Old growth – by Benjamin Wong
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLYFROM THE UTAS ‘LOVED STORIES’ PROJECT
2026’s UTAS third-year creative writing students were challenged not to ‘write what you know’ but to ‘write what you love’. What they produced were stories that range from the most personal memoirs to the most outlandish fantasies.. We’ve featured excerpts from five stories on Island Online - read all the excerpts from 2026 and 2025 here - and one full story will appear in Island 179
‘Mum!’
I stretch my translucent arm towards her and yell from the other side of the growing ravine. She can’t hear me. My voice is drowned out by the rumbling of the earth as it splits open. I startle backwards, retreating with the widening of the gulf. Like a pair of breaching whales, two gargantuan hands emerge from the pit and crash onto the ground. I see elbows next, then the sinews of a neck. The creature slowly ascends, until its figure towers like a spire piercing the heavens. Its single red eye glows through the vortex of clouds quickly gathering round its head. I know this creature well. I call him ‘Ah Gong’ – grandfather.
I can’t stay here any longer, and I know Mum can’t either. She will have to wander her mindscape looking for sanctuary, leaving a trail of ephemeral daisies behind her on whatever ground her feet might grace with their touch. The clouds spiral about Ah Gong’s head, the winds hasten, and the spreading darkness threatens the starlight. I could jump out of Mum’s mind as a last resort, but I need to look for her while the night is young. I must make for the old-growth forest.
Dammit! I was so close. Whenever I think I’ve finally found Mum, I lose sight of her again. I’ve never gotten close enough to talk to her or hug her. But I’ve seen her. She roams the lands of her mind in a white, flowy gown. Sometimes I’ll see her staring at a puddle, but before I can get any closer, she’ll step into the puddle and plunge into its unfathomable depths. Other times she will wander over a hill and out of view, but when I climb that hill, I find no trace of her. How many more nights must pass before we finally meet?
The dry air is sharp in my throat as I run toward the forest of blue gum and mountain ash. I can only hope the trees grant me refuge for now, that laying low will buy me enough time to construct a plan that will fell that monstrous creature. Bright lights catch my eye as I run. Stars of the great galaxy above are falling through the clouds, just as they do every night, like tears dribbling down the face of the sky. Watching them, I lose myself, and my legs take on a life of their own …
***
I fail to sleep through the third alarm I set, so I squint at my phone and cancel the fourth, fifth and sixth ones.
My head is heavy, my mind a wasteland. A draught assaults my senses, but I steel myself, warming up by taking quick, deep breaths before lugging my groggy self into the hallway.
In the gloom of the early morning, the living room is a labyrinth and a minefield. Distinct clusters of miscellaneous objects lie scattered within it. These combinations of old and new knick-knacks sit perfectly balanced, passive and dormant, but their unique configurations give them each an air of importance – importance to which only Mum is privy. Each one is like a little shrine dedicated to no one in particular. A two-litre plastic milk jug with dried flowers sprawling out of its mouth stands upon an empty, ornate glass vase; old medical documents folded into origami cranes are arranged in a circle round a framed, monochromatic stock photo of a golden retriever. As much as I hate to disrupt Mum’s artistry, I feel compelled to move some things. Mum herself used to nag at me for leaving confidential or costly items in the open. ‘We have nothing to flaunt,’ she would say.
I scan the items on the coffee table: an assortment of books, knitting projects, a copy of Mum’s old doctoral thesis, a tower of egg cartons, baking ingredients, and a small wooden box – inconspicuous, unless one had the eye to recognise Huon pine – lined with Malaysian batik cloth folded to fit the small space, on which sits a single jade bangle, our only family heirloom. I pluck the box out from its place, from that great citadel fit for only the most distinguished of sugar ants and huntsman spiders.
‘What a mess,’ I mumble to myself in frustration.
My thoughts are interrupted by the shuffling of footsteps approaching from behind me. Mum’s awake.
‘Whatcha got there, bud?’ Mum asks.
I turn to her, frowning. ‘Nothing,’ I say, hands behind my back. ‘And can you please quit calling me that?’
Mum stares at me blankly. The cogs seem to be turning in her head, but I can never guess what she’s thinking or feeling. She appears to notice that I’m giving her a weird expression of my own, so she finally speaks up.
‘Do you think your Ah Gong is well?’
Alright, fine, change the subject. Ah Gong is dead, Mum. ‘I’m sure Ah Gong’s alright. He was happy the last we saw him. The day of his baptism, remember? You said a smile looked good on him, fitting for a changed man.’
Mum regards me with furrowed brow. ‘That’s not funny,’ she says. ‘You shouldn’t joke like that.’ She grasps her forehead as if she has a migraine. ‘I knew I should’ve brought him to Australia with me.’
So, she really doesn’t remember. ‘And what? Be treated like a kid for the rest of your life? Be seen and not heard? Is that what you want?’
Her face softens with regret. ‘I’ll never not be his daughter,’ she says. She spaces out, leaving a lull in the conversation. After a minute she says, ‘And you’ll always be my son.’ She hugs me. ‘It’s late. Get some rest, alright? You have school.’
I nod. She tousles my hair and walks back into her room.
With that, I stash the wooden box in a cupboard and resume my morning routine, brushing my teeth and putting on my uniform. I check Mum’s pillbox. I hide her packet of smokes beneath my bed. I make sure her routine is written clearly on the fridge’s whiteboard. Then I’m off to Macca’s for work.▼
Image: Matt Palmer - Pexels
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