Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards Finalist Booklet 2019

RONALD HUGH MORRIESON LITERARY AWARDS

2019 FINALIST STORIES

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 design by Rachael Harris Book design and typesetting by South Taranaki District Council, Hāwera Printed by South Taranaki District Council Published by South Taranaki District Council 2019.

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FINALIST STORIES

TABLE OF CONTENTS FOREWORD

Mayor Phil Nixon............................................................................ 6

JUDGE’S GENERAL COMMENTS

Dame Fiona Kidman....................................................................... 7 James Brown.................................................................................. 8 Matt Rilkoff..................................................................................... 9

SECONDARY SCHOOL - SHORT STORY

First place / Ghosts Sasha Finer / Hāwera High School.................................... 11 Second place / Unfocused lenses Madeline Symes / Ōpunakē High School.......................... 13 Third Place / The View Sam Landers / Hāwera High School.................................. 16 Highly Commended / Starry Beach Maddison Cossey / Hāwera High School.......................... 18 Highly Commended / Going Gone Ben Smythe / Hāwera High School................................... 19

SECONDARY SCHOOL - POETRY

First place / Escapism Sasha Finer / Hāwera High School.................................... 22 Second place / Decomposition Sasha Finer / Hāwera High School.................................... 23 Third Place / The Beach Maddison Cossey / Hāwera High School.......................... 24

SECONDARY SCHOOL - RESEARCH ARTICLE

First Place / 2050: The shifting sands of Taranaki Ethan Griffiths / Spotswood College................................. 26 Second Place / Back to the future Emma Hughes / Taranaki Diocesan School....................... 29 Third Place / We knew Kaylen Hojdelewicz / Taranaki Diocesan School............... 31

OPEN SECTION - SHORT STORY

First place / The Little One Pip Harrison / Hāwera...................................................... 34 Second place / Visiting the Doctor James O’Sullivan / New Plymouth.................................... 37 Third Place / Black Sand Mikaela Nyman / New Plymouth..................................... 41 Highly Commended / Banks’s Holiday Park Bruce Finer / Hāwera........................................................ 44

OPEN SECTION - POETRY

First place / Another Parable on the Way of All Flesh Ken Crawford / Waitara.................................................... 49 Second place / Red Balloon Alyx Devlin / Eltham......................................................... 50 Third Place / Bitch, please Alyx Devlin / Eltham......................................................... 51 Highly Commended / Now, it is winter Melissa Browne / Oākura................................................. 52 Highly Commended / Parihaka Janine Mullin / Waitara.................................................... 53 Highly Commended / Rain Melissa Browne / Oākura................................................. 54 Highly Commended / First Departure Pip Harrison / Hāwera...................................................... 55 Commended / Femisphere Michaela Stoneman / Pātea............................................. 56 Commended / Close Encounters of the Third Kind Alyx Devlin / Eltham......................................................... 57 Commended / Grafted Pip Harrison / Hāwera...................................................... 58 Commended / Boy Maria Cunningham / New Plymouth................................ 59 Commended / Before Sunrise Nell Brown / Sacred Heart Girls’ New Plymouth.............. 60 Commended / Glass Stories Melissa Browne / Oākura................................................. 61

FOREWORD PHIL NIXON

MAYOR OF SOUTH TARANAKI The Ronald Hugh Morrieson awards are a very important part of the South Taranaki Literary calendar.

predicted, “one of those buggers who got recognised after he died”.

Ronald Hugh Morrieson was a true product of Hāwera and South Taranaki. Apart from a short time living in Auckland, he spent his whole life in our district. This makes him unique and different from many other New Zealand writers. He was an indigenous author of this area. His stories are moulded from the life he lived in our District.

There are so many talented and creative people in our community, I congratulate all of you. It is great to see entries continuing to increase indicating how valuable this local competition is. Many entries are first timers so that is good for the ongoing future of the competition.

Locals who knew Ronald have some interesting opinions of the man and he certainly did not go unnoticed in this community. Unfortunately, his fame did not get noticed more widely until he passed away and he was, as he

Congratulations to all who have submitted an entry for the Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards this year, I am sure that Ronald would be very proud to know that he has inspired so many to participate in the wonderful art of story writing.

Comment from the former Mayor - Ross Dunlop Over the last 12 years as Mayor I have really enjoyed being involved in these awards. There have been many changes and improvements. I would particularly like to thank Council staff member, Pam Jones, for her dedication and commitment to making these awards such a success. I wish the awards all the very best for the future and I’m sure that the new Mayor Phil Nixon and the Council will continue to support the awards.

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JUDGE’S COMMENTS DAME FIONA KIDMAN

SHORT STORY - SECONDARY SCHOOL AND OPEN It has been a great pleasure to judge this year’s literary awards and, in the process, learn more about Taranaki. I was born in Hāwera but left there as an infant. Returning to the province very many years later has been an opportunity to explore my birthplace in person and through the work of its many writers. I commend the aim of the Awards organisers in focusing on Taranaki as a setting, although some of the best stories could have taken place there, or anywhere in New Zealand.

I loved themes of the natural world which ran like a melody throughout the entries. There were stories about whitebaiting, eeling, the beaches, hawks, farm life and, overall, the signal presence of the beautiful mountain, giving a sense of the vitality and life forces of the area. I found also stories that reflected small town communities and the secrets, stoicism, and tragedies that beset them, as well as the friendships, endurance and love of place that exists in all of them. I liked sudden surprising information such as discovering a statue of Peter Snell in Ōpunakē. Hāwera featured in several stories and I was intrigued by the number of rascally attempts to deface the water tower that emerged.

