Ronald Hugh Morrieson 2018

2017 FINALIST STORIES

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h Ronald Hugh

Morrieson

Literary Awards 2017 Finalist Stories

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All items in this booklet are exact reproductions of the authors’ original entry.

ISSN 2537-6705 (Print) ISSN 2537-6713 (Online) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers.

For more information about the Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards, visit our website: www.southtaranaki.com Cover image: Photographed in the Ronald Hugh Morrieson display at Tawhiti Museum Cover design by Julie Ingram Book design and typesetting by South Taranaki District Council, Hawera Printed by South Taranaki District Council Published by South Taranaki District Council 2017.

105 – 111 Albion St, Private Bag 902, Hawera 4640, New Zealand

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We Serve

Table of Contents Foreword

Mayor Ross Dunlop Page vii

Judge’s General Comments

Rachel Stedman Page viii Apirana Taylor Page ix Matt Rilkoff Page x

Secondary School Short Story

1st Place Sasha Finer, In Memoriam Hawera High School Page 2 2nd Place Heather Phillips, The Game Hawera High School Page 7 3rd Place Maddison Cossey, The Great War of the Wattie’s Brand

Hawera High School Page 8

Secondary School Poetry

1st Place Sasha Finer, Uprising Hawera High School Page 12 2nd Place Megan Jackson, Embers St Mary’s Diocesan School Page 13 3rd Place Megan Jackson, Do You Remember Me

St Mary’s Diocesan School Page 14 Highly Commended Denzel Adlam, A Cold Winter Morning Ashley Harrop, Light in the Dark Megan Jackson, Mountain Man Courtney Hatcher, Pen hits Paper Megan Jackson, The Moment Seen Commended Puaawai Meihana Eiffe, A Sad Flower Myah Kemsley, As it was Before Courtney Hatcher, Crime Scene Georgia Sparks, Exhaustion Stevee-Jai Kelly, Ghost in the Skin Niall Clancy, Taranaki Noah Hunt, The Great Fire of Hawera

Patea Area School Page 15 Opunake High School Page 16 Opunake High School Page 17 St Mary’s Diocesan School Page 18 Opunake High School Page 19 Opunake High School Page 20 New Plymouth Girls’ High Page 21 St Mary’s Diocesan School Page 22 Hawera High School Page 23 Opunake High School Page 24 Hawera High School Page 25 Hawera High School Page 26

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Open Short Story

1st Place Emma Collins, Union Street Stratford Page 28 nd 2 Place Bruce Finer, Harry Rust Hawera Page 32 3rd Place Elizabeth Bridgeman, The World’s Best Mother New Plymouth Page 36 Highly Commended Maria Cunningham, The Sign Stuart Greenhill, Dust Pip Harrison, The Lily

Hawera Page 39 Stratford Page 41 Hawera Page 45

Open Poetry

1st Place Stuart Greenhill, West Coast Writer Stratford Page 50 2nd Place Stuart Greenhill, Mokau River Stratford Page 51 rd 3 Place Anya Darling, Secret Little Paradise

Sacred Heart Girls’ College Page 52 Highly Commended Janet Hunt, Meditation in a Country Churchyard Inglewood Page 53 Nell Brown, Forgotten Shortcut Sacred Heart Girls’ College Page 54

Research Article – A profile piece

1st Place Yani Remoto, Out of Sight, But not out of Mind

Hawera High School Page 56 2nd Place Hope Baker, Transition St Mary’s Diocesan School Page 59 3rd Place Nell Brown, A long way from Tipperary to Lepperton

Sacred Heart Girls’ College Page 61

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Foreword Ross Dunlop

This is the 30th year of the Ronald Hugh Morrieson Awards. This is a great tribute to Hawera’s most acclaimed writer.

Over the last 30 years, many talented people have participated in this prestigious award. I am always amazed at the depth of literary talent in our community.

Ronald Hugh Morrieson was a true product of South Taranaki and his writings were fiction, but were quite clearly were fashioned by his experiences of living in this place of many characters.

It is good that we are still celebrating Ronald Morrieson’s writing achievements in this way. It is also pleasing to know that four movies, a restaurant and a display at Tawhiti Museum are all giving Ronald Hugh Morrieson the immortality he deserved.

All the very best to all who have entered the Awards and congratulations to all of you.

Ross Dunlop

Mayor South Taranaki District vii

General Judges Comments Rachel Stedman

Secondary School and Open Short Stories There were nearly 100 entries into this great wee competition, making it very challenging to judge!

Because this was the Ronald Hugh Morrieson Award I looked for the following: • Strength of setting • Character development • Overall narrative structure – pacing, plot and narrative arc • Clarity of writing

And of course, there’s the ‘x’ factor; the ability to make the reader care.

Open Entries Many of the entries to the open category were quite bleak, and themes of alcoholism, domestic violence, loss of land, dementia and suicide/murder were fairly common. Some entries weren’t what I would call stories, but rather long descriptions where nothing really happened. These I discounted fairly quickly.

Some entries displayed a fascinating attention to minute detail. I learned about fly fishing, whitebaiting, surfing and hockey. I found out what a ‘tomo’ was. I enjoyed the vernacular used – very rural kiwi, very RHM! Many stories were very touching, and a welcome few were really funny.

High School Entries High school entries were, overall, not as bleak as the adults. The teen stories had a lot of energy, and in general, action seemed to be central to many entrant’s plots. The proofing of the school entries was generally better than the adults, but there was a noticeable tendency to over-describe things. I didn’t need to know how things taste, feel, look, see and sound - all in one paragraph!

I was really impressed at how the high school entrants managed to write from such diverse perspectives, and I really enjoyed the quirky plots of some of the school entries. The overall top entry, In Memoriam, was a high school entry. This was a truly stunning piece from a very talented writer.

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General Judges Comments Apirana Taylor

Secondary School and Open Poetry

Poetry reaches beyond the mere bread and butter of our existence. It casts the poignant light of insight onto the human condition. It seeks to and raises our consciousness and for this reason I congratulate every entrant in both divisions who tried to do this.

There are a lot of people who think poetry has to rhyme. If a poem is meant to rhyme that’s fine but to write good rhyming poetry isn’t easy. Too often all meaning sense and depth are sacrificed for the rhyme at the end of the line. There were a lot of entries that did this or wrote in a similar vein. There were some poems that rhymed and worked because the rhyme fitted the poem; it was unobtrusive, subtle and avoided being no more than clever and glib with words.

Another blemish that often popped up in the Open section was the tendency to cram too much into the poem - To put in a few final lines, to tie things up, round the poem off and ensure the meaning was clear, when the extra line or two wasn’t needed, went off on a tangent, or let all the air out of the poem by re stating what had already been said. There were many poems that, but for an unnecessary line or two, would have been highly recommended or placed.

On a few occasions some of the poetry needed perhaps another line or so to fulfil them. In the Open Section I realised the overall standard was high.

I read every poem at least four times and as I journeyed deeper into the competition I found myself feeling sad and uplifted. Sad because I had to cull many promising poems from the flock and uplifted because the standard of work I read strengthened my wafery thin faith in humanity. To know so many people are thinking, feeling and writing with depth is uplifting.

After my sixth reading I was down to 31 poems. On my seventh reading I was down to 19 poems and from there I went to 15 poems out of which I selected highly commended poems and first, second and third.

Don’t despair if you didn’t gain a place or commendation. I’ve been writing poetry for about 42 years and about forty years ago I won a poetry prize of $200 and a certificate. I have yet to receive the certificate, I’ve never won any other prizes and I’m still writing.

There were about forty poems that may have been placed or highly recommended with relatively minor but important changes and some poems required nothing in terms of craft.

I am thankful for the privilege of reading all the poems entered in both categories. The writers work took me on a journey. I hope everyone keeps writing.

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General Judges Comments Matt Rilkoff

Research Article

The entries in this year’s profile section of the RHM Awards demonstrate just how many fascinating people we have living among us. They are our neighbours, our friends, our teachers and the strangers we pass in the street.

From the WWII veteran who turned down a career as a concert pianist to raise nine children on a farm in Ngaere, to an Eltham man forging an identity and a life in a gender he was not born with.

These are the people who make our community sparkle.

That is one of the true joys of being a writer - discovering those treasures that have been right in front of you all along.

Of the seven entries it was difficult to choose a winner. Each had its strengths, insights, sentimentalities and deftly handled storytelling.

But it was Out of sight, but not out of mind about the life of Trevor Joseph Powell of Ngaere that still resonated with me days after reading it.

Profiles can so often turn into a list of a person’s achievements, because this is an easier story to tell than the character and motivations behind those achievements.

In Out of sight, but not out of mind, you get a true understanding of Trevor and why he was the way he was.

From his battlefield apparition of God to his patient teachings that allowed the writer to discover new depths in old lessons, to his constant curiosity about a world that changed beyond recognition in his lifetime, it was a genuine story of quiet inspiration.

Transition, about one man’s journey to live life as a gender he was not physically born with, was another strong piece of writing.

It was a courageous decision both on the writer and the subject’s part to tell the story of gender transition. This is not only challenging to the individual in a physical and psychological sense, but to the community they grew up in.

Transition painted an honest and emotional picture of the maelstrom of highs and lows a person can endure when seeking to be genuinely true to who they are.

I would like to thank all those who submitted pieces of work this year and all those who agreed to be subjects of those works.

It is a courageous thing to allow someone into your trust to tell such a personal story as that of your life. Just as it is a daunting responsibility for the writer to attempt to sum up a lifetime of experience and character in a handful of words, of which each must be so carefully chosen.

Thank you again for sharing these stories with me and your community. You all deserve a round of applause. x

Secondary School Short Story

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GOLD

Secondary School Short Story

IN MEMORIAM

Sasha Finer, Hawera High School, 1st Prize

1st Prize

The house is finally gone.

She steps through what remains, over concrete piles and plumbing. She’d never thought of the villa as small, but the footprint – the mark that’s left – seems pitifully so.

Selling the house was something they’d have preferred not to do, but a series of events had left it the best option – the new rental laws and the sale of the neighbouring dairy farm being the biggest factors. The extra house wasn’t needed on their small dry stock farm, and selling a section with it was impractical.

Selling for removal, she muses, had always been their best option. Now the house was on its way to New Plymouth, sliced in half and torn from its roots. It’d been here in Meremere since the surrounding farmland was bush, 3 pounds an acre to Alton’s 10.

This is all that remains. Bending over, she sifts through debris, pulls out a misshapen lump of leather.

It’s a boot.

A tiny thing – not even the length of her hand – with a decoratively punched leather toecap but a stout, peeling sole fixed with corroding nails. Delicate but sturdy, it evokes thoughts of cobblers, pioneers and petticoats.

How, she thinks as she sits down, turning the boot over in her hands – how could I have known so much of the history, but so little of the people? *** The house was finally finished.

It stood in front of her, in all its fresh-painted glory, bay windows shining in the late afternoon sun.

The paddocks on either side stretched out, burnt and blackened, littered with smouldering debris from what had been a vast expanse of native bush. Give it a year or two and it’d make good farmland, Henry had said. It was hard to imagine that anything could ever grow there, but the land in New Zealand seemed to have a remarkable capacity to adapt to change.

Change was what had brought them here, to the new land, the land of plenty – wonderful New Zealand. The journey over hadn’t been so wonderful, Alice remembered. She’d only been five at the time, but the memories had stuck. Misery and seasickness.

Even once they’d landed, the promise of a beautiful new life in a beautiful new land had seemed so far off. But they’d fought through the hard years – and now look at them. A new home, a new farm, a new beginning.

She cradled the boot in her hands. It was one of the pair she’d worn over from England, a memory

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In Memoriam - Sasha Finer

Secondary School Short Story

of the childhood she’d left behind. It was her mother’s idea, in keeping with an age-old tradition – a child’s shoe placed in the structure of a house was a sort of charm, warding off evil spirits and bringing good luck to the inhabitants.

Good luck, thought Alice, as she placed the shoe in a cavity beneath the doorframe, giving it a little pat.

Good luck couldn’t hurt. *** Gently setting the aged boot aside she stands and continues her examination through the fragments of lives gone by.

It’s as she’s following the trail of raw earth where the garden path once wound that she spots it – unnaturally round in the irregular soil. She’s got a good idea what it is as she reaches to pick it up, and she’s right. Pennies are more common than boots, and more like what she’d expected to find. Rubbing away the dirt and tarnish she squints to make out the date – but she’s wrong, it’s not a penny.

New Zealand, One Florin are the words surrounding a simple embossed kiwi.

1944 is the year. *** The house was silent and expectant.

Outside, the children played on – oblivious. Happily engrossed in a game of Spitfires and Messerschmitts, engines and machine gun noises.

Jack sat curled up in the middle of the lawn. Mum was sitting on the porch, knitting, listening to the radio. She was knitting for the soldiers, like Charlie - not for them. Jack was glad - Mum’s knitting wasn’t very good. He hoped Charlie wouldn’t end up with any of Mum’s holy old socks.

