Council recently hosted the "My Place in Cumberland" writing competition, inviting young writers aged 12 to 25 years to create fictional stories about meaningful public spaces within the Cumberland Local Government Area. Participants were also asked to submit a photo of the inspiring location.
Submissions to this writing competition closed on 31 January 2025. Winners have been notified and the winning entries published to this page for everyone to enjoy.
Granville Town Hall: by Muhammad Ibrahim Tayyab
Andy rode his bike through the busy streets of Sydney. The metropolis bathed in a golden glow from the warm late-afternoon light. His dark eyes gleamed with anticipation, and his brown, dishevelled hair fluttered in the breeze. His favoured Vermilion Harrington jacket, with its fitted seams emphasised his slender figure. Andy’s polished chestnut Brogue shoes that matched his slightly darker trousers, made a gentle rhythmic thud on the bike pedals.
Andy's heart grew nostalgic as he walked towards Granville Town Hall. Glancing at the magnificent clock tower and Victorian style. This imposing structure served as a reminder of the neighbourhood’s rich past. It was a site of innumerable meetings and events soaked in history.
From the gentle azure of the day to the blazing amber and pinks of sunset, the sky overhead was a painting of brilliant hues. The calm beauty of the evening enhanced by the clouds, which drifted languidly like cotton candy. With its elaborate masonry and tall arched windows reflecting the last of the sun's rays, the town hall's stately façade gleamed brightly in the waning light.
Andy's thoughts strayed to the numerous happy moments he and his family had shared in the venue. He recalled the lively cultural performances at the ‘Open Dar’ gatherings; where dancers, musicians, and storytellers enlivened the stage. Even now, the sound of their cheering and laughing seemed to reverberate.
He thought back to the gymnastics lessons he had taken with Zing Activ, where he and his siblings would try gravity-defying spins and flips, their youthful exuberance bringing life to the hall. Andy found it fascinating that the hall had also served as the site of other events, such as the symbolic transfer of the mayoral chains following council amalgamations.
Weddings and other private events were also at Granville Town Hall. Andy thought as he recalled the clinking of glasses, music, and laughter that characterized these get-togethers; he experienced a strong sense of community and belonging here.
As Andy was overcome with happiness and thankfulness as he rode his bike along the well-known route. The town hall was more than simply a structure; it was a symbol of solidarity and a storage of treasured memories. As the sun set, and the city was bathed in a twilight glow, Andy was certain that the hall would serve as a symbol of solidarity and unity for many years to come.
The End
Beneath the golden dome: by Akifa Younus
Layla hesitated at the entrance of Gallipoli Mosque, gripping the strap of her bag. A strange, unnameable emotion swelled in her chest. Was it nervousness? Guilt? She was not sure.
The golden dome shimmered in the afternoon light, and the intricate calligraphy curved elegantly along the walls, yet she barely took it in. It had been years since she had last stepped inside. Layla had last been here with her grandfather. After he was gone, she never returned.
The scent of oud drifted through the air as she pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside, hushed prayers murmured softly, fabric rustled as worshippers adjusted their scarves. Everything remained the same; although to Layla, it felt unfamiliar, as though she no longer belonged. She resented how unchanged the mosque was, how it continued without him. It made her feel like a stranger in a place she once knew so well.
Her footsteps echoed against the marble floor as she moved past the ornate tiles, their deep blues and golds forming mesmerizing geometric patterns. Arabic script adorned the walls in delicate strokes. She refused to read the words; instead, she kept her gaze low, settling onto the soft carpet near the back.
Hugging her knees to her chest, she let out a sharp exhale.
Why had she come?
Maybe it was an impulse? Maybe it was something deeper? Something she had not wanted to acknowledge. For months, her mother had urged her to return, but she always argued; ‘It doesn’t feel right.’
However, sitting in the stillness, a memory surfaced.
She was six again, cross-legged beside her grandfather as he traced Arabic letters in his Qur’an. His deep, steady voice wove through the space like a gentle tide.
‘Do you know what this means?’ he had asked, his warm brown eyes twinkling.
She shook her head, small fingers grazing the elegant script.
‘Indeed, with hardship comes ease.’ His smile was soft as he tapped her nose.
‘Whenever you feel lost, remember that. Allah always brings ease.’ His voice was both gentle and firm, as if this were something he needed her to understand.
Layla swallowed hard as the memory settled over her; the way he had held her hand, the way his voice had embraced her. It was here, lingering in the quiet corners of the mosque.
Her gaze lifted to the golden script above the mihrab. Slowly, she read the familiar words. Indeed, with hardship comes ease.
A shiver ran through her.
She had spent years avoiding this place, afraid it would only remind her of her loss. But now, she realized she was wrong. This was where she felt safest. The closest to him. The closest to something even greater than him.
Her resentment dissolved, replaced by warmth and familiarity. She let herself breathe in the scent of oud, let her fingers brush the soft carpet. The mosque had not forgotten her, it had been waiting.
Closing her eyes, Layla whispered a quiet prayer. Feeling, for the first time in years, truly at home.
2145167: by Deborah Prospero
When it comes to commuting, I have never had too much faith in buses. Anecdotally speaking, that is. In truth, I have a lot of respect for bus drivers. My godbrother was one for over fifteen years! However, some days when my bus route has too few passengers it makes the bus run early, resulting in me missing it. On other days, the route is congested, and I will see two 705’s pass by each other overlapping like a braid down the spine of Dunmore Street. Bus Stop Number 2145167, the one outside Wentworthville Memorial Swim Centre and the one nearest me; only confirms my belief that buses are by nature of Sydney traffic, unreliable.
Nevertheless, I am fond of Stop 2145167.
On a Saturday morning last June, the 705 didn’t turn up. I needed to get to Parramatta for an appointment. This was the first time I took notice of Nufail; we had not met before that moment. Two strangers looking at each other with the shared suspicion that the 10:07 was never going to show up. I asked where he was going, it was Parramatta too. Then I asked if he was interested in walking with me to Wentworthville Station.
I remember Nufail wearing a beanie that morning, mainly because he has a cough that sets in whenever there’s cold moisture in the air. Nufail has lived in Wentworthville for over 25 years. Holding down a job in Toongabbie with a company that galvanised steel, which held up traffic lights. On that first train trip together to Parramatta, we spoke of books and politics and the fact that, in the 1960’s; Nufail studied Politics, Philosophy, and Economics at the Sri Lankan University of Peradeniya.
Now a retired man, I asked Nufail what he likes to do with his spare time. He laughed and said, “Well, Deb, I’m an old man who has nothing much to do.”
‘But doing nothing is not exactly a bad thing’, I told him. ‘You know, the Italians have an expression for this – Dolce Far Niente. Have you heard of it?’
He shook his head. ‘Well,’ I continued, ‘It means: the sweetness of doing nothing. A difficult activity to practise.’ We shared email addresses on that first train ride and exchanged phone numbers three emails later.
Although retired, Nufail certainly does not do sweet nothing with his time. When he is not reading biographies (he loves Nelson Mandela) or the latest masterpiece of Aussie non-fiction (he loves Peter Fitzsimons); he will be picking up calls from friends and family who are scattered across Australia and beyond. Stop 2145167 taught me this, Wentworthville is Nufail. When I peer behind the glass door of Dunmore’s Street Library and spot a Ken Follett thriller, I will know he has been by. Nufail, and by extension Wentworthville, teaches me the art of Dolce Far Niente. Somewhere up the hill of Dunmore Street, there is a veranda where doing nothing - is often accompanied by a bitter brew of Ceylon tea, and sweet conversation.