Grandparents featured strongly in many stories and these heartened me, reflecting as they do the importance of older people and their positive role in society. There were a number of stories about grief, death and self harm. It takes courage to write stories like these and I thank the writers for sharing them and some

of the difficult truths they expressed. More than one touched me deeply. If I found a disappointing gap in my expectations it was stories that reflected the vibrant art world of Taranaki; only one or two touched on the arts (though perhaps the story of the statue counts).

So what of the quality of the stories I judged? There were a few startlingly good ones that hurtled their way into my ‘yes’ pile as soon as I read them. A number had good qualities but for one reason or another didn’t quite make it. The two thousand word limit offers wonderful possibilities for the writer seeking to make a short to the point impact (often based on character), but equally it can be limiting. Several stories tried to cover too much territory, too great a time frame, and introduce too many characters within those limitations of space. Every now and then I found myself thinking that there was a great novel lurking in what I had just read, rather than a short story. I found, too, a good number of anecdotes that felt like personal stories and were in their way interesting, but not shapely enough to meet what I was looking for in terms of craft.

In the end, the three winners of the Senior section jostled for position. All three of them caught my attention as potential winners. I read and re-read them over the final days of judging, listening to their voices, thinking about what was memorable, until the order declared itself.

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JUDGE’S COMMENTS JAMES BROWN

POETRY - SECONDARY SCHOOL AND OPEN It was a pleasure and a privilege to read the poems. I got a strong sense of the Taranaki climate (seemingly often cold and wet) and rugged landscape – wild black-sand beaches, muddy paddocks, and the magnificent yet brooding presence of the mountain standing like a (frequently invisible) sentinel. Many people wrote about their ties to the area, and it was heartening to see some grappling with our difficult legacy of colonisation. Some people bared their souls, especially in the secondary schools section.

However, heartfelt emotions and desperate confessions do not automatically make good poetry. Heavy subjects often require a lightness of touch.

It probably won’t surprise anyone that the most common subjects were relationships, nature, family, unhappiness, and concern at the state of the world. The Secondary Schools Section was more dominated by gloom than the Open Section. Poetry is a great outlet for sadness and despair. If there’s something to be gleaned from comparing the two sections, it’s that however hard the teenage years are, it seems life does get better.

What people wrote about, however, was less important to me than how they wrote about it. The most common form was the free-verse lyric. A few people wrote in regular rhyme and rhythm, which is hard to pull off, though some rhyming couplets really dazzled me. Many poems were purely descriptive. Being able to describe something – be it a physical thing or an emotional state – originally (without over-writing) is certainly an important part of poetry. But don’t forget narrative. Readers love it when stuff happens.

Poetry, despite its cute cotton-socks image, is a tough art form.

A bung line can sink an otherwise serviceable poem. In many poems I could see a better one inside trying to find its way out. Sometimes I think people forget a poem is actually a work of art rather than just a vehicle for expressing personal truth.

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This perhaps prevents them from hearing where their poem is and isn’t working because speaking their truth overwhelms everything, particularly the poem’s music, craft, and imaginative possibilities. Sometimes it can be useful to imagine your poem as a sculpture, even though it’s made mostly of sound. What would it look like? Do the sounds and rhythms of its language and its line-breaks and shape all work together?

It’s odd how when readers encounter an ‘I’ in a poem they assume it to be the poet (whereas novelists are considered creators of characters and fiction). My advice would be to not always write from your own point-of-view. Because isn’t that one of the great things about art – that it helps us to imagine what it might be like to be somebody else? Maybe write toward something you only half know about or don’t know about at all.

Yes, that’s the complete opposite of the ‘write what you know’ adage. Try writing in different forms. Surprise yourself and you’ll surprise the reader. Don’t worry – it’ll still be your poem and you’ll still be in it somewhere because it’s almost impossible to erase yourself from your writing!

One final thing occurred to me reading the entries. How many people actually read contemporary poetry? It’s a window worth looking through. Sharing poems with friends and reading past poets is great, but don’t stop there. The annual online anthology Best New Zealand Poems is an easy place to start.

After numerous re-readings, I ended up with a number of poems I liked, and I’ve tried to acknowledge that by including Highly Commended and Commended. The poems that impressed me most displayed a control of language and found something extraordinary in the everyday. They observed more than they explained or preached. No matter how serious their subjects, they still had room for humour or levity.

JUDGE’S COMMENTS MATT RILKOFF

RESEARCH ARTICLE It is common to believe the future is out of our control. A time which is both unknowable and yet inevitable and of which we are not responsible.

But the research articles submitted this year demonstrate our relationship with the future cannot be so removed. We must understand the future is the one kind of time over which we have the greatest control and the greatest responsibility.

We are morally obligated to imagine a better future and start work now to make sure that future becomes real.

Change dominated this year’s entries. The need to change how humans interact with their environment or risk losing everything.

Flying and driverless cars, new farm technologies and new social constructs, are discussed not in terms of making our life more fantastical but in terms of reducing our burden on the planet, its flora and its fauna.

Cows eating seaweed is not so they can produce more milk, but so they will produce less methane. The rise of veganism is not because of taste but to reduce animal and environmental suffering. Growing vegetables in the back garden is not to save money but to slow down, appreciate life and in doing so notice the beauty inherent in it.