He turned over his florin in his hands, admiring the shine and newness of it. He found it hard to comprehend that Mr Edgecumbe would give him something so precious for helping up at the dairy factory – Jack definitely preferred his nice new florin over the work he’d done. Sorting bottles wasn’t exactly fun, but it was worth it.

The radio distracted him – Mum had abandoned her knitting to turn up the volume, and was listening with an intent expression on her face. Jack listened too.

“Word has come through that the Germans have surrendered to the Allied Forces…”

A tear was running down Mum’s cheek. She didn’t seem to notice.

“What’s wrong, Mum? What does it mean?”

In Memoriam - Sasha Finer

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Secondary School Short Story

Mum smiled. Jack had never seen someone smile and cry before. It was a funny thing to see.

“It means that the war is over.”

“Really? Is Charlie coming home?”

“I hope so,” Mum whispered.

Jack jumped up and ran out to yell the news to the others, bubbling with excitement.

“The war’s over! Charlie’s coming home! The war’s over!”

There was laughing and crying and questions, so many questions, and a roast for dinner as celebration.

It was only later Jack realised that somehow, during the commotion, he’d lost his florin. *** She gives the florin a last rub and sets it down beside the boot, her collection slowly growing.

A pile of broken china catches her gaze – delicate, brightly patterned shards amongst the chunks of dull concrete. She sorts through, separating them by colour, shape, size…

Her fingers close around a smooth, rounded shape that clatters when she shakes it. Wiping off the dirt, a painted clown’s face grins up at her.

It’s a baby’s rattle. *** The house was a hive of activity.

A family Christmas always required a lot of organisation – there were people to greet, presents to sort, food to prepare. Angus, along with the rest of the kids, had been banished from the kitchen early on, various cousins and second cousins and cousins-once-removed (what was the difference anyway?) There were seven of them in total, eight if you counted two-year-old May – not that Angus did. His baby sister was a constant burden, always having to be carted around and looked after.

“Have you seen the hut?” Ryan asked, jumping up. “It’s really cool – got bunks, fireplace, a sink – everything. Let’s go look.”

A murmur of assent ran through the group and everyone trailed off down the paddock after Ryan.

Angus looked desperately around, but no one had stayed behind – he couldn’t leave May here alone with Mum busy in the kitchen, but he sure wasn’t missing out on seeing the hut because of his stupid baby sister.

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In Memoriam - Sasha Finer

Secondary School Short Story

Sighing in resignation, he turned and pushed the wicker pram after the others.

After struggling along the ridge for 10 minutes, they reached the hut. Angus abandoned the pram outside to push his way in.

It was as Ryan was describing the building process that a cry went up from outside. Rushing out, he was just in time to see the wicker pram careering down the hill.

May! They could only watch in horrified shock as the pram raced down the steep incline, bouncing off cattle tracks and taking flight every few metres.

By the time it came to an abrupt halt in the swamp way below Angus and a few others were already sprinting down the hill, gravity causing uncontrolled momentum. Gasping as he reached the lopsided pram, he peered inside“Ooh, wow,” giggled May, grabbing at his face with her tiny fingers. Angus breathed a huge sigh of relief. She was fine. Her clown rattle had gone missing somewhere along the way, but that was ok – more than ok. Grinning, he kissed his baby sister’s nose.

A Christmas miracle indeed. ***

The rattle now lies beside the florin and boot. They make an odd trio, three relics, monuments of the history of the house. She’s a little sad to leave them, but it seems fitting.

Standing up, stretching, she turns to leave for home. There’re calves to feed, after all.

Walking off, the mementos stay behind, vestiges illuminated in the setting sun. ***

The house is finally finished.

It stands before her, glossy, fresh-painted, bay windows shining in the sun. It’s been months since it was moved, old wood on new piles, but their hard work has paid off. The property is cradled in a ring of native bush, quietude and birdsong muffling the sounds of early-morning commute from the city below.

Years of dreams, searching and planning have led to this. A new home, a new beginning.

They’d done some research on the old villa, intrigued to find it had been built by settlers over 100 years ago. It had withstood weather, crises, two world wars – and now it’s helping their family begin a new chapter. Growing fresh roots, melding with the new landscape.

Maybe the house is good luck, thinks Nicole, smiling a little at the thought as she steps through the doorway into their new home.

Good luck couldn’t hurt.

In Memoriam - Sasha Finer

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Secondary School Short Story

Judge’s Comment This was the stand-out piece of the entire competition. In Memoriam is the story of a house, and the people who lived in it. In this story, the Taranaki setting was strong, but never overwhelming.

In Memoriam is a ‘portmanteau’ or ‘framing’ story. Portmanteaus are short stories tied together by an overarching theme. Famous examples are One Thousand and One Nights (The Arabian Nights) or The Canterbury Tales. It’s hard to write a portmanteau story, because you have to keep the overall narrative moving forward while making sure each mini-story is complete. The writer of In Memoriam has a real gift.

In Memoriam has an overarching story of a narrator mourning the removal of her house, and smaller excerpts from the lives of those who once lived in it. The characters in this story were well drawn; they all felt believable. They were succinctly described “his baby sister was a constant burden”. Each character changed, and their change helped to keep the pacing of the narrative.

The descriptive language was stunning: “The house was … sliced in half and torn from its roots.”

I loved the idea that a house could be both sliced and torn.

As an added bonus, In Memoriam was well-proofed and gloriously free from errors. I suggest reading the story aloud, as there’s a couple of sentences that I had to re-read to understand what was being said. But there’s not much I’d change in this piece – I thought it was beautifully written.

An interesting, touching story. Well done!

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In Memoriam - Sasha Finer

SILVER

Heather Phillips, Hawera High School, 2nd Prize

Secondary School Short Story

THE GAME

2nd Prize

My eyes glance up at the glorious mountain, it’s tip frosty with a blanket of pure white snow. My heart races as the cool Stratford air hugs my burning legs. I clench my hockey stick for dear life, touching it slightly on the ground as I wait for the piercing screech of the whistle to fill my numb ears.

The whistle screams into the field, my legs throw my body towards the small white ball as it moves across the field. I smack my stick against the ball, trying to free it from the grasp of the girl who beat me to the ball. No luck. The ball is already gone. My team cheers for me to chase the ball, which is very tempting, but I don’t listen. I sprint towards one of the open players, as i stand in front of her I watch the ball as it races towards my feet.

I lay my stick firmly against the ground, the ball trapping itself against my stick. A rush of adrenaline floods through my veins, my pulse getting faster. I stand up and start to move down the field, weaving my way in and out of players. I hear the muffled noise of the goalie of the opposing team screaming for her team to move faster, anger fuelling the fire in her voice as i sprint towards her.

I avert my attention to my teammates calling my name, awaiting the ball. Alice, my best friend, runs alongside me. “LINE!” She screams. I pass the ball to her then sprint down the field, turning to face her. She smacks the ball down towards me, moving faster than a jaguar chasing its pray. A tall girl with braided mahogany hair intercepts the ball five metres away from me. Boy, that makes me furious.

I yell at my team to move back and defend the goal. We all run backwards towards our goal, our eyes plastered on the ball and it’s beholder. I notice someone running towards my goal though.

“I’M OPEN!” The girl shrieks, waving her stick up high above her head.

The ball is flung up into the air, I run towards the girl who called for the ball and hold up my stick to receive it, I jump, big mistake.

The girl jumps higher than me and receives the ball, the grip of her stick jamming down into my temple. My knees become weak and i fall to the ground, my vision growing blurry, I begin to see double. My coach runs towards me, or should I say coaches, panic in her hazel eyes. “Are you okay?” She feels my forehead, I have no idea why, I got hit in the head, I don’t have a fever. My eyes begin to close as I over-think about why she felt my head, when I started to drift.

Judge’s Comment This piece had great energy. Setting the piece inside the drama of hockey really pushed the narrative forward. Again, the piece could have been improved by better proofing. Each character should start a new piece of dialogue on a new line, and descriptive phrases should be used carefully.

There’s a lot of sensory descriptions in this piece. Some are really good, like the screaming of the players.

The ending felt a little abrupt, but I really liked the way the writer kept the narrator puzzled by her coach’s reaction to what had happened to her. Using an ignorant narrator can really engage the reader, because the reader is trying to work out what’s happening. I don’t play hockey, but I totally felt like I was there in the game.

The Game - Heather Phillips

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BRONZE

Secondary School Short Story

THE GREAT WAR OF THE WATTIE’S BRAND

3rd Prize

Maddison Cossey, Hawera High School, 3rd Prize

The lights slowly shudder off as the manager locks the sensored door. The Grocer sounds hollow and cold. For a moment the Hawera Pak’n’Save is deadly silent. Until they wake up…

There is a faint, nearly silent sound that is almost misable. I hear the pitter patter of tiny feet running around down the aisle right beside me, and then I hear what sounds as two people having a debate. I walk closer, taking very tiny steps as if I had the tiniest feet in history. I look down the gloomy feeling isle, I cant see much just shadows and the darkness that fills the grocer. I can hear something on the opposite aisle russeling around and walks towards me. I feel a cold chill freeze my handsand its like pins stabbing into my skin.

The mysterious shadow creeps closer and closer. It emerges from the darkness. At first glance, I see his firey red face staring straight through me into the aisle directly behind me. It felt as though he was staring right into my soul. This mysterious creature is like a cylinder shape, it has writing on the front, I can only make out the first 4 letters S-P-A-G. This creature takes a deep breath in and starts to speak.

“I am the Great and Noble Spaghetti, I have fought many battles but it ends tonight. I have awakened every night and fought till dawn. But tonight….. I WILL BE VICTORIOUS!” his voice is deep and strange, it sends shivers down my spine. I muster up all of my courage eaten by the darkness and question in a tiny little mouse voice, “W-Who are you? Who are you fighting? Why? W-What are you fighting for? The other creature emerges, and the spaghetti lets out this growl sounding voice, “AH-HA! We meet once again you filthy low life. So you didn’t like the taste of defeat and come back for more?” bellowed the noble spaghetti.

“Defeat? Pffffttt! The only person you defeated was your mum!” Roared the mysterious creature hidden in the darkness. My teeth chatter from the frosty frozen food freezer section that is almost close enough to touch. But his voice drowns out my noisey jaw. “I am the Fabulous Baked Beans, you think your girly nature is any match for my skills,” The Baked Beans growled.

“Please! What skills?! Remarked the the spaghetti. Man! This ‘smack-talk’ is killing me!

There is a stabbing silence as the cans back into their own aisles, they are giving each other a death stare look. Then all of a sudden, the battle is on. The two stubborn cans back down the aisles and then charge! Running straight at each other at full speed. And then……

CRASH! The two cans collide. Each with multiple dents on their bodies. They run to their weapon area that is hidden from the groceries surrounding it.The spaghetti have long skinny swords, but the baked beans have massive bean grenade bombs.

The two are throwing long skinny spaghetti swords, and the baked bean bombsexploding and slicing toward the enemy sites. It’s a battlefield to them, but to me all it looks like is a food fight gone wrong.

The smart stringy spaghetti are charging to the enemies base on 6 boxes of iced animals, striding and galloping straight at the baked beans. But the spaghetti arent the only ones with tricks up their sleeves, the brainy beans have an alliance with Jasmine rice. The rice spills out onto the cold concrete floor, and scatters across it making themselves like a tidal wave wall protecting the baked beans and stopping the mounted spaghetti.

Suddenly the light flickers on. I look out the wall of glass and its light outside! It’s a mad dash for the food to get to their shelves, before the cleaner comes in and sees something extraordinary.

The floor is covered in the remains of the poor iced animals left to fend for themselves, the rice that is left over, spaghetti and the baked beans.

The sensored doors slide open. The poor unsuspecting cleaner. She glances and skins over all of the messy area. She probably thinks there has been a 7.6 magnitude earthquake because of how messy the floor is. Everything is back to normal…

Until that night!

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The Great War of the Wattie’s Brand - Maddison Cossey

Secondary School Short Story

Judge’s Comment This was a hilarious piece about conflict in the grocery department of the Hawera Pak’n’Save. This quirky story about Spaghetti fighting Baked Beans was totally unique! The energy in this piece was incredible – every paragraph had a rise and fall of action, and the narrative pacing was very well done.

I’d really like to see this piece as a stop-motion movie, I can just see the crazy cans battling it out on the floor of the supermarket. I thought this was the most entertaining story in the whole competition, and it really made me laugh.

The Great War of the Wattie’s Brand - Maddison Cossey

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Secondary School Poetry

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GOLD

1st Prize

UPRISING

Sasha Finer, Hawera High School, 1st Prize

We are You can blame us, tame us Constrain us.

We are smiling, silent, seen-and-not-heard We have steel beneath our skin.

objectified

Secondary School Poetry

We are You will not tell us What to be.

