In the year my uncle Liam turned sixteen he spent twelve months in youth lock-up after being convicted of a break and enter on a newsagency. The shop was run by a Mr Quigley, who had been to war in New Guinea. Although he never spoke a word about it, Quigley returned home traumatised by the experience. He’d wake in the night screaming with uncontrollable rage, which would rouse his wife sleeping beside him. Quigley would lash out and strike her as she attempted to calm him. It was common to see Mrs Quigley walking the streets with blackened eyes and bloodied scratches on her face.

I drive to see our cattle. I park in front of their new paddock and curl up to watch them. It’s been seven months since Dad signed his name on the back of a carton of Gold. Our cattle were moved to someone else’s land because our paddocks are dust. I watch them from my car for hours. My battery is getting flat from running the aircon in neutral. I pretend to call Ellen and hold my fingers like a phone to my ear. It’s been ten months since she’s been home. My neck is red because I know I look crazy. I tell her everything I see: The cattle are content. They move across the grass and swallow water with soft, wobbly throats.

Judges: Emily Bitto, Michelle Law and Melissa Manning

We were impressed by the breadth of voices and stories submitted; the body of entries took us around the world before landing us in our own backyard.

He sits at the end of his sleeping mat and crosses his legs. He closes his eyes and listens. The almost-silence of the village. A dog whimpering for food. From the south, at a distance, the low rumble of the barter-truck coming. The call and return of two marri-birds. They’re mating, he hears, it’s that time of year.

The moon called through the eucalypts and we went, my brother and I, barefoot against the mountain night. At the bank of the creek we stopped and rolled up our pyjamas. The flannelette, still warm, felt like fur. Our toes searched for smooth river stones and with our arms linked, we nudged our way through the icy water. It stung but it felt good too, like an ice-cream headache.

I only realised how long you’d been gone when I saw the cracks in your soap on the shower floor. The air had got into that bar and broken it up real bad.

I mean, we all knew how long you’d been gone. We were the ones who took you to the airport at four in the morning. I can still see you, bags all over.