The future is ours to control. We are not victims of it. This year’s entries do not shy away from that responsibility and in that awareness there is great hope.

And hope is what will make it all possible.

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SECONDARY SCHOOL SHORT STORY CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE GHOSTS

SASHA FINER

HĀWERA HIGH SCHOOL It was the summer me and Evie turned 12 that we discovered the world was full of ghosts.

The mistake most people made with ghosts, we figured (in our worldly, 12-year-old way), was they couldn’t look past what they’d been told. When people think ‘ghost,’ they think of what they know. They think Halloween; white sheets; hauntings and the other side. If you asked Mum, a ghost was the sound of footsteps on the wooden floorboards of her old house in Eltham. Gran would tell you a ghost was the presence of her grandfather she’d felt at the foot of her bed as a young girl, a little unsettling with an air of apology.

Me and Evie knew better.

Like most kids raised on a farm, we’d grown up with death as a constant. A ghost, we knew, was a feeling, a boundless aching of nothing in your chest that stretched both outwards and inwards. Evie always said it felt like someone had reached right into her heart and stretched out what they found there, an invisible rubber band. I thought it was more like an inflating balloon under my sternum, a swelling of pressure, empty and full at once. The tension didn’t hurt, exactly - but it’s never a nice feeling, waiting for the bursting, the recoil you know is coming.

If you asked me now, I might describe a ghost as an emotion that - if you didn’t know better - you could mistake for mourning.

Ghosts, we soon found, were everywhere. You could find them in all the obvious places, of course – the unseeing eyes of a dead calf; the white glare of an arching ribcage half-submerged in the swamp; the desiccated remains of a hare suspended from a fence wire - and some of the less obvious places, too. Me and Evie found ghosts in the fractured shell of a hollow egg, the damp filigree of a skeleton leaf, the amber bleed of sap from a tree stump.

Ghosts were everywhere, and there was a thrill in discovering them. It became a competition that summer, an allencompassing game, to find the best ghosts. Evie was the first to discover that ghosts could be found in more than the dead and dying; we found ghosts in the derelict woolshed that had originally been the district hall, in the empty rooms of the abandoned house up the road. The curtains hanging, still and dusty, over vacant windows – there was a ghost to be found in that, as well.

I could name you a thousand different places to find ghosts. Felled pines, stretched branches-first down a gully. The forlorn stillness of a museum. The yellow gaze of a hawk perched on a fencepost. Peeling wallpaper. A lonely gate leaned up against a rotting shed. The flap of tattered fabric in a gust of wind. Me and Evie discovered all these and more in one boundless summer.

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Once we’d moved on from the deserted house, the old dairy factory became our favourite haunt. Half the roof gone, like a gutted animal, it was a treasure trove of ghosts. Old cheese hoops and rusted milk cans, metal crates and glass milk bottles. The concrete floor splitting, yielding up masses of weeds. We collected each of the ghosts we found, placing them in careful rows under the massive pohutukawa tree.

There was something ghost-like in the pohutukawa, the way its red-fringed branches stretched over to shelter the ruin, but in many ways it was the opposite of a ghost. A steady, solid presence, it was alive in the exactly the way ghosts weren’t. Evie loved to climb, a fearlessness in the movement of her limbs; always reaching a little higher, a little further. She was the opposite of a ghost, too.

We should’ve known better, me and Evie, than to tempt fate like that. The swollen stillness of the ghosts crowded at the foot of the tree should’ve warned us.

Concrete floors make for an unforgiving landing.

I don’t go looking for ghosts now. I don’t have to, when they seem to follow me wherever I go. We called this feeling a ghost, me and Evie, but I wonder now if we were just trying to find a gentler name for grief.

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SECOND PLACE UNFOCUSED LENSES MADELINE SYMES ŌPUNAKĒ HIGH SCHOOL

My Nana Mary is the most interesting person I have ever met. Her eyes are even more intriguing. One eye socket holds the same material you would expect your wine glasses in your china cabinet to be. The other is so grey and overcast, it no longer looks like an eye at all, but more like a frosty car window on a cold winter morning. Yet with these eyes she has seen so much in her 82 years of life. She is a V.I.P, my Nana.

She sees her 5 children and her many grandchildren, imprinted in her memory by voice, seen crystal clear even through the cloudy lenses. She sees them but not often enough. We are the few left in our family that always wants to go visit her. My mother, her youngest visits her frequently while the other 4 of her children reside themselves in other countries, or hide away; unfortunately I have a feeling it’s the latter. They always seem to “forget” to call but Nana doesn’t seem to mind. She mutters, “I’m sure they are just busy” whenever they come up in conversation.

She sees me, one of her grandchildren. The bright one, the nice one. The one she will sometimes call when no one else answers her number anymore, knowing I always take time out of my day to listen. The ‘shining light’ of the Litchwark family she calls me. I have dreams of being a doctor and she is one of the few that believes I can do it. “I know for a fact that every grandmother would want a million grandchildren like you.” She always states to me with a certain amount of pride, knowing that I belong to her. We have long talks about the world we live in and I am currently the only person she has ever met that can change her mind in an argument. Whenever my family go to visit them I am always the one that gets “stuck” with her, people in our family considering her as a burden, an annoyance but I don’t mind. I have an overwhelming amount of empathy for my Nana that I have for no one else in this living world. She speaks of her life like a war recollection, her voice filled with cracks as she relives the eerie, confusing times. Her voice sounds like an old storyteller that has repeated the same stories too many times, almost like she plays it over and over in her head to describe it just right. Her words make you invision the life the way she does.