We will riot with books, and pens, and minds We will forge new paths and discover worlds.

inspired

We are You will not tell us What to say.

We will swear, protest, express our contempt We will fight when you try to silence us.

passionate

We are You will not tell us How to look.

We will rock body hair, cellulite, stretch marks We will flaunt what you shame us into hiding.

defiant

We are You will not tell us How to live.

We will burn bras and break glass We will emerge and rebel and

girls.

We will rise.

Judge’s Comment Initially I placed this piece last in the pile. This poem hardly bothered with imagery, personification, simile metaphor or any poetic devices that usually make a poem. Sometimes a writer’s need to be heard with the power of their vision, craft and voice gives the work real punch which is the case here. This is why ‘Uprising,’ rose to the top and won.

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Uprising - Sasha Finer

SILVER

EMBERS

Megan Jackson, St Mary’s Diocesan, 2nd Prize

2nd Prize

You just stare, stare and stare, watch the solid black, turn silk white, drift away with the breeze, dancing above the its own after party.

Strange how embers of such blackness, seem so soft and inviting, drawing you in and down into the depths of sleep.

Secondary School Poetry

A remnant of wood cracks, sends a shower of sparks, like fireworks joining the floating ash bringing you back to focus, awake and aware it’s okay though, you just relax and start again.

Watch the embers, eyelids droop, sight goes blurry, you’re lulled to sleep by the morepork singing his name, and cicadas taunting their whereabouts.

You feel weightless, then you’re back in bed.

Judge’s Comment The well crafted imagery helped create an exact visual image and sense of the journey the writer led me on, within the poem.

Embers - Megan Jackson

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BRONZE

DO YOU REMEMBER ME Megan Jackson, St Mary’s Diocesan, 3rd Prize

3rd Prize

Secondary School Poetry

I stood as you arrived, I stood as you left and still I stand.

Your memories carved, your paths worn, your anger stripped.

Each year I grow an inch, in a root, in a branch.

I stand tall and strong, in storms and heat.

I’m the twisty tree, leaning this way and that, a kink here and there, unique with each stick.

For little ones, with minds still growing, I’m the crikin’ crackin’ tree, Fun for a challenge with my ledges and knobs.

I’m found at the root of fond memories.

You moved on as all do and new adventurers come, To make memories like yours, made day after day, and still am I happy to be the witness.

And again, I’ll be the root of those fond memories.

Until you visit again, The crickin’ crackin’ tree.

Judge’s Comment This was a happy poem to read. The extended image of the tree and personification evoked pleasant memories in a skilful manner.

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Do You Remember Me - Megan Jackson

A COLD WINTER MORNING Denzel Adlam, Patea Area School, Highly Commended

C

om Hig m hly en de d

Secondary School Poetry

My bones still clicking into place.

The sun is starting to rise over the horizon.

The arctic type air pushing through my lungs.

“Boys this is it,” said with frost like breath leaving his mouth.

All the brothers heads down in silence, not a sound to be heard.

Matua breaks the silence with a deep breath.

We all look up hearing the slight whisper leave his mouth “This is it.”

He looks back at us a blood thirst in his gaze.

His teeth grinding together like a saw cutting metal.

His palms fully clenched, grabbing nothing but thin air.

With every brother ‘stripped’ up in their numbered jersey.

We take the leap from the locker rooms to the field.

Passing through the dark, gloomy corridor.

Our pupils struggle to focus with the light shining through.

Our minds set to the field.

We reach the end.

I feel a slight breeze across my body acting like the currents of the sea pulling me into the other direction.

I restrain as though my conscience is at one with the field.

Our boots pound into the thick mud.

Our bodies warming up for the game like a heater on a winter night.

The grass under our feet like thick layers of mud consuming the bottom of our sprigs as we run.

The sun shining down on us, we feel nothing but cold trapped in the freezer.

Our bodies shiver and move, but our minds stay still and solid.

Our hands so numb we cannot even feel the pressure from the ball as it passes through our hands one by one.

With the first blow of the whistle we all come in gathering around in a circle type shape “This is it” repeated in a blood thirsty type manner.

With every single brother wrapped around another we all come in for one last call “Tuturu whakamaua kia tina Tina Haumie hui e Taiki e” The sound of the whistle bursts into our ears.

A Cold Winter Morning - Denzel Adlam

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LIGHT IN THE DARK

Ashley Harrop, Opunake High School, Highly Commended

O great Mt Taranaki high and symbolic, Teach me to be strong and as unwavering as you.

I am lost; my entire being melancholicAs I sink intoDespair.

Secondary School Poetry

I want help, I need help, I build walls; to escape their words and sneers, They kick; I cry, they hit me; I yelpOver and over again-always feeding my deepest fearsAbout myself.

Wrong place or wrong time, it matters not to my heartI am dark.

If that is so; then so be it thenMy heart is blackened; my eyes hold no sparkNo life at all.

But- why won’t this person leave me alone?

In my prison without light.

Whispering words, “It will be alright” “You are gentle. You are kind” “Never-mind those people who are blind” “You are bright, you are the light, so my dearCome out into the light” I broke down thenCrying, Hot tears, warm hands.

I could breathe again, This person who understandsHas saved me from the dark.

O great Mt Taranaki high and symbolic, I am now as strong and as unwavering as you.

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Light in the Dark - Ashley Harrop

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MOUNTAIN MAN

Megan Jackson, St Mary’s Diocesan, Highly Commended

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Secondary School Poetry

His head the silken snow, His body the regions home, His size determined by time, His image common knowledge, His being our strength, His name debated, He is the Maunga of Taranaki

Mountain Man - Megan Jackson

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PEN HITS PAPER

Courtney Hatcher, St Mary’s Diocesan, Highly Commended

Secondary School Poetry

Pen hits paper A world is created.

By a flick or a scribble The magic begins.

Only what is on paper is in your wildest dreams to make you feel so free.

Where governments and people don’t dictate what is to be designed can only come from my pen.

Such a small world yet so big nothing can comprehend how Spectacular it is.

There are no words to describe my happiness.

When I write thousands of words come to mind.

Still none I can write let alone speak of it.

For those words are my own To create an original piece of art.

To which I call My own.

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Pen Hits Paper - Courtney Hatcher

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THE MOMENT SEEN

Megan Jackson, St Mary’s Diocesan, Highly Commended

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A streaming comet fly’s through the sky like a person swinging.

Passing by the stars, diamonds, the watchful eyes above.

Observing the bustling aging like white water hitting grey rocks.

Love left behind is a blanket of comfort.

Stitched with red thread like blood from the wound of grief.

Teardrops flow and freeze, frozen in time.

The moment of pain leaves an echo for life.

Secondary School Poetry

But comets pass, eyes blink, water flows, blankets washed, tears wiped and echo’s fade.

The Moment Seen - Megan Jackson

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A SAD FLOWER

Puaawai Meihana Eiffe, Opunake High School, Commended

She has been picked and not watered for so many years I could tell by the way she spoke She was a slave to her fears There was never a home for this broken flower And as time grew onwards The voices in her head became louder

Secondary School Poetry

She was poisoned to think that she was never beautiful By the evil that lay within the world’s soul So her smile never saw the sun And she mopes around, shoulders drooped down Oh what a sad flower she has become We can’t pick flowers and expect then not die We all know a sad flower Lets us water one Let her grow high

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A Sad Flower - Puaawai Meihana Eiffe

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AS IT WAS BEFORE

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Myah Kemsley, New Plymouth Girls’ High School, Commended

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Secondary School Poetry

Before it had been calm, the waves had lapped gently, caressing the shore with milk white foam.

Before the sand had been cool and firm, gentle on bare feet, damp with morning dew.

Before the breeze had run its hands through the branches of the blooming pohutukawa trees, weaving its slender fingers through their leaves.

Before the air had been crisp, like freshly washed bedsheets or the colour white.

Before it had been a place to think, to wonder.

A place to sit and close your eyes and listen to the song of the sea, the waves being broken against the rocks, the distant cry of a seagull, the tender touch of the breeze.

Before it had been a place of solitude and quiet, a place of calm.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it wasn’t.

Now there is chaos, the waves chase, grasping at the chubby legs of a toddler as their screams pierce the air.

The same air that is now thick and heavy with the heat of the afternoon, covering you like a wool blanket you can’t seem to kick off.

Now the sand grabs with burning palms, reaching long fingers between tired toes, scorching flesh.

Now the shoreline is covered by people, people everywhere, breaking what had once been a shawl of serenity.

Now, a woman clad in a periwinkle blue swimsuit shouts franticly after a bobbing head of strawberry blonde curls as it disappears over the dunes, her wide eyes flashing with panic.

Now, a man sits under a canary yellow sun umbrella spiked into the sand, sweat trickling down his furrowed brow. A tense smile is locked on his face as her tries to have the good time he promised his wife.

Now, a red- faced girl sprints down the beach towards the waves, hissing in pain at the burn of the sand, her tan legs stretching to reach the relief of the icy water.

Everything is wrong. So wrong.

This isn’t the place you remember; this isn’t that safe haven at all.

But there’s no need to worry.

When dawn broke the following morning everything would be back to how it should be.

Everything would be as it was, before.

At it was Before - Myah Kemsley

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CRIME SCENE

Courtney Hatcher, St Mary’s Diocesan, Commended

Secondary School Poetry

He lies on the ground Unable to move, unable to speak.

His world is switching off before him But he is not scared.

Blood drains away slowly, but quickly rips away his life.

The pain is too much to bare.

If the poor fellow knew he was shot he would cry.

Only if he were alone would he shed a tear.

He is brave.

The carpet went from a grey to a dark red.

Quietly another muffled voice is heard Even the pain is too much for her to bear with as well.

The only thing they feel now is the couple holding hands.

The Forensic photography snaps a photo Notes are scribbled down.

Young couple aged 16 and 17 gunned down dead while holding hands.

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Crime Scene - Courtney Hatcher

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EXHAUSTION

Georgia Sparks, Hawera High School, Commended

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i am tired. it’s not because I don’t sleep, eight hours a night and a bit of caffeine.

Secondary School Poetry

it’s more than that. something from deep within me under my skin, beneath the fibres of my being. i am exhausted. run down by life itself. its sound and its silence. the people in it, the emptiness of rooms. the brightness, and darkness. optimism, and pain. my being worn down, nothing can bring me back not the refreshment of sleep or the tonnes of coffee I consume. i am tired. nothing. nothing. nothing. can make me lively once more.

Exhaustion - Georgia Sparks

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GHOST IN THE SKIN

Stevee-Jai Kelly, Opunake High School, Commended

Palms sweaty, fists clenched knuckles are white Voice hoarse, my throat has been ripped, left jagged.

Why can’t she hear my scream? Why does she my plea not reach her?

I hate it.

Ears bleeding, hands are shaking and unsteady My head is pounding, thumping like an endless drumming beat.

Secondary School Poetry

Why are her screams so loud? Why does she not stop?

I hate it.

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Ghost in the Skin - Stevee-Jai Kelly

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Niall Clancy, Hawera High School, Commended

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Skiing all morning Surfing in the afternoon Place like no other

Secondary School Poetry

A unique culture Adventure on your doorstep Place like no other

Taranaki - Niall Clancy

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THE GREAT FIRE OF HAWERA Noah Hunt, Hawera High School, Commended

Secondary School Poetry

A kerosene lamp used to make light, “Fire, Fire” echoed through the night, The fire started fast, and with the wind it went, From shop to shop it bounced, marching on with great intent, With buildings all around, like kindling there they stood, Waiting for the fire, don’t be misunderstood, The bells they could be heard, as the brave men made their way, Towards the great red wall, and they hadn’t come to play, But as they turned the tap, to tame the wild beast, The water did not come the water it deceased, The men they had to wait, nothing they could do, To stop the town from burning, the beast it grew and grew, Two lives were lost that night, in August 1895, But all though two were gone, many still alive, The fire finally stopped, destruction all around, But many lessons learnt, the night fire came to town.

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The Great Fire of Hawera - Noah Hunt

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Open Short Story

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GOLD

UNION STREET

1st Prize

Emma Collins, Stratford, 1st Prize

The day after the Kaikoura earthquake the men from the council walked up Union Street, with their HighViz jackets and clipboards, and decided that the tatty old shell of the Central Hotel had to come down. They didn’t go inside. Bits of its concrete façade had fallen into the street. This part of Hawera was passed its use by date and had to go to make way for progress. Or another car park. The pigeons would just have to find somewhere else to have sex.

The absentee land owners were duly notified and the consent process was started. Christmas came and went and by the middle of winter the forms were at last filled in correctly and the contractors engaged. The landowners only wanted to save the wrought iron posts and lacework.

“Knock it down” they said Traffic cones and temporary barriers went around the derelict building and the digger arrived.

