The End of Nanga Brook

NYCM Rhyming Story Competition 2024

Final: Historical Fiction (3rd Place)

The rainless thunder rumbles in the dirty orange sky

And storm winds howl in hillsides where the timber's tinder dry.

On Thursday, lightning strikes ignite the scarp near Nanga Brook

And runners rouse the crews to fight with mattock, hose, and hook.

So, we grab the gear and get up

And we push with nary let-up.

We swear and sweat and swelter in the stinking, smoky haze.

For the ember storm is nearing,

But the breaks that we’ve been clearing

Mean that Nanga Brook, just barely, might survive the coming days.

Slow winds dangle hope in sight then, suddenly, they change.

On Friday night, the Wrath of God rolls down the Darling Range!

The flames have leapt the breaks and now they're marching on the town

But our tanks are out of water and the radios are down.

And we’re broken and we’re weary

And our eyes are scorched and bleary.

We need to shift out now or else be taken by the flames.

For the Jarrah trees are burning

And the choking smoke is churning

And the list of missing persons now has over ninety names.

On Saturday, the wind's still up, and orders are imposed:

“Evacuate to Dwellingup, before the roads are closed.”

They say it will be over soon, and then we'll all come back.

But ‘though it's early afternoon, the sky is midnight black.

No help, no pumps, no water.

But we give the blaze no quarter.

We work the crews through Sunday, and we almost catch a break.

No rest, no slack, no slowing.

For while the hills are glowing,

We soldier on despite the fact we've spent four days awake.

We think we may have won the fight, but then the bastard turns.

The sky explodes on Monday night and Dwellingup soon burns.

We face the conflagration and we hold the inner lines.

Our raging indignation swiftly breaks our own confines.

For we’re roaring and we’re beating!

And we send the flames retreating!

It’s taken half the buildings but the rest of them survive.

We watch the flames diminish

As we pound them to the finish

And on Tuesday, bloody miracle! For everyone’s alive.

Now Wednesday's sky is grey and blank. The bush is black and white.

We've come back home to Nanga Brook, and sink down at the sight:

There's nothing left. No home survived. Just smoking ash instead.

Dwellingup could be revived, but Nanga Brook is dead.

We gaze on desolation

In stoic contemplation.

We didn't lose a single life. For that we should stand tall.

We tell ourselves to cheer up.

We're hard men, but we tear up...

When at that moment, far too late, the rain begins to fall.

Bramble Jack

There stands a mound of mossy stone

That folks around call Bramble Tor.

It gazed down on a stann'ry town

Atop a heather mantled moor

Where, after dusk, the Big-Hat Lad

  Would often go explore.

He always wore a feathered cap

Passed down from his departed dad.

Soon everyone in town forgot

What other names he may have had.

The folk around just knew him as

  'Our little Big-'At Lad!'

Now Big-Hat knew from fairy tales

That, when the moon was full and bright,

The lustrous moss 'round Bramble Tor

Would glow with wisty, green-gold light.

He dreamt he'd claim a Pisky hoard

  By digging there at night.

He did not heed when he'd been told

That, once the ragged sun slid down,

He must not walk the mirey moor

But mind the dry-stone walls of town.

Lest he, like father, heedless, step

  In sucking bog and drown.

This night is clear. This moon is full.

 The mist lies thick as cotton wool.

  A lad who's out to claim a prize

   Is watched by ancient, coal-black eyes.

The mournful golden plovers' song

Had followed him through purple gloam

But as the chill of night set in

He lost all sense of where he roamed.

Then, all about was silent mist

  And not one hint of home.

He stumbled on the sedge and fell

And tumbled hard on stony frost.

The Big-Hat Lad began to cry.

He sobbed in darkness, 'I am lost!'

The darkness softly whispered back,

  'I'll help you, for a cost.'

The mist revealed a spindly man

With beetle wings and bony back.

He smiled with shining needle teeth

And glossy eyes that glittered black.

He made a nimble courtly bow,

  'They call me Bramble Jack.'

'Now, I would gladly guide you home

And even safely walk you back.

I could become your teacher, child.

What say you, then, to all of that?

I only ask a token price:

  That feather from your hat.'

With outstretched needle-fingered hands

The misshaped man was drawing near.

The Big-Hat Lad rose from the ground

And choked his swiftly rising fear.

He took the feather from his cap

  And, eyes closed, offered, ''Ere!'

He waited, wincing, holding breath

Then in his hand the lad felt brass

Replace the feather in his grasp.

He opened eyes to compass glass

With gleaming needle pointing west.

  'What trick be this?' he asked.

'No trick at all,' said Bramble Jack

And with an old professorial air

Explained the working of the needle,

'It points you home from everywhere.

And if holding it, you call for me,

  You'll find I'm waiting there.'

Bramble Jack is very fair.

 His beetle heart beats full of care.

  He only asks a little thing:

   A feather from a goose's wing.

Then in a blazing golden flash

The black-eyed beetle man was gone

And Big-Hat Lad, now feeling brave,

Resumed the quest he'd set upon.

He held the compass gift in hand

  And deeper, journeyed on.

For hours he searched for Pisky moss

Then suddenly began to feel

A stabbing, gnawing hunger pain.

How long past seemed his meagre meal!

He held the compass, closed his eyes,

  said 'Jack, let's make a deal.'

He turned and saw the bramble man.

Relieved, he said 'I need to eat!

For I be fairly starving, Jack.

Will you please conjure something sweet?'