She watches with sadness her husband, Kevin, who is slowly getting sicker by the day, and who is now a frequent visitor of the Mountain Medical, more specifically the oncologist ward. He never manages to lose his sense of humour though, no matter how dreadful things get. He receives a smack everytime he asks the nurses and doctors to call him Sir not Kevin. He could not be more polar opposite to my nana if he tried. He is witty, always cracking jokes and doesn’t have a single angry vein coursing through his body. My grandad is also the type of gentlemen to ask you to repeat what you said after he adjusts his hearing aid. My Nana on the other hand is stubborn, independent and will always continue on the conversation until she is the winner of it. The only thing that is a similarity between them is that they have been given the names of hear no evil, see no evil. That’s why they match. My Grandad has

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been her anchor for the last 56 years of their marriage, being the captain of their shaky ship, guiding them through the unsteady seas of life and doing everything that she hasn’t been able to do for the last 40 years which is almost everything. I know the ships going to get a whole lot shaker when it loses its captain.

She sits in her chair, the most worn piece of furniture I have ever seen. The sides where she rests her hands firmly for hours on end, has rubbed off the leather exposing the grey vinyl underneath. The cushion where she sits is sunken in so much it gives her chair a belly button. We have always offered to get her a new chair but she curtly declines, never wanting to give up her beloved lazy boy. I guess what’s the point in giving another chair the same treatment. She sits, motionless like a queen perched on her throne, listening to her peasants talk around her and just watches the world go by. There is no real reason for her to leave her chair so she just sits and sits and listens to the world moving around her.

She sees the conflict and all the events that are happening in the world. Always quoting “What is the world coming to these days?! This mumbo jumbo never happened in my day” with a grumble. The TV always blares at extreme levels, like an auctioneer yelling to a room full of hopeful buyers except in my Nana’s case, it isn’t a room full of buyers but merely one old lady sitting in an over worn chair, glued to the news. The loud voices talk to her through the screen, showing how each day the world seems to change, making it harder and harder to keep up. The world is moving at too rapid of a pace that my Nana can’t see and hear it all but she manages to find out everything she can.

She hears the radio that is always on in her house, either on the music or news frequencies so she never misses a thing. You always know when Nana’s home. You can hear her music from the end of the cul de sac. That could be among many of the reasons why my grandad is deaf, one of the others being made to put up with Nanas nagging for 56 years. Music notes following each other along in the melody, and strung together chords sing and dance through the open windows and pulsate through the walls of their home far too often. The type of music she listens to, cannot be described as one definitive genre, whether it be old, new, classical or pop. You name it, you bet your bottom dollar my Nana has listened to that song before. She has the song knowledge of a musical teacher that has listened to all these songs for years, yet my Nana has listened to all of them in one old chair. She never sings or dances along to any of the music she plays. She just sits there, in her beloved chair with her eyes closed firmly, motionless. I know she enjoys the way the music makes her feel though. It transports her to different places without having to actually move. She processes music the way I have seen no one else, feeling every single word, making them all have a feel of importance and need. Sometimes when it is just her and I in the house with the music shaken walls, I just sit and listen too.

She is possibly the biggest Labour Party supporter I have ever met. If you ever bring up anything to do with National be prepared for an argument that will always result in an order to shut up, a slightly blunt order at that. “Don’t you damn well dare bring up National in this household. How many times do I have to tell you, all of those blimmin’ National politicians sleep crooked in their beds at night. Jacinda Ardern is the new shining light for this country Madaline, mark my words.” She has stated this matter-of-factly to me on too many occasions to count. I believe someone is yet to tell her that all politicians are somewhat crooked, including her precious Jacinda.

She feels all eyes on her. In public, with our arms linked I guide her through the maze of eyes focused on her. To everyone ignorant and oblivious around her she is known as the local lady with the strange eyes that needs help wherever she goes. Everyone who walks past her has a sly glance hoping to not be seen as curious, but to me, someone that knows my Nana just considers it pure rude. She says she doesn’t notice the onlookers gase but you can feel a stare piercing your skin from a mile off. A single pair of eyes show so many emotions they wish they didn’t when they look at my Nana. Confusion, Sympathy, but the biggest emotion they all show, is the relief that it isn’t them in her situation. To them she is a vip. I wish they could see she is so much more. That is most likely why she doesn’t venture out of the house much, at home she has no one to judge her for something she can’t control.

She hears how people talk differently around her. They talk to her like she can’t understand, like she is stupid. My Nana is not stupid, although she does have a strong right elbow I wish she used on more people. They tread so lightly with their words around her, seeming to be nice, but it just sounds like they are trying to mollycoddle her. She notices even when she says she doesn’t. I wish she didn’t have to.

The harsh truth is though, my Nana can see none of these things. She sees them without eyes. She is a VIP, my Nana.

Not an important person but a vision impaired person.

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What she really sees is indescribable darkness. Not pitch black but a kind that is slightly gray, fussy and unfocused.

The kind of darkness where you know your so close to seeing the world you love, if only there was a focus button on your lenses. She sees shadows with voices that have no distinguishable features. Sometimes she can’t see that at all either. Images that her eyes see that never make it to her brain leaving her staring into the ominous abyss that is staring back at her. The distant voices that talk to her through the darkness. Having to assume who is talking to her when. Guessing their position in the room to be looking in their direction to make them think she is actually holding eye contact in the conversation.