Then the trucks with “Asbestos removal” came and freaked out the people working at the WINZ office, next door to the Central. Nothing happened for a few more weeks until the extra paperwork had been completed.

The best view of the proceedings was from the Study Break café, where Tamzin was learning how to make a good coffee. There were short periods of action and long periods of nothing on the demolition site, but there was a hot young guy that was in charge of the Stop/Go sign outside the Café, so at least she had something interesting to look at. Most of the time there were groups of old dudes with beards and orange vests standing around smoking and talking and eating pies. The Café was doing a roaring trade.

Open Short Story

Tamzin listened in on the old dudes when she went down to the corner in the middle of town for a smoke.

“Yeah, some crowd from Auckland offered fifty k for two weeks to salvage the native timber from the floors and stuff, but the council says it has to come down within the agreed timeframe” said one “No time to get the consents” “I bet that old pub could tell some stories” said another.

But it wasn’t the old pub telling the stories. A crowd gathered, rather like the WINZ office on a Tuesday morning, when the digger finally started in on the Central.

“I remember…” was how they started, it was quite social watching the digger at work. Rather like Quinn’s Auction on a Thursday.

Tamzin was slightly disappointed when she realised there was to be no wrecking ball smashing it down, she had visions of posing like Miley. Instead the digger took well-mannered bites out of the old building and brought them down carefully to the waiting trucks. It wasn’t even that noisy.

The most popular table in the Café was the front one with the view of the old hotel coming down.

Tamzin listened to some of the conversations.

“Of course there was full employment in those days” one old tart was telling her friend

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Union Street - Emma Collins

“The Central was where the freezing workers from Walkers drank, and the factory workers from Kiwi. The Dominion was the teachers and trades men’s watering hole. The White Hart is still the same though” “Yes” agreed her mate” I remember when they pulled the Egmont down and built the bank on the corner. The Furlong was only new then, back in the 80’s” “And there was the Wine Bar on the Main Street” said the first woman “And the Home and Colonial back towards the park. Did you ever go on the Push Bike Pub Crawl?” she asked her friend “Oh yes! Starting at the Railway Pub at 9am, we were trolleyed by the second Normanby Pub. Those were the days” and they laughed “The Central had a band playing every weekend, the lounge bar was always packed” said the first woman “Happy days” she smiled Tamzin though the two old birds looked like they had never been young. Old Nanas, they have to be at least fifty. It was impossible to imagine them at her age, out on the town in Hawera on a Friday night. They would have been wearing retro, before it was even retro!

When Tamzin got her break she saw the young Stop/Go man sitting by himself next to the art gallery. She smiled at him and sat down and lit a cigarette.

“Can I borrow your light?” he said and moved over to her

Open Short Story

“Sure” she said “I’ve seen you” he told her “You work in that Café, don’t you?”

“That’s right” she answered “I’m study for my City and Guilds Level 3” “And you work for ABC don’t you?” It was written in big letters on his back.

They chatted for a bit then it was time to get back to work.

After that they kept bumping into each other on the corner. His name was Blake and he was going for his HT licence. The boss said he could start learning permitting next. Blake was saving up to buy a car. She told him about her plans to start her own café.

“My parents had their wedding reception in the Central” he told her the next day “They had a band on in the Lounge bar and spent their wedding night upstairs” he pointed them out to her “I’m going to save a bit of the fancy work for them as a souvenir” Together they listened to the conversations on the corner.

“That was the oldest standing pub in Hawera” One man said “Built in 1913. Ronald Hugh Morrieson used to drink there”

Union Street - Emma Collins

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“I think old Ronnie drank all over the place” his mate replied One of the funniest ones was between a couple of old Maori guys.

“Remember old Dougie Patu?” one asked the other “One afternoon, we’d just knocked off the early shift I think, Doug says to me” Wanna smoke?” and I said yeah and we go outside to this car. Just parked down there it was. Broad daylight. Union Street was busy too, lots of these shops were open then. So Doug sparks up this joint and I’m sitting in the back seat, Meathead Murphy in the front, you remember old Meathead? There were kids’ toys and stuff lying around and I says to Doug “Didn’t know you had kids Dougie?” and he says “I don’t” So I says “Well whose car is this then?” and he says “Dunno, it was just unlocked” The old Maori dudes laughed and laughed “Those were the days” one said “What ever happened to Dougie?”

“He died a few years ago, heart attack I think” his mate replied The digger worked its way through the remains of the old pub quickly. The wooden floors were kindling in no time. There were a few tense moments when the concrete wall next to WINZ came down. The staff had moved away from the side being worked on, but nothing fell on them.

Tamzin was slightly disappointed.

Blake started coming into the Café, and Tamzin elbowed the others aside to make him coffee, just the way he liked it, with extra marshmallows.

Open Short Story

Sometimes Tamzin wandered over to the security fence and chatted to Blake through the mesh.

She could have just stepped around it but Blake had told her that not even the boss’s wife was allowed in the demolition site for a look. When he wasn’t directing traffic and standing around he was pulling nails out of old chunks of timber the boss had stashed off to one side.

“Solid heart rimu, this is” he told her “The boss wants to make a table out of it. This would cost a fortune in the city” They took selfies together in the street, with the wreckage in the back ground.

“I wonder what Hawera is going to look like when we are old” Tamzin said to Blake Then one day there was nothing left except for an empty site. The Central Hotel had gone.

“What are you going to do now?” Tamzin asked Blake “Are you, like, going to move away?”

“Me? No!” he laughed “We’re just going down the street” and he pointed down Union Street “Those buildings on the end are coming down next, going to make way for the supermarket car park. After that the big old one on the corner of High Street is coming down too, going to be the library. I tell you, Hawera’s really the place to be. Lots is going to happen” “Wow” Tamzin tried not to sound too pleased “Sounds like you’re going to be really busy” she smiled

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Union Street - Emma Collins

“Never too busy for a good cup of coffee” and he smiled back Judge’s Comment This story made me laugh – it’s a wee stunner of a narrative. Listen to the beginning: “The day after the Kaikoura earthquake the men from the council walked up Union Street…” The reader knows straight away where and when the story is set. The main character, Tamzin, was totally authentic – I felt as though I was seeing the world through Tamzin’s eyes: “there was a hot young guy that was in charge of the Stop/Go sign.” Like Tamzin, I was disappointed that the concrete wall didn’t fall on the WINZ office!

I really enjoyed the teen vernacular; while some of the sentences felt awkward, they felt awkward because that’s how Tamzin would talk.

There were some enjoyable references to Ronald Hugh Morrieson in this text, and a number of the anecdotes were laugh-out-loud funny. I absolutely felt I was sitting in a café in South Taranaki listening to the locals.

Open Short Story

The dialogue was so fabulous that story flowed effortlessly. I very much enjoyed the interplay between old and new. I liked the way the author commented on the changes to the town through the point of view of the characters. This piece was all show and not tell and made for very effective story telling.

Union Street - Emma Collins

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SILVER

2nd Prize

HARRY RUST

Bruce Finer, Hawera, 2nd Prize

Harry leaned over the rail above the thundering river and wondered what hell was like. *** Despite a punishing headache, the week started promisingly enough. After months of planning, his latest property deal finally came together, all the tricky pieces assembled at last to make a satisfying whole. Basking smugly in the afterglow, it was hard to see how things could be much better. Now he just needed to get this medical stuff sorted. Time slowed frustratingly at the hospital, and his head ached alarmingly. Then while waiting for his scan results, he saw something in the receptionist’s eyes. Something like pity.

“He’ll see you now Mr. Rust,” she said, looking back to her screen quickly. Unnerved, he entered the white cave defenceless.

Six weeks to live. Two of them good ones, the specialist said.

“The thing is to stay positive, manage the discomfort, gather a good team around you. Are there family we can call?”

“No that’s okay - thanks - at least I know now. So that’s it.” Confused and apologising for his own sickness, he stumbled out into the day.

Open Short Story

He set his brandy down on the by the kitchen sink and rubbed his face, then shook his foggy head like a dog. His wealth, his house, all his precious things, now as pointless as high heels.

God, he hated that blokey radio jock’s forced laughter. He switched it off. The silence was worse.

He wished there was someone. Anyone. Christ, a pet even. How could he have lived such a shallow life? Cherished woman but have no partner, read but never written, listened but not played?

He’d hardly lived at all.

He needed a plan. Tossing his brandy down the drain he reached for a pen, his tumour-ridden brain alight. Now the end was in sight, it only took seconds to see what was most important.

The goodness on his list was flecked with darkness.

He’d been good at forgetting people. Not just forgetting about them, but sealing them off so they never bothered him again. No one liked a battler. It pained him now to think he might have been wrong.

There had been someone once. There’d been others of course, but no one like her.

Where was she now?

News of his illness spread out across the small town like a shadow, friendly faces now shuttered and turned. There was a certain freedom as he walked his lonely road, an unbridledness. A shakiness too, like he might come to pieces at any moment, and all the bits of him blow away in

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the wind like autumn leaves. Floating up and reattaching to the trees, as if he’d never been here at all, dust to dust, forgotten. All the good deeds he’d meant to do, his hopes of a stellar career, all stripped back over the years to driven capitalism. How much money did it take?

He headed to his lawyer to see what could be done.

“It’ll be my one good thing,” Harry said, “To put my mark on the world, to have left something that’s just a rough guess.” Passing across his crumpled bit of paper.

“Crikey.” His lawyer collected himself. “We’ll need to set up a trust for this.”

“Yeah, whatever – whatever it takes” “With a sum like this Mr Rust, you could almost rename the town,” he said, looking over his glasses and tapping his pen solemnly. “Your name should be around for a very long time.”

Out on the street the low winter sun plagued his eyes. A vengeful wind blew down off the mountain, numbing his brow and hardening his resolve. Once there’d been forgiveness, but now it was time to even the score. His one fall from grace had been the bottling of the Stratford clock tower, a bogan rite of passage that had changed his life forever. The broken shop window, the court appearance, the lingering shame. All because Troy Hunt dobbed him in. Troy Hunt, whose bottles didn’t miss.

A drink for old times’ sake seemed the best bet. He knew where to find him. Even at this hour.

Open Short Story

“Harry.”

“All right, Troy? – still propping up the bar I see.”

“Keeps me healthy. Better off than you I hear,” he said, brazenly sizing him up.

“Not dead just yet mate. What’ll you have?”

They’d never been friends.

He and Julie hadn’t stood a chance after the court appearance, not with her old man being the prosecuting officer. Troy had swooped in there, the mongrel. Hadn’t treated her that well either, from all accounts. Harry hadn’t seen him for a while, and was shocked by his bar-fly physique, his snowman body and spindly legs. Hard to imagine him playing mid-field for the Rangers now.

The small talk came easily in a guarded sort of way, the people, the parties, the glory days of the team. With the curse of small town familiarity neither could quite discount the other. They both knew too much. There were pauses, though. Silences when Harry’s head filled with dark thoughts.

“You ever hear from Julie?” he asked.

“Nah. She skipped town yonks ago. Couldn’t handle me having a good time aye.” His crooked smile bitter. “Never good enough for her – she always held a flame for you though.”

Harry sucked the head off his fresh beer and said nothing, the memory still too raw to make

Harry Rust - Bruce Finer

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sense of.

“Probably would have fallen into your arms if I hadn’t put her right. Told her you were a perv.”

“Thanks.”

“Good times though, aye. Remember that time we got caught throwing bottles at the clock tower? What a laugh.”

“How could I forget?”

“Yeah, the funny part was, that was actually my bottle that went through the takeaway window - I never did like that chink bastard. Everyone knew except you. Even Julie’s father in the end.”

When Harry failed to bite, Troy levered himself up off his worn bar stool and patted him on the shoulder - “all water under the bridge now though, aye.” He swaggered off across the sticky pub carpet to the Men’s.

Harry was seething. His head thumped dizzyingly. Spoilt his life and stolen his girl, the bastard, and he’d been too blind to see it. Now he’d probably outlive him by forty years. Throwing down another couple of codeine tablets, he looked across to Troy’s half-finished pint. He chucked a few in there too. That should quieten the mouthy bugger down. He fingered the laxatives in his pocket. Jesus he had it coming.

Open Short Story

After the court case, he’d soon learned that the cops were the biggest gang in town. Julie’s father had hounded him, pulling him over for breathalysing, warning him off every chance he got. It would have been easier to leave, but instead he’d dug in, kept his head down, and made himself forget.

He should have fought.

Rain splattered on the windows as the evening set in, bringing with it a few shabby looking regulars. They drifted into the empty bar with a kind of aimless wastefulness that Harry found hard to stomach.

“What say I buy us dinner up at the Empire?” He laid out the offer carefully as an angler might cast into a pool of trout.

“All fudge packers up there.”

“No, it’s changed hands now, gone upmarket. They do a real nice meal.”

“Too far. Too wet.” He stared vacantly at his beer.