Jack smiled his needle smile and said,

  'Dear lad, I have a treat.'

He flickered shiny beetle wings

And flitted to a blackberry patch.

He whirled around the thorny vines

And with a flash he made a snatch

Then held aloft a bramble root

  As though a fisher's catch.

'What trick be this?' the Hat Lad asked.

'No trick at all. Observe the root!'

He whipped the vine around him thrice.

It started budding glowing shoots

That turned to pinkish flower blooms

  And then… a wealth of fruit!

'A single berry from this arch

Will keep you full and strong and warm.

You'll learn the words to work the spell.

If you agree this pact is sworn:

A single drop of blood will do.

  A little prick of thorn.'

The lad agreed and pricked his thumb

And gave the blooded thorn to Jack.

Then gorged himself on endless fruit

And marvelled at the easy act

Of fleecing fey, then cunning thought...

  'Let's make another pact.'

That's contracts two. He's nearly through.

 He's close, but there's still work to do.

 A tummy full. A teeny price.

   Has he the wit to bargain thrice?

'I came out 'ere to find a prize:

The treasure underneath the moor.

But now I reckon all that work

Is more 'n I might bargain for.

So now, I say: reveal your trove,

  'ee Jack of Bramble Tor!'

'What trick is this?!' cried Jack, surprised.

'No trick. This deal will be the same:

'You'll trade with me for worthless things.

For gold this time we play the game!'

Jack drummed his chin and leaned in close:

  'Then, give to me… your name.'

The sun is up. The lad is back.

 He hauls a bulging treasure sack.

  His form returns home from the moor.

   But where's that lovely hat he wore?

'We'll 'ave to call 'ee somethin' else,'

they said, 'As 'at-less come 'ee back.'

'Sirs, I collect new names like berries,

I claimed more than I can track.'

He smiled and made a courtly bow,

  'But you may call me… Jack.'

***

When folk today climb Bramble Tor

They sometimes like to stop and pose

For pictures by an odd-shaped rock

Where golden mossy carpet grows.

It half resembles some young lad.

  His big hat softly glows.

The Silver Door

NYCM Rhyming Story Competition 2024

Round 2: Ghost Story (2nd Place)

I.

He stood upon the crossroads, waiting.

Waiting there, I knew, for me.

His lonely lamp illuminating

Gleaming coins where eyes should be.

His stringy hair was grey and thinning,

Drooped across his ruined face.

He turned that face to greet me, grinning,

Bidding me to take his place.

I’d entered there in unwise dreaming,

Through the spectral Silver Door.

And once again, retreated screaming,

As I did each night before.

I fled through fields of asphodel,

Propelled along by urgent dread,

Searching for the Door until

I found myself awake in bed.

II.

Safe in bed but drenched in sweat.

I curse my trembling, weak-willed self.

My shaking hands, still dripping wet,

Grope about the bedside shelf.

I find the book that I’d kept hidden:

 Secret Ways to Walk at Night-

 The Secret Keys to Doors Forbidden,

 Secret Paths to Secret Sight.

I take the tome, now brown with age

But, fumbling, drop it on the floor.

It opens on a faded page

That I had somehow missed before:

The paths of which herein are spoken

 Are not meant for mortal men.

 Give care that any door you open

 Closes firmly shut again."

I tried recalling in my mind

If, when I fled the silent waste,

I stopped to close the door behind

Or left it open in my haste?

Foolish thoughts! This was not real.

I’d let my dreaming brain devise

The silver door, the endless field,

And tattered wretch with coins for eyes.

III.

I set about some mundane tasks,

Refresh and dress and flag a ride.

“Which road, my friend?” the driver asks

As, sweating still, I climb inside.

“Simply drive, I care not where.”

“First, close the door!” The man rejoins,

And from his rear-view mirror stare

A pair of gleaming silver coins.

I shout and startle in surprise.

The driver turns, “Are you alright?”

Concern in clearly human eyes,

“Perhaps you need a quiet night?”

Returning home, I seek repose.

My fever, pulse, and thoughts all race

And any time my eyes are closed

I see that awful leering face.

IV.

I find I can no longer sleep.

Desperately, I burn the book.

The visions still do not retreat.

I see him everywhere I look.

Seasons leave me destitute-

Bereft of sleep, and funds, and shame.

And when I spy the eyeless brute,

He has the gall to call my name!

Something deep within me snaps.

I roar and charge the coin-eyed man.

He tries to run. Surprised, perhaps?

I reach him well before he can.

Beat the blaggard ‘til he’s bleeding!

 Beat his ugly, eyeless head!

  Beat him and ignore his pleading!

   Beat, although he’s clearly dead.

The sudden rage, as sudden, passes.

Clarity descends once more.

I see a friend - He’s wearing glasses,

Lying lifeless on the floor.

What abject wretch have I become?

I clutch his broken form and weep.

My shaking, sweating frame grows numb

and, finally, I fall asleep...

V.

...Sure enough, there stands the door.

It’s open, streaming argent light.

I drag my dream-self through once more

And once beyond, I shut it tight.

On hands and knees, I cross the field

But only vacant silence waits.

Where is the thing that I unsealed?

Where is the dreadful, leering face?

Then giggling, I realise

The reason that we haven’t met -

I pluck and pop my useless eyes.

- I’d simply not become him yet.

The change is somewhat liberating.

Still, I’m not yet fully free.

And so, I stand at crossroads, waiting…

…For the fool I used to be.