She knows the routine she has to stick to otherwise she would not know where she is. She follows the same process everyday. Waking up to the world that was how she left it the night before, dark . Following the walls to the lounge and sitting in her chair until Kevin wakes up to make breakfast and help her properly start the day. There houses closest resemblance to anything else is possibly a small box. It is better that way. In the house with very few corners, she always mildly knows where she is. Total blindness can do that to you. You know where you are but not really.

It gives you the feeling of being lost when you haven’t even moved a step. She lightly runs her fingertips along the length of the walls, like she is trying to brush her hands along a flame trying not to burn her hands. The walls telling her it’s a dead end. She muttering to herself in frustration until she finds where she needs to go. The hardest part is remembering the way you went to get back. I couldn’t even begin to imagine having to rely on touch to live my life.

She sees the tears she cries when the realisation hits. The tears that she doesn’t think anyone else sees. The tears that get bottled up and hidden inside until they all explode out like a pot beginning to overflow. I see them falling swiftly down her wrinkled cheeks, unable to stop sometimes. Not very often though, She is too strong of a woman to sit and sulk and let her disease sadden her. She always told me as a child as soon as she heard a sniffle escape me “Think of all the good things in your life before you think about the bad, If the good outweighs the bad then the tears will slow.” I feel wrong that I see her cry sometimes, knowing that it’s all her pain that no one else will ever even begin to understand. When you can no longer see the world the way you did 40 years ago and not see the faces of your loved ones you crave to see it must get too much sometimes.

She can’t see me with her own two eyes and never will. She will never get to see how now I stand above her short stature, being considered tall in our short family. She will never see my face, the face that out of anyone in my family has a slight resemblance to hers. She will never see how when I say goodbye to her, the tears I wish I didn’t cry fall thick and fast and don’t stop until I can no longer see anymore. She will never see the fear I have everytime I’m around her that I will get the same disease she has. With her unfocused lenses, my nana will never get to really see me as the person I am. I guess that’s the saddest part. She is a VIP, my Nana. I don’t see her as a vision impaired person though, she is a very important person to me.

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THIRD PLACE THE VIEW SAM LANDERS

HĀWERA HIGH SCHOOL

This will always be home. That view will always be ‘the view’. The best view. From the wall-to-ceiling lounge windows, looking north, there was no better sight.

For the country boy from Kaupokonui, coming home to the farm always felt right. This is despite going off to university, and now living and ‘plying his trade’ in the bustling city of Wellington. He had grown up a lot since those early days. A stunning wife, two brilliant and energetic young boys and a golden retriever to call his own. However, the further up State Highways 1, 3 and 45 Ben Lansdowne got, more childhood memories fluttered into his mind.

Ben had the build of the typical country bloke. He was of average height, 5ft 11” at a guess. Fit and sturdy too, like the old man’s tractor, which just keeps chipping on. With his scraggy blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, you could see his country side showing. Typical attire of shorts and a t-shirt, with a pair of flip-flops to top it off.

It was a crispy February morning, waking up in the childhood bedroom of his old home, reminiscing on his high school days a decade ago where this type of early morning was just routine. This time though, it wasn’t. Being a fairly new climber, Ben gazed through the window towards his first real mission. The scree on the eastern slopes of Mt Taranaki glistened with the early morning moonlight, the luscious native forest like a skirt beneath. He was off. Today, Ben was climbing to the summit.

Ben had climbed a few smaller peaks before, but this was his maiden quest for the summit he had lived under for so long. As his journey began from the Dawson Falls Visitor Centre on the southern slopes, he made his way up through the dense forest, listening to the native birdsong, whilst gazing upwards towards the goal ahead. All of a sudden his gaze upwards became a glance downwards as he stumbled upon something. “That’s weird”, Ben muttered to himself.

A lone hiking boot, worn and battered, stood on the track amongst the bush, but no-one else was in sight.

After some quick contemplation, Ben picked up the boot, which with a bit of manoeuvring in his hand turned out to be a right-footed one. Something however was inscribed on the heel. It read “Rory G McDermott, RIP 12-7-1993”. A sudden realisation came to Ben’s mind, of all the people who have attempted to tackle this symmetrical, stand-alone, 2518m apex, but died in their efforts. This being just one of the long list of victims caught by this sacred Maunga over the years. **** Rory was sitting up against a rock, tired, as the light snow started dotting the surface around him. He had climbed the mountain numerous times, but never in the cold, snappy July conditions as it was, and especially not alone. He stood up and trudged on, with the low cloud severely limiting visibility in the area, and the slightly damp gravel track

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under foot made his walk treacherous, and unfortunately deadly. Whilst rounding a left-hand bend over a steep gully in the native forest, his inside, left foot started slipping. The bend had captured a couple of lives before in similar conditions, and as he fell to his death, became yet another victim. His right boot during the fall, had been caught by an overhanging branch, leaving it to stand alone at the top. When his remains were found by Search and Rescue, his family agreed to leave his boot on the track as a reminder to others attempting the climb. So on the track lay a lone hiking boot. **** Ben carried on through the native forest, until he reached the perimeter of the national park, where it was instead replaced with alpine scrub and occasional tundra, located amongst the mass of scoria and scree. He had now escaped the protection of the forest, where the morning temperatures increased slightly, as the sun shone and the wind was nothing but a gentle breath. Perfect climbing conditions. After a solid hour of climbing, Ben again glanced up to see something shiny in the distance, and this time, it wasn’t the glistening of past years winter ice and snow. It became more apparent the closer he got. It had a metallic look. How strange it was to have something of the sort at this altitude. Especially that of a rusted aeroplane propeller. It looked ancient, probably 1950’s or earlier. It had been battered severely by the harsh climate. **** The date was May 11th 1938. The fog and low cloud was settling in around the mountain, and the whole of Taranaki.