“You old bugger, it’s just over the bridge. Rain’s stopped. Do you good to get out of this hole for a bit,” Harry urged, earning a dirty look from the barman.

Troy wavered.

“Scarcely the length of a soccer field. We’ll have some ports after, make a night of it. No point in

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taking my money to the grave.”

Troy’s eyes lit up at the prospect. He was a bludger from way back.

Briefly bewildered by the cool night air, neither of them were too steady. Harry’s balance had been off for days, and the pills had finally got to Troy. Puddles shone confusingly under the lights, a myriad of colours and shapes, soft drizzle blurring the edges. They reeled across the wide main road, messily dodging the blaring traffic with the luck of the chosen. Stumbling over the deep gutter, they regrouped in a shoddy sort of way, jostling each other and cursing the cold.

Making for the town bridge, Harry forged ahead. Just like old times. Stopping in the middle he savoured the roar of the river, waited for Troy. He had another go, more pressing this time.

“So, where would I find Julie if I had to?”

Troy lent on the rail panting, before eventually replying.

“You won’t,” he slurred. “Bitch got herself squashed in the Christchurch earthquake.” He spat over the rail. “Good job. Damaged goods anyway, needed the slap real regular that one. Still owed her one for leaving.”

The bottom dropped out of Harry’s bucket list and he felt a yawning emptiness. Why had he left it so late? Too late to help. Too late for anything. All the time in the world and he’d messed it up.

He floundered, casting about desperately to find a way forward. Troy leant over the rail, looking down into the blackness.

Open Short Story

Dangerous thing to do when you’re top heavy, lean over a bridge rail beside your enemy.

Cars stopped. Voices called out.

They probably won’t be naming the new hospice after me now.

Still, I’ll be remembered.

Harry leaned over the rail above the thundering river and wondered what hell was like.

Wondered if Troy was there yet.

Judge’s Comment This was probably one of the darkest pieces. It had a great opening line: “Harry leaned over the rail … and wondered what hell was like.”

It’s really hard to have the ending matching the beginning, but when it happens it frequently makes for a very good read. I found the circularity of this narrative was very satisfying. I loved the perspective of Harry, how he felt, and thought.

I really liked the way the writer left it up to the reader to figure out what happened at the bridge – that was a very effective heightening of tension. This was one of the most sparsely worded works. I could absolutely see RHM in this story.

Harry Rust - Bruce Finer

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BRONZE

THE WORLD’S BEST MOTHER Elizabeth Bridgeman, New Plymouth, 3rd Prize

3rd Prize

Feeling delighted with herself and a tad smug, Betsy added the last rose to the smallest of the iced cakes. There she had done it! A five-tier wedding cake for her daughter, all baked and decorated by herself, surely qualifying her as the world’s best mother. It was a triumph alright not to mention a major saving in expenditure. She snapped several pictures with her I-Pad and uploaded them to FaceBook to show off her creativity to her friends. Admiring comments of “Awesome” “Amazing” flooded back. She felt the reassurance of the praise seep through her like a fine whisky.

There was only one problem: how to transport the wedding cakes from her kitchen in rural Taranaki to the wedding venue in Vancouver. This was a project only the world’s best mother could accomplish. Besides, she had had no say in the wedding arrangements given the distance involved. Her daughter’s mother-in-law-to-be had handled that side. So Betsy only had the cake to shine with. She had already contacted the airline and found she could put the cakes in the overhead lockers as hand luggage and planned to inveigle those family members travelling with her to carry a cake each.

“Will the cakes pass customs or be stopped at the border?” she fretted aloud. She talked to her husband about it.

“The cakes are cooked so avoid the raw fruit and vegetable test, just seal the tins shut with tape so they are tamper proofed. The cakes don’t contain drugs stronger than brandy which isn’t banned. There are no metal parts inside to confuse the xray machines. What could go wrong?” he reassured her.

Open Short Story

She turned her mind to more immediate concerns. She hoped she had ensured the packaging was strong enough for the journey by investing in a set of vintage red cake tins she ordered online from Fishpond.com for $71.97 each including postage. She hadn’t told hubby how much of course. She felt pleased the tins were a good quality and should withstand the rigours of transporting the cakes half way around the world. The carry bags with shoulder strap she had made herself from curtain material she had hoarded for years. She needed to put some kind of packing around the cakes so they didn’t move about inside their containers. She had a large roll of cellophane which, cut into strips and crumpled, should hold the cakes firmly enough provided they were kept flat and the right side up. She counted the plastic columns she had bought to hold up the tiers, wrapped them in cling wrap and popped them in her suitcase so they wouldn’t be left behind.

Now, at last, she could concentrate on shopping for her mother-of-the-bride outfit. This was one item that would not be home-made. She desired to look impressive enough to complement the cakes. She reread the email from her daughter. The bridesmaids are to be dressed in electric blue so she was instructed to avoid blue — pity about that as it was her best colour. The groom’s mother was to wear gold so she must avoid that too. Black was also forbidden — so fashionable at present most of the guests would probably choose to wear it – as mother of the bride she had to stand out from the crowd. Betsy decided a trip to New Plymouth was her best bet for finding that special outfit. The cakes had taken so much of her time that there was now only a week to go, so she had best go tomorrow and pray the perfect outfit was just waiting for her there.

That night she had her first nightmare. She dreamed a perfect dress had been bought, the wedding party had met up from around New Zealand and successfully boarded the flight from

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Auckland, they arrived safely in Vancouver, the cakes had travelled well and flew through customs. The disaster which turned the dream into a nightmare was that her suitcase hadn’t been on the carousel. It had missed being unloaded from the domestic flight on the first leg of the long journey. It was now back in New Plymouth airport. She woke up at 3am sweating and crying out in frustration. She decided to guard against arriving with nothing to wear by buying a wheeled carry-on bag into which she would pack her nightie and undies, a spare dress, the cake columns, her wedding outfit and shoes. On top of her clothes, with the bag upright, she would put cake and take it out once in the plane. Although Betsy was contented that her idea had averted a potential catastrophe, she packed and repacked the bag in her mind so it took her hours to fall back to sleep.

The next day, Betsy drove accompanied by frequent yawns to New Plymouth. Her timing was impeccable. Her favourite dress shop had a half-price sale and the perfectly fitting pearly grey dress with a tailored jacket featuring silver lace. In Fitzroy, she bought silver court shoes and matching accessories. At Centre City she found a whole range of carry-on bags and spent an hour testing the cake tin in each to get the right sized bag. She returned home brimming with confidence. The world’s best mother was right on track.

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That night she woke again at 2am with another nightmare. This time, the airline wouldn’t allow her carry-on bag as it was too heavy. She was at the checkout and had to choose between taking the cake, the shoes or the dress. She couldn’t sleep after this and was up at dawn to weigh everything to ensure the packed bag was not over 7 kilograms. It was — the cake alone was three kilos so the decisions as to what to leave out took a while. Breakfast was late and, rushing now, she drove recklessly on the country road to get to her hair appointment on time.

After a three-hour pampering for a colour and style she relaxed. The head massage during the shampoo session was simply the most pleasurable antidote to stress one could find, Betsy thought. She moaned right out loud with pleasure as the assistant moved her fingers across her scalp. She returned home very delighted with her hair. She was going to look fabulous at the wedding.

The nightmare that night was of a plane crash. After landing on its belly with no wheels, the plane caught fire and she had to choose between her life or her hand luggage. The dilemma was too much. The journey, the wedding, the reception with her cakes teetering high on their columns all seemed like a parade of disasters waiting to happen.

“I’m the worst of mothers,” she wept to her husband that morning, anticipating the doom predicted in the dreams. From lack of sleep and anxiety she could no longer control, the world’s best mother became frazzled and wretched. Betsy no longer had an interest in being the world’s best at anything. In fact, she didn’t want to go to the wedding at all. Why did their daughter want to marry a Canadian? They hardly knew him except for a few words exchanged on Skype. She would be best to come home and marry a decent local boy, Betsy grumped to her husband who rolled his eyes.

“I know the solution,” he said, tongue-in-cheek, “we should simply cancel the trip and stay home!

We can watch the wedding video instead.”

“We can’t waste the tickets,” she admonished back, “And I have to get the cakes there somehow. You’ll just have to buck yourself up and go!”

Much to her surprise, all went perfectly, just as she had planned for so long. Acutely conscious

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of the possible mishaps, she was relieved as each stage of the journey passed without incident.

They arrived in good time for the wedding practice and the pre-nuptial dinner where she met all the new extended family. All were hospitable and kind. At the wedding reception the following day, her dress received compliments and she even won the accolades she had so coveted as the wedding cake tower was admired.

“You are wonderful to have done that all yourself!”

Betsy was wiser now and no longer revelled in the flattery.

“I don’t deserve praise at all, it was no trouble, just what any mother would do,” she demurred.

“Please everyone, please admire our beautiful daughter, the bride, and groom instead. This is their day!”

Judge’s Comment I loved the transformation of the main character in this story. It was one of the most ‘modern’ narratives, using Facebook and Skype, so I could relate! It was also very funny: “She felt the reassurance of the praise seep through her like a fine whisky”. Some of the dialogue tags seemed a bit wooden “she admonished back” so next time I’d suggest reading your writing aloud to better hear how it sounds.

I very much enjoyed the subtle commentary on the main character’s search for validation through external compliments, and how at the end of the piece she no longer needed this.

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The World’s Best Mother - Elizabeth Bridgeman

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THE SIGN

Maria Cunningham, Hawera, Highly Commended

om Hig m hly en de d

The sign is flickering. The numbers show pink, then purple, then pink again. The date, the time, the temperature. It distils the day into digits. I’m slouched against the leaner that looks out onto the street from the Royal Tavern. Its 2.53pm according the sign flashing outside the Church, but all I see is purple, pink, purple. The purple leopard on the Royal drew me here all those years ago. I was just four and had climbed out the car to investigate the friendly, thirsty leopard on the wall of what I now know is a dirty, dingy bar. Dad was distraught when he found me.

There’s no Dad to find me now.

I pull my beer close to savour it yeasty sour-sweet-bitter tang. It’s my third jug and I feel as if I’m only just getting started. Today, I want to drink an ocean. Drink here, drink alone and undisturbed. Just me and the street, with the friendly leopard drinking with me. I can feel it soak me like a sponge, until my brain is soggy, and then I will sleep and forget everything.

But now I have my benefit to drink, and drink it I will. Morose is me but not irresponsible. My rent and power went in today on automatic payment and my cupboards are filled with cans of jelly meat and two minute noodles. I do not intend for the cat or myself to starve to death. Who knows? I may even get work this week. The weather forecast is fine in a few days time and I can wield a lawnmower like nobody’s business. Edges are my speciality and I’m the only one who can do them well enough to satisfy our eighty-year old customers. I could man up and take the hassle of dealing with the Boss’ put downs. I could make the effort of getting up each day to earn less than I do lying down. I could do it, I know.

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Instead, I nestle back into the barstool and pour another glass. The smell of hops soothes and eases the irritation of the smack of stick against ball. The two young guys playing pool up the back are my only other company and far enough away that their low murmur doesn’t carry.

An irritation of High School kids bounce along the footpath so I slide back behind the defence of the window frame. Hah, forgot it was nearly 3pm! How glad they are to be out of their prison classrooms! How little do they know that friends, opportunities, learning… it all starts to dry up once you leave school. I remember myself at that age: cheeky but sullen, ambitious but lazy. I wonder what those kids would think of me now and I’m pleased the smeared glass conceals me.

Up the street comes a little fellow I know, my neighbour, over one house. His name ends with a z and features a couple of y’s. I can never remember it or get it right. He’s walking along purposefully, bag slung over one shoulder. It looks like he’s scanning the street for coins. I withdraw behind the many-fingered window but not before he sees me.

“Hi Peter! What are you doing?” he says, his face cracking into a great grin, so obviously pleased to see my familiar face.

The answer, ‘drinking’ forms in my throat so I mouth the air wordlessly.

“Oh, I see” he responds, anyway.

After a few vigorous nods in my direction, he says, “I’m going to around to the Star. Going to start delivering the paper on Thursdays. Might buy me a bike with the money!”

He hugs himself with excitement.

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“Oh” I say, “that’s good. But won’t you get tired with all that walking?”

“Not me!” he responds gleefully, “I walk all the time. I like it – you get to see things. And to meet friends…like you!”

He cracks one of his great grins, and heads off with a “See you!” in my direction.

I cup my hand around my glass. It’s gone warm but I don’t mind for once. I have things to do and I can’t sit here all day. I need to get to the supermarket while it’s still light.

Judge’s Comment This was a fantastic, tight little story, told from the perspective of a man in a bar. It stood out because the character transformation was so effectively written.

