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The Beast
Grace Zimmerman
Isobelle Carmody Award
for Creative Writing
Highly Commended
The hot summer sun beat down against the ramshackle cottage and
wheat fields of Sunshine Farm. A little girl, purring gently in her
sleep, was curled tightly in her bed under a moth-bitten blanket. Her
soft blonde hair draped delicately over the pillow. She opened her
hazel eyes and got up from the eroded bed frame. The bright heat of
morning had melted away the trauma that the dark brings. The
vicious, roaring beast that was awoken at nightfall was now laid to
rest. The little girl felt safe while the sun was out, banishing the
shadows. It was the moon she didn’t trust; its pale, crevassed face
glared down on her. The distilled light seemed to sicken her father’s
spirit, transforming him.
As the little girl arose from her bed, its rusty springs squeaked
with displeasure. She tensed; she could hear stirring in her father’s
bedroom. His soft growling erupted into a howling yawn. The little
girl tiptoed gingerly across the faded laminate floor towards the
doorway. She glanced up at a photo frame hung crookedly in the
finger stained hallway. The photo was of her father; he wore a shaggy
mane and a crooked smile. He looked happier than the little girl
could ever remember. Now he was a weather-beaten shell, drinking
every night to numb the dull ache in his heart. There was someone
else in the picture. The woman’s thin frame was draped loosely in a
floral dress. Her cropped blonde hair settled on her shoulders. A light
dusting of freckles brushed her cheeks and wide hazel eyes stared
directly at the camera. Atop this young woman’s head was a humble
straw hat. The little girl now looked at the ugly crack through the
centre of the frame; a product of one of the beast’s rampages.
Entranced by the photo, the little girl clinked her foot against an
empty scotch bottle on the floor. She cowered in fear as the noise
echoed through the hallway. The beast was rising; she began to hear
it rambling a name. Not her own, but one she recognised. She could
feel terror bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She crept towards the
paint-chipped doorway and opened the torn fly screen. The ancient
hinges creaked and the little girl cringed with dread. She stepped out
onto the veranda and a warm morning breeze whipped across her
face. She could hear the beast’s feet thud on the floor in the house
and she heard the familiar clink of bottles knocked over. The little
girl ran quickly through the wheat fields of Sunshine Farm, the
golden spears of grass whipping against her bare legs.
Loose dust exploded under the little girl’s feet as she ran, dirtying
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