The 10-seater flight from Wellington to New Plymouth was however, still going ahead as planned, despite the conditions. Due to regulations, the experienced pilot, John Daly, was required to fly at 7000ft, amongst the clouds.

Flying by sight in heavy fog with a mountain to avoid, sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. Then it struck.

Thankfully, neither the passengers nor pilot would have seen it coming. The plane compacted and burst into flames.

All 10 passengers and pilot John Daly were killed on impact with the south side of the mountain. The plane smashed into a thousand pieces, and was unable to be extracted from the mountain due to the incoming winter approaching.

Everything, including the propeller, staying on the mountain. **** Through the alpine scrub and scoria, Ben kept scaling higher and higher. The terrain getting steeper and steeper.

Before long, he realised that there was no more terrain left to conquer. He had made it to the summit. The top of Mt Taranaki. The joy on his face was worth all of the sore muscles that would result in the coming days. He jumped high in celebration, but the sound he made when he landed was certainly not what he was expecting to hear. Why would it make a ‘clang’ he wandered?! Out of the corner of his eye, Ben noticed something shiny beneath him. A half-opened small metal box. He opened it all the way, to see nothing but a photo frame with a young man pictured inside. On the bottom of the frame, was inscribed the name ‘G.C. Hewitt – The Mighty Mountain Man ’. **** Gordon Charles Hewitt was an avid climber. He had managed to reach the summit of Mt Taranaki on over 200 different occasions. Gordon respected the mountain, and in turn the mountain respected him. Born on the 8th October 1904, he grew a love for the mountain from a young age. He looked toward it almost every day from his home near Auroa. It reminded him of all the natural beauty Taranaki, and this earth had to offer. Unfortunately, after 86 and a half wonderful years, Gordon passed away peacefully on 16th April 1991. His passion for the mountain was strong, and his family knew that. They thought it would therefore be fitting to have a photo of Gordon at the top, placed in a small metal box. That way Gordon would always be on the mountain, his second home, waking up each morning to that beautiful view. The view he had become ever so accustomed to over his hundreds of summits of Mt Taranaki. **** For a moment, Ben contemplated his journey to the summit. The lone hiking boot. A reminder to all the lives New Zealand’s deadliest mountain has captured. Constantly prompting people of its unpredictability and harsh nature.

The rusted plane propeller. Another indication of the danger the mountain possesses, not just on land, but in the air.

Lastly, and probably the most relatable, was the photo frame within the small metal box. A realisation that so many other people had achieved the same feat Ben had. To all those over the years that had beat him to the top.

Despite all that, Ben Lansdowne felt humbled and gratified as he stood atop the cone’s pinnacle. The sun beaming down. Blue skies as far as the eye could see. Not a breath of wind. Nothing could be better. He was on top of the world. Well, Taranaki anyway. He felt complete, mentally and emotionally, after achieving his mission, but nothing was more rewarding than the view. Taranaki, will always be home, no matter where Ben was to reside in the future.

That view, astonishing as it was, will always be ‘the view’.

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HIGHLY COMMENDED

STARRY BEACH MADDISON COSSEY HĀWERA HIGH SCHOOL

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the fleeting colours of dusk are slowly beginning to fade away. The beauty of the crisp, orange sunset painted over the clear blue skies is eventually going to be replaced by the darkness. The charcoal black rocks are surrounded in small pools of sand ridden water, shimmering confidently before the darkness sets in. The sun is falling asleep, shielded behind the cargo ships slowly descending to the dead boat yard of Oakura.

The swiftly approaching darkness will be burdened by the shimmering stars. The vast sky was now was now stretched out as far as my eyes could see. With an endless amount of freckles appearing on the face of the blank sky, with content and composure. The moon lit clouds drifting so far that they have momentarily abandoned the sky. As I sit here, I survey the art created by the twinkling stars. I can see every imperfection of each constellation known. The night sky is now smothered by the stellar blanket covering the earth.

My fingers glide through the holey blanket that is covering me, making me feel every flaw and imperfection of my rugged quilt. My legs quiver as the chilled wind is blowing against my cold body. I caress my feet through the sand feeling every granule between my toes, acting as a cover over my numb toes. I can hear the faint sound of the barrier arm releasing the visitors, accompanied by the clinking of rusty bike chains battling each link from falling into place.

The seagulls were once tossed paper in a storm, flashes of white in the grey of the wind that was gusted upon them.

Now everything is dead, just the dry tumbleweed in the overgrown, dead grass depressingly playing tag. Laying along the horizon had a faint tint of silver and orange. The briny air has a soft fragrance that fills my lungs. The sea is a mirror for the moon beaming with satisfaction of once more reclaiming its natural duty of lighting up the nights sky.

This moment, as I glance over the sea, the sky, the moon and sand. I feel the wind blowing against me with intent to keep this memory forever before the fleeting colours of dawn are slowly starting to fade away.

