I must admit that on entering into the project of judging these stories for the Bronze Quill Award this year, I fully expected to be standing here before you saying what most judges say. 'It was an impossible task to come to this decision, the quality of the stories were all so good.' Or something like, 'It was so hard choosing one story from the other and I stayed up all night pondering over this one and that one.' In fact I was fully prepared to go through an agonizing process that would take me hours of reading and re-reading, sleeping, dreaming and gestating not only the prize winners, but the highly commended sorties. I expected to have lengthy battles with myself over my personal preferences and how they cloud my judgement. I anticipated that in the end, my choices would be entirely subjective and that I'd be standing here saying to you, 'Do not take these judgements personally, or as any indication that I am an authority on the craft of the short story.'

While it is true, I am not an authority on the craft of the short story; while I am certain that some subjectivity reigned while I was sifting the short list from the rest, I have to say, the final decision was not difficult at all. So I missed out on sleepless nights, waiting for dreams, praying for a break in the lengthy tension of indecision. The gold fell to the bottom of my pan easily, it was so heavy.

I awarded First Prize to Helen Iles story 'The Birthday' because it is one of those rare things. It is a perfect story. By perfect story, I mean it is an editor's dream. There is no need for structural editing, no need for copy editing. It has been crafted to its perfection. There is not another thing that can be done to make it better. Although I have been audacious enough to suggest some minor grammatical and syntactical changes.

The element that placed this story before all the rest is its stillness; the quiet grace with which it builds the tension, the craft with which it unravels the heart of Enid Bellamy, the main character of the story. I will say no more for you will hear it for yourselves before the afternoon is out.

The choice of the first five, also was not difficult either. I am not sure what this means. Perhaps it indicates that I have very catholic tastes, or that, given the particular collection in this years competition, these five stories stood out from the pack. Perhaps with another group of stories I would have got my tossing and turning, the angst on which all writers survive.

Whatever the case, I must be honest with you today and say, the five finalists were easily identified. Where I did find the challenge was in deciding between 2nd Prize 'Crystal Palace', and the highly commended 'Rock Pool'.

'Rock Pool' has the most subtle build up to magical realism I have seen in a while. It is done so well that its move into fantasy is seamless. It takes the reader there in such a credible manner one is surprised to be in such an other worldly adventure.

'Rock Pool' is a selkie story set in a world that is as concrete and real as the one we live in. With the slightest brush strokes the author brings the reader into what is really occurring. The first brush stroke occurs with the utterly inconsequential phrase '....siren cry of the gulls'. Moments later the narrator reveals how main character's father took the family away from the ocean to a 'suffocating land-locked city'. Implying the father's ploy was unsuccessful the author writes...'The call [of the sea] had been too great for her mum and she'd left them one stormy, rain-drenched day.' At this point it came to me that this woman could only survive leaving her husband on a stormy, rain-drenched day. The necessity of water is the clue here.

Nevertheless, all this time the reader is encouraged to believe this is simply a story about landlubbers versus those who love the sea. And then the disturbance sets in when on catching a prawn the author describes Lou's actions in the following way: '.....with a deft flick or her wrist, Lou decapitated the prawn and popped it into her mouth...

A LIVE PRAWN....something was afoot.

I won't spoil the ending for you. This is a story that deserves publication and I'm sure it will find its place between the covers of a book—perhaps volume 3 of indigo journal. I just wanted to give it the limelight it deserves since, if there was a 3rd prize in this competition, 'Rock Pool' would have it.

In the end I gave 2nd prize to 'Crystal Palace' not because it is my preferred genre or style, for indeed, I am a great fan of magical realism and I come from a selkie culture myself. I gave it second prize because of its edginess, its pace, its humour and colour. The author has the capacity to bring the reader right into a strange, almost psychedelic presence. AND, most importantly, she had me fully entertained in a genre of story I usually don't like. That my friends, was the clincher for me.

I was convinced these two stories were by different people, and today I learn the are in fact, by the same person.

The two stories: 'Just a Doll and a Story', again by Helen Iles, and 'Seth' by Linda Blackshaw are commended because they are almost perfect. By that I mean almost publication ready. They require only slight edits.