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The Sign - Maria Cunningham

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DUST

Stuart Greenhill, Stratford, Highly Commended

om Hig m hly en de d

That’s when he came home slurring and smiling and placed his boots together inside the backdoor. Moments later he’d skid into the kitchen on his woollen socks, hands smelling all soapy and pull Mum into his arms and waltz round and round, sometimes kissing her lips or smacking her bottom. Him tra-la-laing to ‘The Blue Danube’ as his head bobbed on a tight skin of alcohol. Her laughing, ‘Silly man! Silly man. What time do you call this? I’ll get your tea. I don’t know why you’re so silly!’

‘It’s all a game. It’s all a game.’ He tra-la-la waltzed. And we all thought, yes, it was all just a game.

Sometimes, if you were lucky, he would not stop dancing, just step across to where you and your two younger brothers stood and ask, ‘Excuse me Lucy, may I have this dance?’ And you always said, ‘Yes, yes, yes of course,’ and took his outstretched hand. If he was really, really, happy he’d lift you off your feet and spin fast, faster, fast until he fell against the ironing cupboard exhausted then wink and boast he was the best dancer, ever.

When you were eight, you often went into town with him. Mum insisted you had to dress up, even if it wasn’t a Friday. So you’d always wear your favourite red dress with white stripes and knee-high white socks with your polished buckled shoes. Even Dad had to scrub up tidy because all the farmers in the district went tidy to town.

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He drove fast once he’d tugged off his tie, fast, without a safety belt or regard for speed limits, fast as if he had to win a race to ‘somewhere’ other than the Stratford Supermarket. Terrified pukeko flapped and ran in a disarray of tutu bottoms blinking wild-eyed to the gravel roadside as fence posts zumped past your window. Sheep scattered away from the road, cows lifted their dozy eyes as though there was a thing they should do, right at the moment we passed but what, what? They did not know. Along the narrow roads seed-heads tapped the doors and plumes of dust chased behind. Cicadas clasped tighter to branch, trunk and post as you’d turn and look back at the billowing fists engulfing trees and hillsides, choking the sunlight mustard and coating cows and grass. When Dad stopped to talk to someone coming the other way or to check the letterbox at the end of the road, you never opened a window or door.

‘Not yet. Lass, wait for the dust.’

So you’d wait until the dust travelled past. Dad said, once it got stirred up all it wanted was to get back to the land. We would sit and watch it rush, then slow, then unclench itself in a bid to stretch through fences, into paddocks, swamps and to coat the river brown. Rainy days it looked as if it just sat in itself and puddled but according to Dad, potholes were evidence of ‘motivated particulate matter.’ At eight, you didn’t know what ‘motivated particulate matter’ meant but he explained.

‘Okay, so one day there’re no potholes and the next there are. Why do you think that is, Lucy?’

You shook your head, ‘No idea Dad.’ ‘Motivated dust. It takes every opportunity to escape a dead road.’ He turned and winked as though he was part of the plot to do just that, escape.

‘But why?’

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‘Roads are not …’ he paused, like he was searching for words for the first time to say something he had only thought. ‘…You should die on a road of your own making.’

Dust smelt out his car all year round, lived in the air-conditioning, settled in his sheep-skin car seat and layered, ‘clean me’ deep on vinyl and panel inside and out. It spent time on Dad, powdered his hair and the pores of his skin, coated his throat and the lids of his eyes and sat on his little finger after it had been in his ears. At the end of the day you would imagine the first cool mouthful of beer taking that dust, with a swallow to his very bones.

When you were fifteen, he’d come home and kick his boots off at the door, wash his hands, grime the sink and leave the towel on the floor. Mother growling, ‘You’re late! What excuse this time. Oh, that’s right you don’t care anymore!’ and ‘What example are you setting your kids with all this ‘boozing? It really is beyond me!!’

It was beyond all of us.

But Father didn’t explain. He just collected his dinner, pot-lid covered on lukewarm water and stomped, sullen and silent to his chair in front of the television. There he would chop, fork-stack and scrape food to his mouth with a forced propriety that sent three children to their rooms.

Sometimes you would stay after his dish had been cleared and watch his fists rub back and forth, back and forth on the arms of his chair as he stared into space.

You didn’t know why.

At eighteen, you helped feed out. You sat beside him on the tractor. Between opening and closing gates one morning, he muttered about high country sheep.

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‘Was that down south, Dad?’ ‘Yeah. When I worked Merino off high country peaks.’ The tractor suddenly accelerated back to the gate as he told you about making tracks across schist and scree to get the buggers down to the flats and eventually to the yards. The tractor bounced and bounded until his smile faded and we rolled to a halt at the gate.

‘I’ll see for myself, next year. I’ll do a roadie to the high country between semesters.’ Half teasing you fluffed his thinning hair. ‘I’ll email photos.’

‘Get-off.’ He flicked his hand above his head and caught yours and held it. ‘I wasn’t much older than you.’ His rueful smile betrayed a slight sorrow but you didn’t know why.

At night he would drop into his chair and still rub his fists back and forth across the cold sheen as he stared at the television. Back and forth scoring tobacco and gravel dust into the thinning fabric. Back and forth, across tea mug circles of chastisement.

At twenty four I returned from my OE, that’s when I began to understand. The landscape beyond the mountain’s ring plan had been slashed and burned, ploughed, tilled, post and battened and stitched into rectangles of green. It had been drained with culvert and pipe, grazed and fertilized until mountain stream and river turned green and that dull stagnation was matched by the beasts that lived in it. Paddocks were filled with bow-legged cows dragging bloated udders down gravelled races. In summer their heavy hooves kicked and cracked crusts of morning shit baked

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hard by the sun, as another green layer gushed and puddled in the afternoon. In winter entire farm races lifted and slid away, but not in a pothole way, not in a pothole way at all. And the cows, inbred to the point of gormlessness, swotted flies with their dirty tails, their heads drooped, ears twitched as their eyes stared across monotonous green.

During one visit Dad clicked on his safety belt and took me to his local. I watched other old hands swollen and stiff lift pints and jugs from table and bar as the sharp clack and dull thud of pool balls punctuated the unspoken comradeship. Men wearing swanndri, khaki and chequered shirts, men with the sun’s-glow trapped beneath fence-post faces, bald spots tufted with grey, old eyes crusted with sleep and yellow with age. Men with hairy ears and nostrils, grating bones and arthritic joints, men comforted by background sports commentaries on big screen TVs mounted above the TAB tot. Men that needed companionship to affirm the worth of what they did and stood for in their younger days. After a drink or two those men bailed me up to ensure I knew self-sacrifice wasn’t a distant second to modern judgements of merit and value. Watching Dad at the bar I realised his dreams were the colour of billowing dust, of silted stream and swollen rivers and were poured into his jug by a woman called Rona.

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Later we took our drinks to a leaner beside the pool table. Dad lost the race to bring me a stool. I noticed his name on the draw for pool, CHARLIE, printed and slotted on an elaborate wooden board hooked to the wall. The pool table had clearly defined boundaries with clear rules that produced clear winners, which Dad liked. And the losers all wanted to be winners and the winners wanted to stay winners. I imagined after a loss at pool there would always be another and another and another chance to win and I wondered whether the pub give him a short-fixedbelief he could escape the unfairness of life; when age stripped him of speed, when high country sheep had been replaced with cow dormant pastures and potholes never ceased to appear. No wonder he spent so much time here. The odds of winning improved dramatically when he could control the game, ‘where’ it was played and ‘how’.

In the carpark, behind the glow of his cigarette, I watched him adjust the rear-vision mirror to a time when he wore a cravat and flares, pointed black shoes and an Elvis collared shirt, when he drove fast in his Zephyr towards a future that ended the same night, when he had his horse and dogs down South and a girl in each island. It was amongst this maudlin narrative he surprised me by blurting out that ‘your Mum had dreams too.’

My brothers run the farm now. When I return home, I still find Dad in his chair at night, while Mum reads quietly beneath lamp light. Dad does not rub his hands along the arms, anymore.

Years of rubbing have worn the life of the fabric thin. Instead he thrums in unconscious impatience. I watch, knowing he has buried his hands through the fabric, stitched eight wires to a post, thrust them through the floorboards, deeper, deeper below the shingle packed foundations of the house. He turns and mutters ‘yes’ to a question no one asked. His hands clench the arm of the chair, he turns away, to stare at another island landscape where horses snorted icicles and frost fixed hooves to the tussock, where kea, their wings on fire, melted the early snow, and where his huntaway, snatched a head-bobbing bark out of the clear air.

Judge’s Comment This story stood out because of its beautiful ending. Dust is an ode to a parent, and it’s very well done. The reason this story wasn’t in the top three was the change in point of view. The story begins in the second person (always very hard to write) but half-way through moves to the first person. This felt very jarring, and I couldn’t understand why this was done. Perhaps it was

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because the earlier section is a memory and the “I” voice is set in the present day?

I very much liked the descriptions of the father’s hands rubbing on the chair arms. I thought this was really effective, especially how the chair became more worn with time.

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Dust - Stuart Greenhill

C

THE LILY

Pip Harrison, Hawera, Highly Commended

om Hig m hly en de d

The Lily - Pip Harrison

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The white water lily stood out starkly against the smooth greenness of its leaf and the pale brown grain of the coffin - beautiful in its simplicity.

They’d discussed what to put on the coffin. ‘Lots of flowers because she loved her garden.’ ‘A red rose because we loved her.’ ‘A photo of her - to remind everyone of how she used to be - before.’

But Mum had known what to choose. ‘No, we’ll make it a white water lily because that’s what Dad used to bring her - water lily plants for her pond at the old house.’

Poor thing, thought Jackie. It looks out of place cut off from its shady pool. But then Gran in a coffin was out of place too. Mind you, she hadn’t really been in place for several years now. Her body might have been with you, looking much the same as ever, but her mind had been wandering unreliably in past or present or somewhere altogether unreachable for quite some time. It had been strange coming back from living in the city to find her so. Mum had been down to see her while they’d lived away, of course. She’d arranged where Gran would live, when she couldn’t manage the old house any more. She’d had to sell the house and all the furniture that wouldn’t fit into their own townhouse. They’d all known it had been terrible - they’d seen it in Mum’s face. But to come back themselves and not be recognised - that had made it real to them.

The first few times they’d visited Gran in the rest home had been awful. It smelled funny - not like a real home at all - and you had to walk through rooms of bent, grey people, who looked at you as you walked by. The staff seemed unnaturally cheerful and talked in loud voices at people. When they got to Gran’s room, the few pieces of her own furniture that she’d brought with her looked out of place in their new setting. Jackie didn’t know what to say.

Mum looked as if she would cry sometimes. Other times, worse, she would get really irritable with Gran, when she asked the same question three times in a row or accused her of never coming to see her.

‘Gran can’t help it, Mum,’ Jackie said. ‘She’s not trying to annoy you.’

‘I know, I know. I almost wish she were. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me but it just gets on my nerves. We never were exactly on the same wavelength but now she’s on a different planet altogether.’

But I was, Jackie thought. I was on the same wavelength as Gran a lot when I was little. And she’d remembered back to all the time she’d spent in Gran’s garden. She thought of that small version of herself squatting in the warm sunshine and patting seeds into moist, dark soil, then waiting hopefully for beans and sunflowers.

The next time, she’d gone to visit by herself, taking pots and seeds, bulbs and potting mix. Sitting beside Gran in her room, she’d planted them up and talked to her about the old days.

‘Do you remember, Gran. Do you remember your garden with the caulis and the cabbages in among the marigolds? Do you remember how I used to come and dig beside you?’

But Gran’s eyes, blue as the sky of those remembered afternoons, had held no recollection.

‘Hello, Lilian,’ she’d said a moment later, surprised. ‘When did you come?’

‘Jackie, Gran - it’s Jackie,’ Jackie said with a sigh. (‘She must have been

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listening to your Grandad,’ Mum had said when Jackie told her about it later.

‘He wanted us to call you Lilian. Not after me, mind you. He said you had the face for it.’)

Those afternoons had seemed so vivid to Jackie, it’d been difficult to believe they were lost to Gran. Jackie had been regarded as an easy child in those days, pottering around in the garden or lying quietly with a book or a puzzle. Her older brother and sister had whizzed off to do this and that, her baby brother had kept himself and everyone else on the go but Jackie had happily pottered.

Nowadays, it seemed that the same behaviour was regarded with some suspicion. Why don’t you join a club or two, Jackie? Why don’t you go running with Dad, Jackie? What are you going to do with your life, Jackie? Are you still lying around reading, Jackie?

Why can’t you leave me alone, everybody? she thought and wondered if Gran would have understood.

After a while, Gran had lifted one of the pots on to her lap. Jackie watched the old, old hands: dry, creased skin, thinning to let the veins show through and covered in brown liver spots, sunken between the bones; knuckles that looked too big for the delicate structures in between. Gran rubbed the soil between her fingers and Jackie looked up to see what Gran was thinking but the old lady was gazing out of the window and giving away no secrets.