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HIGHLY COMMENDED

GOING, GONE BEN SMYTHE

HĀWERA HIGH SCHOOL Silent before him stood the door, the thin veneer of blue paint upon it cracked and faded from the long years. A knob of the blackest iron was thrust into its right side, punched into a thick slab of rimu. It was a startling contrast, yet like an old couple the years had served to mellow their differences. The man could almost have called them friends and the touch of the cold metal in his grip was a familiar one, not unwelcome. There was an unearthly groan as the ancient hinges shifted, allowing him to quietly slip inside, away from the eyes and ears of the world.

Inside, the air had the faint scent of dust and wood, a somewhat musty smell that lay upon his face like the kiss of a lover. He loved this place and gently running his fingers down the tops of the polished benches, the slightest amount of grime stuck to cold finger tips. They felt alive, well used and well worn, lived in and part of his life.

Warm light was streaming in through the narrow windows, warming the building as he slowly shuffled around. His father had once said that to move forward one must occasionally look behind and in this place more than others, one could feel the weight of history and those who came before. There had been many who had left their mark here, stamped their mark on this place; they were all gone now, just like father. He missed his father dreadfully, just thinking about him brought a fresh swell of pain to his breast, as if there wasn’t already enough of that.

It was autumn and hay making and the harvest of what crops were grown was in full swing. The cows still stood in their green fields and continued to chew their cud contentedly, the wrinkled apples on his little tree were now ripe.

He wasn’t a young man and the days of his youth were long spent, back when the cows were stronger and the apples sweeter. That tree had been there before his time, and it would be there when he was gone. It had passed so quickly, there was still so much to do, to live, where had he been for it?

Time, there seemed to be so little left.

He polished each and every plaque with a damp cloth, removing the dull tarnish and leaving the metal gleaming brightly. The inscribed names seemed to be renewed, furiously demanding one’s gaze, the last memory on this earth of those whose persons were forgotten and bones returned to dust. Some of those names had been friends, whom he alone remembered when others could not. It was as if they questioned him, how could you let this happen…

When their gaze was too much he turned away, head hung low in sadness. There was too much to tell and there was only enough time left for the living. Someone must have come in and cleaned the floor, for it shone when compared to the decrepitude it occasionally fell into. That put the ghost of a smile upon his forlorn face, the bushy salt-pepper eyebrows slightly raised in appreciation.

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There was a small garden at the man’s house, a small cottage patch that he had carefully maintained in its grace and charm. He had picked some flowers and herbs and with a careful hand they were scattered along the sides of the aisle, there was hyssop and lavender, lilac and sweet pea. After much deliberation he had even worked up the will to cut some of his prized carnations to delicately tie to the bench ends. That was painful, yes, yet a necessary pain at that. After that everything was done, the few precious tasks completed.

Now he could only wait.

Come they all did, as had been expected. Not one was even late this time, the sound of their little cars becoming apparent long before the regular starting hour. They had filed past the great door either alone or in pairs, their backs bent and white-haired heads plain to see. Their bodies seemed shrunken to the man and gone was the youthful vigour he had once known. Heavy lidded eyes gazed at him in recognition and friendship which seemed to be felt more keenly, before they inevitably flickered back down to the heavy bound books which were carried. It didn’t take long from the first arrival till the last, there were only half a dozen seated before him.

He checked the time on the old analogue watch he wore. In a way, the time to start had arrived unexpectedly. Usually they would have reminded him that the beginning was near at hand, but really no one minded this time, it was for the man to initiate the beginning of the end. Before he had thought that there would be a lot to say, yet now it didn’t seem to matter, as the urge to run and weep somewhere quiet was at its strongest. The spade like hands clenched and unclenched for a brief time till he began in a slightly wobbly voice, “The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit” ….

It was now finished and they all gathered in the small hall for a cup of weak tea and a hot cross bun fresh from the oven. The man had scraped on a thin layer of hard butter, which had promptly melted on the scorched fruity halves; someone had left them in for too long. Everyone had been able to fit around a single table, their faces heavy and the atmosphere dismal. A bitter thought crossed his mind as he looked at them, they were eating hot cross buns and they hadn’t even been able to make it to Easter.

Cups and plates were cleaned, chairs stacked and curtains drawn before the group made their way out. Hugs were exchanged and hands raised in farewell, the recognition of defeat apparent. Yet a stoic quality seemed to come over the faces by the old rimu door, indeed it was defeat and an end at that, but they had held out against the odds for as long as possible. That was something to hold onto.

Soon the sound of cars disappeared in the distance and the man was left alone in the doorway. He knew he was old and this would be the last time for goodbyes. His family had been here at the beginning and now it would be him alone at the very end. There had been life here once, children who had run up and down to play in the surrounding fields, whole families who had crammed into the little building where the service would be held before the packed congregation. That was along time ago and those days wouldn’t come for this place again.

The familiar scrape of hinges came as he achingly closed the door, before securely locking it. The steps he took seemed to be less certain whilst he made his way down the little path, past the white picket fence and through its low gate. There wouldn’t be another autumn for this place. It wasn’t the way it should have ended.

The man drove away in a decrepit Bug, its engine rattling and coughing as the little white and blue building faded in the distance. A tear trickled down the rough cheek as it finally disappeared, long-held grief tight in his chest. A thought lay heavy upon him, a question that did nothing to ease the sense of desolation: How does a church die?

