would ever know what type of love truly beats in the heart of their leader. Nobody would ever suspect the captain.

Me in the Corner

Posted on September 24, 2023 by Judd

This was a 600-word challenge for a comp called “Short Takes”. At least, that’s what was in the filename in my “Shorts” folder, and I can’t even remember anything about it other than that. There was a time there that I was entering fresh writing into every comp that I could.

Probably a time before I got a bit burnt out. By Life, not Writing. I’m slowly starting to right myself, to steady some things back out. I’ll get there. Eventually.

Anyway, this was actually inspired by a dream I had after watching an episode of The Walking Dead where they first meet Gabriel, the priest that shut his church to his flock during the outbreak (SPOILERS, but you should’ve seen that bit by now). I went with a re-imagining of someone that wasn’t such a one-dimensional, spineless turd.

Enjoy.

The walls groaned dustily, imperceptibly slowly heaving in the dark. The darkened pews sat bonily, a ribcage formed with the high-arching timber eaves. The pulpit beckoned and betrayed him, pulsing. The bloody, meaty, beating heart of it all.

He was backed into a corner, curled tightly into a ball against the finished maple slats of the latest improvements and refurbishments, squeezed from the last donations received before it all fell. Nobody knew then. None of them knew now, not any more. Their earnings as stupidly given as their lives.

The building breathed outside of his direct notice, but he was as keenly aware of it as he was his own intake of air. It lived as he lived, but not for much longer. He wouldn’t be a martyr though. Dead was dead when you weren’t remembered.

A sigh from the depths, whispered airily through the steeple vents and across the bells that have sat silently since it began. Somehow it knew. He blinked his eyes wetly as he got to his feet, and he wondered if it was the fumes or the sentimentality that caused it. The air was swollen pregnantly with both.

He walked stumblingly down the aisle, but never stopped nor leaned for support as he knew it would mean he’d brokenly collapse in that spot. To pause was to perish now, there would be no last rites. No prayer, whispered reverently from between clasped hands. No epitaph left stoically in the char. The death itself would be enough.

The fumes threatened headily to overwhelm him as much as his feelings, but he was as he ever was before. An instrument, waiting mindlessly to be swung this way and that. A pointer, a time-keeper, a bat. He’d never be of his own in this world, just as he wasn’t in the last one. But he would take this last step, listlessly, forward into the unknown.

The huge doors groaned painfully as he pushed them open, resistance like the tearing of muscle and tendon. His own heart felt it too, rending meatily in his own chest just as he’d burst this monstrosity’s open to the world. His nostrils seared acridly with the initial strike of the match. His skin warmed instantly as the room lit energetically. The heat hit his eyes and he blinked furiously before staggering backward down the front steps.

Night begged for him, its dark arms opened pleadingly for his escape, but the more he plodded stompingly toward it, the more the death throes behind him chased it away. Every step toward the bosom of his fresh future was absorbed by the enlarging glow, the engorged orange eating away at his release as he moved yearningly to it.

He’d found the end before he knew it, the embrace disappointingly delayed, but the gently rippling creek cutting brashly through the trees was it. The embodiment of the battle between old and new. Or new and newer, as it were. Had he stayed, it would all be lost anyway, himself included. New was the way away from this.

Martyred, betrayed, murdered. Instead the stories, the building, all it held within and all it beaconed out would all die. Everything it represented would be gone soon, some other to taking its place. The way of all things, unflinchingly unsympathetic and unsentimental. And he would go morosely along with it.

It was old and it would die and a new one would eagerly take its place. He wasn’t old yet but he was just an instrument, and he would find use to something else, somewhere else, somewhere across the creek.

They’ve never been mine.

Posted on September 3, 2023 by Judd

I got an email from my mother asking me if I’m still at the address I’ve been at for the past NINE years.

She was thoughtful enough to include pictures of the wedding of the “half-brother” that I was never allowed to claim. Pictured on the left (of the three) is the widow of the brother I wasn’t allowed to mourn and wasn’t ever encouraged to reconnect with. Not even when he called my name on his fucking deathbed.

2023 has sucked fucking balls for me having brothers.

I did try, I’ve always tried. But I now realise what folly it ever was to hope that someone who ran out on her youngest (at the time) son multiple times would ever have any insight into how to help build the relationships between he and the sons that she clearly favoured.

The oldest got as much of her as he could, and it was a lot. Far more than I ever got. She never noticed, and is oblivious to the pain I feel when she’d recount stories of him popping in to have her do his laundry or make his favourite meals on off-weekends. Things that I got to do twice.

The youngest got more of her than either of us other two. She was actually there in his life as he grew up from birth. He’s actually the only son she’s ever really had. I’ve never heard from him on his own, and haven’t had contact with him since he was an obnoxious dingdong 7-yo. She’s also oblivious to the pain I might feel about my own childhood as she’d send me emails over the years of his school accomplishments and the events she’d attend there. Averaging an email every fortnight, she rarely missed an opportunity to tell me all about whatever was going on in his life, completely with pictures, even though I have never, ever asked.

One might suggest that I’m having my nose rubbed in it, yet I still, to this day, have no idea what grievous sin i perpetrated other than falling in love with someone on another continent. If there’s something else, or something that I actually did or said, I’d fucking LOVE to know. I really would.

Because otherwise, that’s pretty cold, and fuck that shit.

Judd Exley

Author Archives: Judd

My first Shortlisting

The Captain – Short Story

Me in the Corner

They’ve never been mine.