Spake again, Leviathan, “Why comest thou to me?”
It is with great excitement that I share news of the launch of Lane Cove Literary Award 2014: An Anthology. This book collaborates the winning and short-listed entries from the 2014 Lane Cove Literary Awards. The evening saw the winning entries read by their respective authors, as well as an address from Lane Cove mayor David Brooks-Horn. I was honoured to be able to read my winning entry Gull & Leviathan, and to have it featured in the book alongside my short-listed short story Tower Of Fog.
Copies of Lane Cove Literary Awards 2014: An Anthology can be purchased from Lane Cove Library.
I am very happy to announce that Gull & Leviathan has won the inaugural Lane Cove Literary Award for poetry. Congratulations to the other winners and shortlisters; to be part of this event is something to be proud of. Here’s hoping that it becomes a great annual event for aspiring writers to have their craft critiqued. I was privileged to meet many faces of the literary scene, and have my work shared with other writers and readers. I would like to also mention my short story Tower Of Fog, which made the shortlist for the short story section. Thank you to the judges Simon Kennedy and Jeni Mawter who read and critiqued my work, and also to Waterbrook for sponsoring the prize. It was a great night, and cheers to the success and future endeavours of all the writers involved!
Gull & Leviathan – A Fable is a poem by P.S.Clinen. It won the inaugural Lane Cove Literary Award for poetry in 2014.
White bird, he flew across the blue
To desolation’s shore.
‘Cross peaks of stone that cloak their bones
with iron shrub and hoar.
Tower Of Fog is a short story written by P.S.Clinen. It has been shortlisted for a number of awards, including the Atlantis Short Story Competition 2013 and the Lane Cove Literary Award 2014. It appeared in the February 2017 edition of Australia Times Unearthed Fiction magazine. Below is the story in its entirety.
The sun rose, and through the veil of mist, threw its rays with furious abandon at the cloud that perennially coated the mountains. These mountains wound along the bleak coast, corroded fangs weathered by the lashings of sea foam, as stone grey as the sky that stood over them like a loveless parent. They crawled from the earth with the ocean salivating at their heels and reached, reached for the nurturing warmth of sunlight. But the fog remained, the sun set again, and all was lost in eternal monochrome. The northern tower jutted crudely from the peaks, needle-thin, so that the wind that rushed about its zenith whistled like a tuning fork.
In the highest room of the tower, where joviality was given up to the valleys of echoes, Greywaite sat atop a stool.