There were seven other stories flecked with gold that beckoned my attention. All of these would become perfect stories with some editorial revision—and I have suggested these revisions between the words and paragraphs on their pages. I encourage each and everyone of the 'almost finalists' to attend to the finishing touches and submit them for publication. They would be most welcome submissions to indigo.

And that is the extent of my report on selecting these stories for the Bronze Quill. It has been a real joy to do this and I hope the Bronze Quill continues for years to come.

Winning Entry

The Birthday

Enid Bellamy sat in her comfortable chair, in her comfortable room, in her very comfortable house in Wiggam Street. She knitted, for she was waiting, and what better way to while away the time than to lengthen the garment that clung supportively in a hundred or so places along the breadth of the needles. The clock on the cabinet behind her read seven o’clock precisely, the time not overly pressing at her conscience for the family were not due until the half hour.

Looking up, she noted her appearance in the mantel mirror, a glorious long hanger with fluted edges and a smoky image of galleons and oceans in the lower left corner. It was an heirloom and she liked where it was displayed for at any time of the day she could touch up her hair or face, or just assure herself that health was still predominant on her features. She assured herself of just that now as she touched her hair and straightened the set of exquisite pearls that graced her neckline. Her blue eyes dropped back to the soft woollen creation that was to be a matinee jacket for the newest family member-to-be, and she pondered whether it would be a boy or a girl - but only briefly: Sandra and Carl already had one of each, and as long as the grandchild was healthy, it mattered little what gender was increased. For safety, she had chosen a lemon colour.

The clock read now seven-zero-five, and she completed the next row and laid it down; went to the rather meagre kitchen and made a pot of tea. They would be here soon and she didn't mind admitting that she looked forward to their visit. The children had not been around for some time, but she understood - they had lives of their own to lead, and husbands to tend. Her own marriage had been a perfect one for half a century, and if her own children could be blessed with even half of that she would be very happy. It was their joys now that she could share in, her own having come to a rapid stand-still with Albert's demise five long years ago.

She carried the tea back into the lounge and put it on the small oval table by her chair, her eyes drifting momentarily out through the window to the street, to a passing car, but it wasn't them; not Sandra and Carl; not Judy and Simon; not Barry who had taken the notion to remain single and travel the world without restriction of wife or child, and who had taken special consideration to return to his homeland in time for her birthday. Not that he had said that, mind, but she knew that he had. He was a good boy, and she pondered that the next project would be a new sweater for her oldest, in blue because it matched his eyes, and he had inherited her eyes. Sandra had Bert's eyes she smiled solemnly, had Bert's every mannerism of face and mind, and his temper, and she was thankful Carl was a placid man. Judy on the other hand resembled none of them. Dark and broody, yet bright of mind and 'arty', Judy didn't talk much, but she was a keen listener and a deep thinker, and would probably one day be somebody special; what, she didn't know, but she would be. It was a mother's intuition to sense those things.

Glancing back over her shoulder, the clock showed ten past the hour, and she wondered if one of them would come early: Barry maybe. He had no family to hold him up, and he would relish the thought of not having to cook for himself. But then, Barry always had places to go and things to do, rushing here, rushing there. No, she decided wistfully, Judy would be the first for Sandra would be tied down with the infants, and with Carl for the man seemed to do little for himself, the product of an overly doting mother; something she was thankful that she had never been with her own. No, she considered proudly, she had been wise enough to let them find their own way in life, guiding them only along the paths of righteous belief, telling them the difference between right and wrong and leaving them to decide the road they would take. They had all taken the high road, and that made her proud.

The garment gained another inch and the clock another five minutes.

Soon, she pacified her anxiousness. Don't hurry the children. They will arrive soon. Her gaze flicked up to the dining table. It was ready, neatly set with an array of delectable dishes for supper; the usual cold dishes of chicken and salads, ham and slabs of lamb; nibblies of pretzels and peanuts and chips; and the trifle for Barry which he loved so much because she would always overladen it with sherry and wine. It was all there, all ready, and she was satisfied with the presentation. But they would need to be on time or it would all go warm and not taste as nice. For a moment she deliberated returning it to the refrigerator then decided not to worry. The clock said seven-twenty and another ten minutes would chill it no further than it already was.