Even if it had made no connections for Gran, visiting had been better after that. The Matron had seen her busy with the plants and asked if Jackie would repot the home’s many plants, so then there had always been something to do, when she went to see Gran.

Usually she sat beside Gran in the sitting room, working on the plants and chatting away quietly. Sometimes, though, Gran would be having a sleep or wandering restlessly and Jackie would end up talking to one of the other old ladies.

‘Take after your gran, do you?’ a woman with a good-natured face and a keen eye had asked one day. ‘She always did have a lovely garden.’

‘I don’t know really,’ said Jackie. ‘I’ve only just started. Did you know her ... before, then?’

‘Yes - Elizabeth and I go back a long time - ever since our children were young. I always enjoyed going to her place - it was a real haven. That garden! She had such a way with flowers. I don’t know where her mind wanders these days but I hope it’s somewhere with flowers.’ And she’d sighed. ‘I miss her.’

Tears had sprung to Jackie’s eyes. She’d winked them away. ‘Me too,’ she’d said, though she hadn’t realised how much until this woman she didn’t even know had said it. ‘It’s strange missing her when she isn’t dead.’

And now she is, thought Jackie, as she sat in the front pew of the church with her family. And I do miss her, and I will, but maybe rather less painfully than when you’d been able to see her body but not reach her mind. That had been a reminder of so much lost: Gran herself - her quiet company and her approval of a small girl, the old house with its smell of baking and polish and its garden filled with bright colours and muted, warm spots and cool.

As they sang ‘All things bright and beautiful’, a favourite of Gran’s, Jackie felt a lump grow in her throat. I’m not ready, she thought. I’m not ready to say what I want to do with my life, where I want to go, what I feel strongly about. I

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The Lily - Pip Harrison

The Lily - Pip Harrison

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need my Gran. The tears trickled down her cheeks. She blotted them and tried to concentrate on the service.

‘Elizabeth May Tremaine was born in this town 79 years ago; in fact in the very house she lived in until quite recently,’ the vicar was saying. He sounded amazed that anyone should spend virtually their whole life in one town, let alone in the one house. Jackie bet they hadn’t said about Gran, ‘That one’s going places,’ as she’d heard them say approvingly of her own sister Clemmie. They didn’t say it about her either - a failing on her part, she’d always felt. But perhaps, if Gran hadn’t gone anywhere, literally or figuratively (as Miss Bartlett at school would say), perhaps it wasn’t such a necessary thing to do....

‘She was a woman, who knew how to be still, as well as how to do what needed doing. Much loved by her husband Neil and her daughter Lilian, her grandchildren and wider family, she was also a caring friend, who could be relied on to listen and to share both grief and joy. She didn’t take a very active part in community life, preferring to leave that to Neil and Lilian, whose involvement in civic affairs is legendary, but she was always there behind them providing the support they needed.’

Jackie wondered if Mum and Grandad had appreciated Gran being there behind them, or whether they’d liked people who ‘went places’ best. Mum had found Gran’s illness so hard: surely she must have appreciated her, even if she wasn’t on the ‘same wavelength’? Jackie hoped Grandad had. She could hardly remember Grandad, he’d died so long ago. It seemed strange that Gran had been married to him for forty-four years - an unimaginable length of time.

Jackie listened, as the vicar went on describing ‘Elizabeth’ - funny to think of Gran having a name; Jackie had thought so, when Mrs Thorpe had used it at the home - nice but funny. What the vicar was saying was all true but it seemed a bit removed from Gran in her floppy hat in the garden, or letting Jackie roll shortbread out on the bench. He hadn’t known her, of course, having come only in the time that Gran had been living in the home. No-one in the family had been game to do the eulogy, so they’d told him what Gran had been like. It had been ... enlightening to hear what other people remembered. Jackie felt the tears come again, as he spoke of the gentle person, who knew how to be still, who had been her grandfather’s wife, her mother’s mother, her grandmother.

After the last hymn, the family followed the coffin out to the hearse.

Jackie, aware of tears ready to spill over again at any moment, kept her eyes on the lily; she didn’t want to look at anyone. It was a beautiful flower. Mum had asked the new people at the house, if she could cut one specially. Jackie had gone with her and they’d walked round the pond together and chosen the best bloom they could reach. As Mum had lifted the flower to cut it, Jackie had seen the long rope of roots reaching down into the water drinking in the goodness from the pond and the rich earth beneath it. As she took one last long look at the flower, Jackie saw that the initial impression of simplicity was deceptive. A myriad of petals formed its perfect shape, each one overlapping the last, all curving slightly, as if to protect its core. And if you looked right into the flower, right at its heart there were yellow stamens of astonishing intensity and a blush of pink on the innermost petals.

I’ll look it up, when we get home, thought Jackie. I want to grow these too.

And so later, after everyone had gone and all the tea cups and bits of ground-in cake had been dealt with, she lifted from the shelf Gran’s best-loved

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gardening book, the one Mum had kept as a memento. She looked up ‘water lilies’ in the index and then found that the book opened easily, perhaps gratefully, to a page of coloured photographs. There were several different sorts of lily, each labelled with its name but it was easy to pick the one that had been Gran’s favourite, the one Grandad had brought to her for her garden.

Jackie looked at the caption and the meaning came to her as a whisper of promise.

It read, ‘Serenity’.

Judge’s Comment This is a beautiful, touching story, and the South Taranaki setting was particularly strong.

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The Lily - Pip Harrison

Open Poetry

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GOLD

WEST COAST WRITER Stuart Greenhill, Stratford, 1st Prize

1st Prize

Sea beaten, sand ground, five feathers found, two half buried, two flotsam tangled, one quivered, nib deep, inkwell black.

I levelled a gaze at part of a wing that wrote on the wind, conducted a storm, waltzed as reflections on a deadly grey sea.

What is this seaside quill to me?

What language does it write?

None I’d understand. How is instinct written?

What is beyond death, life, love and land?

What does the wind whisper?

What does a sea’s fist hold?

What continents dust their histories on sea mist?

The answers are far beyond poetry and land, spilt ink black beneath my hand Feather vanned, a sun-dial found.

I tremble, my driftwood words mark sounds no one will hear, leave symbols no one will read, ‘til silent sands claim them 5 feathers high.

Judge’s Comment The questions the poem asks aptly couched in fine imagery with a selective quill combined with what the poet had to say in a wonderfully poetic way. For instance, “I levelled a gaze at part of a wing that wrote on the wind.”

Open Poetry 50

West Coast Writer - Stuart Greenhill

SILVER

MOKAU RIVER (WINDING RIVER)

2nd Prize

Stuart Greenhill, Stratford, 2nd Prize

After she had gone, the old man stopped drinking at his local.

No sympathies nor reminders at another, where he waited, for amber or winter or both, to kill or comfort grief.

Regret was a whiskey water possie down Awakau Road, Where bushed hills drizzled with cloud And wild stock pig pocked mud flats.

Where riverside paddocks coffined bleached bones And swollen river tore mouthfuls from its banks.

Where bloated carcasses piggy-backed gulls to the sea And slips scarred hillsides and wearied river brown.

Where his rusted caravan squatted flat-tyred high on the riverside bank, And whiskey wound memory back to clean rapid and run.

Net and screen suited him, secured to a stand, Jutting two planks out from the mud-side bank.

Swandry or yellow hooded in PVC, he sat on a beer crate Watching time rise and fall, muttering over his smouldering butt, ‘Tides pass twice a day, life just once.’

Mornings unmasked death, cobwebbed to wire and twig.

Mornings fog-spun his booze breath into webbed words spoken and silent words he could not change.

Morning’s splintered frosted grief, knew Whiskey’s shriven head heard no man’s apology, Just as Mokau heard none from rain.

Open Poetry

Judge’s Comment The understated pathos in this poem and aspects of existence we find hard to accept and have difficulty in expressing while reflecting on life’s deeper meaning were well portrayed by the writer.

Mokau River (Winding River) - Stuart Greenhill

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BRONZE

SECRET LITTLE PARADISE Anya Darling, Sacred Heart Girls’ College, 3rd Prize

3rd Prize

The autumn breeze shrouds itself around me The magnificent trees whisper Their arms raised to the sky Worshiping The canopy A myriad of green Leaves dance through the air twirling and leaping Like feathers they land Silent Calm washes through me A wave of peace I remember All of my visits Swinging from trees with my sister Laying in the luscious grass with grins pasted on our faces It is our secret little paradise Delicate fronds of fern unfurl themselves Stretching their tendrils like snakes Small droplets of water trickle soundlessly down the mossy bank pooling in glistening puddles Wisps of white are weaved through the sky The scent of the Manuka heavily perfumes the air A drug to the bees alluring them The grass is rough and shaggy Shaking its uncombed hair Waving like spectators in a stadium and rustling in the short breaths of wind Mist clings to the retreating darkness Crawling away from the torturous rays of sunlight that sweep the valley I watch The birds rouse themselves from their cozy nests Singing their melodious morning song All from the safety of my special place Judge’s Comment It was refreshing to read a happy poem. The poetry was well crafted with pleasingly simple eloquence yet not simplistic. It was the overall imagery that took me on a shared journey to the writer’s secret paradise.

Open Poetry 52

Secret Little Paradise - Anya Darling

MEDITATION IN THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD Janet Hunt, Inglewood, Highly Commended

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om Hig m hly en de d

Concrete makes cold stiff bedclothes but it was the best the townsfolk had to assure immortal life: see the lines where they set boxing — the better to hold them in It was what they did with their dead the infants, the aged, and all between tragically taken and so far from Home: mourned then but now so long gone, that those who swore remembrance — are themselves forgot Alas, when they built the tombs one-by-one down the hill they used no reinforcing and anyway nothing lasts: names like promises surrender to lichen and the years; coffins and corpses decay concrete splits, headstones lean and fall away — holes gape like mouths And now to crown it all, a commune of brown and black rabbits has found new digs: they thrive in ready-made dens the odd femur, hip or skull no more a curb on bunny heaven — than tree roots.

Open Poetry

As I approach in early morning a buck thumps up a spray of dew to warn his grazing tribe: they scatter down concrete portals vanish to warm, bony dark — no housing crisis here

Meditation in the Country Churchyard - Janet Hunt

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FORGOTTEN SHORTCUT

Nell Brown, Sacred Heart Girls’ College, Highly Commended

A river of ochre clay Tumbles down the battered track Where insects scamper at every turn Frightened citizens of a dystopian world Clambering back to the safety of their homes The air is still Stagnant Above a pergola of trees spans the yawning gap of sky Streams of light pour through the canopy Lending a glossy luster to the foliage around A rich spicy aroma seeps from the crackled forest floor Heat encompasses the knotted shrubs Giving way to the cacophonous sounds of late summer Cicadas Crickets Each calling Making their demanding pleas heard But soon winter will come Bringing its misty cloak The path will pool with mud The trees will be dampened and green The insects replaced with squirming grubs The whole track will be waiting Waiting Until the earth turns on its axis And summer rules again

Open Poetry 54

Forgotten Shortcut - Nell Brown

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om Hig m hly en de d

Research Article A Profile Piece

Photo Credit: Rob Tucker

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GOLD

OUT OF SIGHT, BUT NOT OUT OF MIND

1st Prize

Yani Remoto, Hawera High School, 1st Prize

Imagine being eighteen. You now have the free will and independence to decide what to do with your life, being offered privileges that were only available to adults. However, you are inexperienced and unaware of the larger world, still having a few more years of your youth left to be introduced to adulthood. Well, at this raw age fresh from high school, Trevor Powell had to grow up fast. The year Trevor turned eighteen was the same year World War II started.

Trevor Joseph Powell, the child of Catherine and George Powell, was born in Ngaere, Taranaki on May 15th, 1921. He and his siblings – George, Bernard, Lyn and Pat – lived in a farmhouse with their parents. At a young age, Trevor has already been volunteering to help the local community, as he and his siblings helped make cocoa for children in cold winter mornings. He attended St. Patricks College in Silverstream, where he was taught by the nuns’ proper singing techniques, so earlier on, music was already a part of his life.

As we all know, early 1940’s was the time where countries had a huge demand for young men eligible to fight in World War II. During his time in the war, Trevor experienced challenges and unimaginable realities which strengthened his faith and relationship with God, as his faith was a form of sanctuary throughout this difficult time of his life. In one instance, he was grazed on the temple and shot on his left shoulder during a battle. It was in this near-death experience where he saw a figure of light, believing it was God, saying along the lines of: “If I survive this, I will devote my life in service to you.” Trevor kept his unwavering faith in God, and never ceased to fulfil his promise. He then became a Warrant Officer and trained troops for a few years. Back in their base camp, Trevor played the piano for entertainment, briefly enlightening the mood for him and his comrades during this time of difficulties.

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Research Article - Profile Piece

Nearing the end of the war, Trevor was captured and sent to a German prisoner of war camp.

