1st - this short story won first prize in the Society’s 2026 Geography Writing Competition. The Competition’s theme in 2026 was “Changing Environments in Queensland”.

Tina Wingham - Sheep Station Creek

Warmer, warmer, this could be it… until it wasn’t.

It had been this way for ages. Always a little too far to the left, or a little too close to the dirt track beneath the layers of old gum leaves. Sometimes someone appeared near the creek where the soil stayed soft after rain. Other times, children wandered closer to the road, boots crunching over the dry branches their voices echoing through the trees. They was always someone close enough to stir hope inside me, but never close enough to find the exact spot.

Years ago, I loved coming to these woods, breathing in the sharp scent of eucalyptus after a storm. Ironbark and grey gum trees towered overhead, their branches twisting together as they fought for scraps of sunlight through the thick canopy. Golden beams broke through in scattered ribbons, warming patches of earth before disappearing again beneath the shadows. I loved to dance between those beams as a child, leaping over fallen branches and rotting logs as I made my way towards the creek.

The forest was alive in so many ways that the town never was. Ants marched in endless lines across the dirt, carrying fragments of leaves ten times bigger than themselves. Kookaburras laughed from hidden branches while cockatoos screeched loud enough to rattle even the stillness. Sometimes kangaroos lingered in the distance, freezing the moment they spotted movement before bounding away through the bordering scrubland.

This was my happy place. Out here, surrounded by birdsong and the rustling of leaves, I felt free. The woods never judged me, never demanded anything from me.

But like always, good things never last. Slowly, surely, my woods began to shrink. Trees disappeared first, marked with bright paint before machines arrived to rip them from the earth. Then came the fences, the roads, and finally the houses, packed tightly together as if they were swallowing every molecule of space. I understood why it happened. People needed homes. Families needed space to grow. Still, every year, my sanctuary became smaller,

quieter,

weaker.

When I first arrived, the forest stretched across more than 231 hectares. Now barely a fraction remained. Yet even after all this time, the smell of wet gum leaves after the rain still drifted through the air. The winding stone paths still curved safely around animal dens and hidden holes. Some parts of the woods refused to die.

Oooo, warmer, warmer, hotter, hotter.

This was it.

Metal struck something beneath the earth. The sound rang through the forest like a bell.

At last, someone was digging in the exact right spot.

I had finally been found. My body would bring closure to whatever family I had left. Thank God for progress, because without the new road cutting through my beloved woods, I might have remained here forever, buried beneath roots and leaves, silently waiting for permission to finally pass on from this earth.