Another inch lengthened the tiny jacket, the constant click of the needles tapping away with the seconds on the clock. Presently, Enid put down the bundle that busied her hands, patted her grey-gold hair into a more organized position and stood’ she smoothed the sheeny cotton floral that she reserved for such occasions and, although a quiet thought told her not to, wandered to the window to survey the tree-lined street below her sloping lawn. The clock clicked over seven-thirty, and at any moment one of them would arrive. Maybe even the next set of headlights coming down the road would turn and climb the driveway and stop beside the house.

None did, and for a long while no cars even came down the roadway. The street was dark and lonely, and soon not even the trees were distinguishable in the gloom. She noted her mood was rapidly beginning to match that of the atmosphere outside her window and she turned away and let her eyes take a slow wander over the room, a room where she seemed to be spending more and more time of late. Briefly she wondered if the children had felt as comfortable in this house as she had when they had moved there a decade ago. It was just she and Albert then, the children having grown and taken homes of their own. She consoled herself with the notion that they had seemed to have accepted the house though it hadn't been immediate, and she remembered the horrified looks on their faces when they had announced that the family home was to be sold, being far too large and difficult for her and Bertie to maintain in their senior years.

But they had gotten over it, she reflected lightly. They were good children, and only wanted what was best for her and their father, and now that it was only her, for her. A car appeared at the far end of the street, its golden cat-eyes casting a wide beam of light in its path, directing the way closer and closer to her daisy-strewn street verge. She watched keenly, waiting for the yellow blinker to flash its turning beacon, but it didn't - the car swept on past to become two minuscule slits of red until they too faded in the blackness. She sighed and glanced back to the clock on the cabinet. It was ten minutes to the next hour and she frowned, the motion adding to the creases already marring her otherwise unblemished face.

A nag of worry tinkered in her head as she turned back to the table, to the limping lettuce and sogging pudding. Scowling, she waited a few minutes more, took a nibble of a small morsel of bird, a peck of the wine-sodden cake, and returned the whole array of decorative bowls back to the ice-box. By eight o'clock, the needles were scraping and clicking noisily away again but this time without love-incited fingers: there was a greater need to be fulfilled inside her now, a need to alleviate the growing concern and quiet hint of annoyance. The hint grew rapidly to a more apparent thought that the needles did little to remedy. Had they forgotten? she wondered icily. And when had it been discussed that they would gather on this particular night, at this particular place? Or had she by chance taken for granted they would turn up as they always did, for none had ever forgotten her birthday before, and this one was special for it was her seventieth. Not sixty-eighth. Not sixty-ninth. But seventieth! And of course they would come! Maybe she had just mixed up the time, and they would be here soon. Maybe it was to be at eight. Of course, it was to be at eight. The children were seldom late, and certainly never all of them.

And so she waited, the needles again poised but inactive, her ear tuned to the silence on Wiggam Street. It remained unbearably so.

By eight-fifteen, she rose and poked her head hopefully into the kitchen, minor thoughts flitting to the teapot yet overshadowed by more pressing ones that prayed the lounge-room timepiece was wrong. Remorsefully, she sighed. It wasn't. Her knitting discarded to her favourite chair, she stood hollowly, fingers rubbing lightly up and down against confused temples, teasing out the slight but rising tension nagging at her brow. Turning, she looked forlornly about. It was eight-thirty, and obvious that she would have no visitors tonight, no-one to share her birthday with. Not her children. And not dear Albert, though memories of many better, fuller days of celebration glinted in and out of her reminiscences and made her smile.

There had been so many beautifully shared birthdays, so many filled with laughter and caring, what did it really matter that they had forgotten this one. She was not a selfish woman, she told herself as her hand found the light switch and dimmed that room, her knitting left to ponder the darkness, as alone as she herself felt right at that moment. No, she was not selfish, but she recognised that little pang of disappointment that hovered between her love for her children and her need to still be considered very much a part of the family, the part that kept them all together. She sighed deeply. It was time for this tired old lady to put herself to bed.

Tomorrow, she would be seventy and a day.

-oOo-