From there, he was forced to take part of “The March” with thousands of other prisoners of war.

“The March” is what survivors labelled the horrible trek they were forced to endure, from German prisoner of war camps, to distant places all throughout Europe during the cold winter months.

These marches were created to delay the release of prisoners as Germany was already losing at this point. I can only imagine what horrors Trevor and everyone else experienced, as they stayed in their wet gear, malnourished and mistreated, walking through what would have seemed like a never-ending journey. His unwavering Faith is what gave him strength, courage and hope throughout this time of difficulties.

After the war, Trevor was invited to become a concert pianist. Instead, he decided to work on the farm with his brother Pat. Even after everything he went through, Trevor did not carry a heavy heart, but rather kept a sense of joy and happiness around him. In fact, it was because of his experiences in war, and his strong relationship with God, that helped Trevor appreciate life, staying humble and knowing that life is too short to not live in the moment.

On the 1st of December 1951, Trevor married the love of his life, Ruth. Together, they lived in their farmhouse, welcoming nine children over the course of eleven years. Another gift of life meant the house became bigger, as Trevor added rooms for his children, expanding the house to fit the family of eleven. Trevor was a family man, forming good relationships with his children,

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Out of Sight, But not out of Mind - Yani Remoto

grandchildren and greatgrandchildren. He taught them many things – useful skills, morals and values –and it was said that at any time anywhere, Trevor could teach you something new.

He lived in a different world which immensely changed over the course of his life, having lived for nearly a century. Like most elderlies, Trevor adapted to this new age; a foreign era, full of scientific breakthroughs and inventions that would have never been thought to be possible back when he was young. But, rather than succumb to the stereotype of which old people are foreigners to modern lifestyle, he embraced it. He kept up to date with newfound technology; surfing the internet, text messaging on his mobile phone, taking a selfie; he even taught himself how to use the computer at the age of 70! Trevor was eager to learn how things worked in modern society, and took it upon himself to learn these technological inventions, knowing how to hone these newfound skills to his benefit.

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Research Article - Profile Piece

Trevor dedicated a large amount of his late years engaging with St. Joseph’s Parish in Hawera, right up to the age of 97-years-old. He served God mostly through music as he played the organ, organised hymns for masses, and even used a music app to write hymns and psalms, publishing three psalm books that the parish now uses.

Trevor particularly loved writing psalms, as he said it was the chance for us to respond to God and feel closer to Him. He not only heavily involved himself at church, but also encouraged other musicians. He once had a choir and a guitar P5 group formed for masses, adding that sense of liveliness for the congregation to join in on. You may think that the energy invested in these activities would be too much for someone at that age, but you see, Trevor was still eligible to drive himself around, was still playing golf deep into his 90’s, and you would always see him with a smile on his face.

This year, Trevor mentored two new pianists to play the organ for masses, me being one of them. It was in these few months where I saw the compassion and generosity he had towards others. He never expected anything back, but did this out of the goodness of his heart and devotion to God. He was very welcoming and supportive, patiently teaching me and attending the masses that I played in during Sunday mornings. He helped me see the depth and importance of the hymns and psalms sung at church, something that I overlooked in previous years. But still, his mentoring went beyond church-related duties. He P6 gave me tips on how having a musical ability can give me an advantage, telling me that by playing the piano, it exercises my brain and allows me to improve my analytical and logical thinking as it uses different parts of the brain at once, which could allow me to thrive academically. Little does he know, I already knew most of the extra tips he said, but the intention behind it is what makes them more vivid and more meaningful in my mind. Trevor and I have no relation whatsoever, but still, he wanted what was best for me.

Out of Sight, But not out of Mind - Yani Remoto

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Trevor passed away on the 4th of June 2017. But still, he lives on. He lives on through the legacies he left. He lives on through his children, grandchildren and even his great grandchildren. He lives on through the people whose hearts he has touched, inspiring each and every one of them to stay true to their morals and values. It is deeply honouring to have been able to know Trevor Powell, a local hero.

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Credits:

Funeral Pamphlet: Me: Connie Remoto:

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Research Article - Profile Piece

Judge’s Comment Pulled the reader into a journey and kept them engaged until the end. Glimpses into important personal moments helped establish a depth of character and understanding of Trevor’s approach to life. The inclusion of the writer’s personal experiences with Trevor helped the reader “hear” who this kind, loving man was.

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Out of Sight, But not out of Mind - Yani Remoto

SILVER

TRANSITION

Hope Baker, St Mary’s Diocesan, 2nd Prize

2nd Prize

Growing up in Eltham, he always knew this is how he wanted to be. Even though he didn’t want it to happen it did anyway.

Since Luke* was eight, he always knew he wanted to change from female to male. All through childhood he thought he was a boy, then realised he wasn’t once puberty hit, but he never really thought much of it as he was only young.

By the time he started high school the realisation that he was actually female caused him to become depressed. He explained it as “everything sucked and I didn’t want to do anything” which is where he felt like he had to do something about it. It wasn’t really until Year 11 (form 5) that he actually decided to come out and tell his mum. “I was sitting on the couch with Mum, then I built up the courage to tell her. We cried and then decided to do something about it.” But because he was attending an all-girls school he had to finish the year, then start the process.

Research Article - Profile Piece

At this time Luke was seeing a counsellor for his depression, who he then told about the changes he wanted to make after coming out to his mum. His counsellor took him to see an Endocrinologist who then diagnosed him with GD (Gender Dysphoria). The Endocrinologist sent him to a woman who did basic health checks on him and made sure he didn’t have a high risk of getting cancer from the injections. Once he had signed paperwork to confirm he started his injections which all happened in 2015.

Even though Luke has no regrets on his change there were a few negatives that came out of this experience. His injections happen every three weeks but they are painful and that pain lasts for about a week after it’s done. This affects his daily routines: walking, work life etc. Having these injections also gives him a high risk of getting breast and vaginal cancer but he has accepted these consequences as he is a lot happier and carefree now. Another negative now is that if someone finds out he is transgender he often gets referred to as ‘that transgender person’ which he hates and therefore doesn’t like many people knowing. His family at the time also weren’t very supportive to begin with. His father didn’t talk to him for pretty much a whole year and if he did it would be in an aggressive way. His mother wouldn’t sign the paper work and always said things like “you don’t have to do it” and “you can always go back” etc. Luke said that “I felt guilty for putting my family through it”.

But besides the negatives there are positives with this experience such as being a lot happier now having has more confidence within himself. Luke also found out who his real friends were and still are because of his change and how they reacted to him coming out. He also loves how supportive his family is and how they still see him as a family member rather than cutting him off because of his decision. His sisters, best friend, and boyfriend have been his biggest supporter’s throughout. They have helped him through thick and thin, would never tell him that he could go back or that this is all a big mistake like others did. One of his sisters was always Luke’s shoulder to cry on, the other would give Luke food if she knew he wasn’t eating. His best friend and boyfriend would reassure him when he has lost confidence or has moments of when he thinks he’s not good enough. Luke describes his boyfriend as his ‘biggest rock’. He also gets support from a Facebook group called NZTG (New Zealand Trans Group) where they all give each other advice and give each other items such as binders.

Living in New Zealand Luke doesn’t think that New Zealanders are quite ready for this type of thing. He believes heaps of people do support and will help out but in public transgenders are

Transition - Hope Baker

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still frowned upon. He says “I’d like to think New Zealand is this big amazing place where you can be happy with who you are but I don’t think they can be comfortable being themselves.”

Another thing is that New Zealand does not fund for the surgery required. There is currently a 72 year waiting list so Luke is going to Melbourne next year to talk to the doctors and get things ready for the chest surgery.

His advice to others is that if you don’t know do not listen to others advice but rather listen to your head and heart. “Think about the world in your head and imagine you are the only one.

What would your decision be?”

His last piece of advice is don’t forget to “be happy and smile like a b****”. *Luke is not his real name as he did not want to be identified.

Judge’s Comment Extremely personal story that could have only been told after establishing a trusting and genuine relationship.

Research Article - Profile Piece

After reading this I have a better understanding of the toll, joys and everything in between of trying to come to terms with being born in the wrong body.

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Transition - Hope Baker

BRONZE

A LONG WAY FROM TIPPERARY TO LEPPERTON

3rd Prize

Nell Brown, Sacred Heart Girls’ College, 3rd Prize

For Irish born Mary Shepherd, moving to New Zealand was a big turning point in her life. After living in Zambia with her husband, John for several years, political tension made it dangerous to stay, and it was clear that a new place of residence was to be sought out. Canada and Australia were considered but, as Johns parents had recently moved here, New Zealand was the obvious choice. When in New Zealand John applied for several jobs throughout the country, and, although urged to live in Auckland they chose Taranaki due to better job opportunities, and Mary is pleased that she and John did.

Research Article - Profile Piece

“I’m a country girl at heart” says Mary, glad that they choose to settle down in such a beautiful rural community, similar to the one that she grew up in in Tipperary, Ireland. After having moved into Lepperton, Mary promptly began to become familiar with the small town and its surrounding farming community. She went with John to local dances, met the neighbours and Mary became apart of the Saint Joseph’s Credits: Sarah Shepherd Waitara parish, her Catholic faith always having been an important part of Mary’s life. Mary got a job at Taranaki Base Hospital as a community midwife. This job enabled her to travel around the region assisting new-born babies and their mothers, while developing a network of friends throughout Taranaki. “I love my work and I love my involvement with community” Mary says, fortunate that she found a way to combine the two.

At first becoming accustomed to our unique habits was no easy task. Once, soon after moving into Lepperton, Mary and John were invited to a potluck dinner and asked to bring a plate.

Having no idea that this meant bring some food to share, Mary decided that the dinner hosts were short on utensils and brought several plates. Once familiar with the community some serious fun could start to be had. One summer when the grass was being harvested, Mary and John went with the locals and stuck a pair of pants and some gumboots out of a haybale to make it look as though someone had been caught in the machinery. It caused quite a fuss at the time and made it to the newspapers.

Forty six years later and Mary [now retired], is still actively part of the community. As Mary loves the arts, music festivals are held at the back of the farm. There are also occasional lounge performances by local and passing artists, all of which Mary enjoys hosting. Mary uses her wide range of skills and hobbies to help out throughout the community, these include gardening, baking, knitting and sewing whenever it is needed.

Mary also helps as teacher support at Saint John Bosco primary and is now known throughout the school by kids and teachers alike as “Nana Mary”. Although having lived in New Zealand for a long time now, when Ireland bet the All Blacks in November 2016, Mary decided that it called for celebration. This resulted in champagne being brought in for a celebratory staff morning tea, despite that the rest of the staff were avid All Blacks supporters.

For thirty years now Mary and john have been part of the Lepperonies, a group of couples of a similar age group, who aim for an outdoor adventure a year to explore our spectacular environment, to socialize and enjoy themselves. They get together for Friday fish and chip night to share ideas, opinions and food. Mary’s says that it has been great having these close

A long way from Tipperary to Lepperton - Nell Brown

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relationships with such a diverse group of people, from different backgrounds, to help support each other throughout their time in New Zealand.

One of Mary’s most important roles in the community currently, is helping foreigners, particularly Irish, settle in and put down roots in Waitara and Lepperton, as she and John did many years ago. “I am just so thankful that John and I were welcomed by the locals” Mary says, hoping to make newcomers feel the same way. After all, Taranaki’s welcoming community, amazing landscape and vibrant culture is a winning combination.

When asked what community means to her, Mary says “it’s vital”. Without the support given to Mary by the groups of friends and family in Taranaki, the process of getting accustomed to a new, country, place and way of life would be near impossible. To prove the effectiveness of getting involved with the community and having fun, Mary says “I feel more Kiwi now than Irish.”

Sources

Research Article - Profile Piece

Mary Shepherd John Shepherd http://www.encyclopedia.com/caregiving/dictionaries https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2016/nov/05/ireland-new-zealand-rugby-union http://www. dictionary.com/browse Judge’s Comment A very relatable piece about one woman’s very personal journey from Irish immigrant to becoming Kiwi. Used humour and history well and finishes with a small flourish.

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A long way from Tipperary to Lepperton - Nell Brown

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Since 1987, we have invited students and later anyone from South Taranaki and the wider Taranaki community to participate in our annual writing competition. The Awards honour the work of Ronald Hugh Morrieson who was a novelist and short story writer in Hawera whose work was adapted for film in later years.

Students from South Taranaki are invited to write short stories and poems for the Secondary School Category. An open section was added eight years ago to allow residents and ratepayers from the wider Taranaki region to participate.

This year a new section was added for Secondary School students to cover non-fiction writing. Entries were limited to five per person for the Poetry and Short Story Category. Only one entry per person was accepted for the Research Category.

Foreword Judges

Mayor Ross Dunlop

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Rachel Stedman Apirana Taylor

Matt Rilkoff

ISSN 2537-6705 (Print) ISSN 2537-6713 (Online)