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SECONDARY SCHOOL POETRY CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE ESCAPISM SASHA FINER

HĀWERA HIGH SCHOOL Acid-burnt sky, ozone blue mercury rising.

It’s Tuesday, and you split orange skins in the gap between your front teeth a shattered glass sting on the corner of our street.

We’re cynics with a bone to pick quick-step trip over cracks in the footpath, trace the bruise wrapped round your left wrist.

Sunbleached, we shed our skins beneath the pohutukawa and leave them hanging from the branches, a tangle of pulses a twisting of breath.

Syrup thick steps in the haunted air, red-dusted, you’re a steady heartbeat trapped between my fingers but even I can’t stop this moment from slipping through my grasp.

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SECOND PLACE DECOMPOSITION SASHA FINER

HĀWERA HIGH SCHOOL i can’t sink my teeth into this anymore, can’t scream without juice dribbling down my chin, can’t get rid of the stains of what once was. i have too many voices and none of them are mine. this is what I know: everywhere i turn i find i am already there, split segments on the ground. push me, pull me, watch me bruise. i cannot see this. i cannot see beyond this. get your eyes off me, i can’t hear myself bleed. too much of a good thing is this: a frosted layer of mould, swollen flesh, a lingering decay. after the ripening comes the rot.

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THIRD PLACE THE BEACH

MADDISON COSSEY HĀWERA HIGH SCHOOL The whispering waves crash on the rocky shore, Spreading secrets and rumours, A silent roar.

Through the darkest time of the night, At the beach, A starry sight.

Water caressing and cascading every grain of sand, A game of tag, Between sea and land

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SECONDARY SCHOOL RESEARCH ARTICLE CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE 2050; THE SHIFTING SANDS OF TARANAKI ETHAN GRIFFITHS

SPOTSWOOD COLLEGE - NEW PLYMOUTH When Back to the Future director Robert Zemeckis sat back in his chair in 1984, he pondered what society would look like in thirty years’ time. He wondered what innovation and societal pressure could do to shape our society. He considered automation, a much freer and less regulated society, and a society where most had significantly more wealth. It is fair to say his picks were almost universally inaccurate.

Now, in 2019, we are left pondering the same question. This time, instead of pondering the question on the basis of producing a form of entertainment, we are pondering the question on the basis of maintaining our way of life, our society and primarily, our economy. On a much broader and darker scale, the decisions we make will affect the survival of our species as a whole. As we all collectively contemplate the same question now, it’s more than likely most of our predictions will be wrong, yet we have a moral obligation to explore the future, to safeguard our future here in Taranaki, in both an economic and social context.

Taranaki is an interesting place. Not in the sense we have a bizarrely symmetrical volcano or dark black sand spanning the length of our coast, but more how our economy functions. Despite our relatively small size, until March last year, we had the largest GDP per capita in the entire nation, now only just marginally behind the Wellington region1.

Our regional economy is one of the most developed and rewarding and as a result, Taranaki has historically had low unemployment rates. Our economy is mainly kept afloat by two industries, those being oil and gas, and the dairy industry; the two industries which contribute most to emissions in New Zealand. Despite our economy being in an extremely healthy state, the sun is setting, and as we look toward 2050, we as a region and wider community, would be ignorant to hold the view our economy can remain that way. The reality is, it simply cannot.

In 2017, the recently formed coalition government made an announcement with almost no consultation that shocked the Taranaki region. There was to be a ban on all future off-shore oil and gas drilling permits. They reinforced that we wouldn’t experience the economic and therefore societal effects right away. Minister for Energy and Resources, Megan Woods, was quick to point out that, “this is a long-term, managed transition happening over the next 30 years”2. That suggests, by 2050, the sun would have completely set on off-shore oil and gas drilling in Taranaki, and with that, it has been suggested most on-shore drilling would shut up shop too.

We also need to factor in another gigantic economic contributor in Taranaki; the dairy industry. Methane from

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livestock alone made up 35.3 percent of gross emissions in 20163, an absolutely unfathomable amount. The government has also signalled that there needs to be a significant reduction in our livestock emissions also, which, while not currently directly applying legislative pressure, does create uncertainty in the industry.

The Māui A Platform, located 16 kilometres of the Taranaki Coast.

Photo by Andy Jackson/Stuff.

As the public pressure grows, and the government begins to make announcements which restrict growth in these industries, the economic impact this would have on our region is immeasurable. Without a safe, smart and relatively swift transition, livelihoods will be destroyed, and our region could well be looking down the barrel of a gun, a gun with a bullet powerful enough to pierce the fabric of our economy, bringing the success of our region to an end. It’s a bleak storyline. We need a new economy, new industries and new growth within thirty years. What do we do to get there?

First of all, the dairy industry; a vital organ of the Taranaki economy. How do we maintain this industry, while also reacting to international, national and governmental pressure to make the industry sustainable? What can we do to lower our agricultural emissions, specifically, methane from livestock?

The obvious answer is to legislate to reduce the amount of cows on New Zealand farms, an absolutely unrealistic suggestion that would have negative effects on our economy, and provoke chaos in our agricultural industry. Science and technology could provide other options, all of which are currently in their infancy, but could become a very real reality by 2050. One aspect of this is genetic engineering of cows and their stomachs, reducing methane emissions from the inside. The difficulty with this option is that the law currently prevents anyone in New Zealand genetically engineering animals, and the government has practically ruled it out due to the ethical issues related to refining the practice. Another option includes starting from the root; genetically engineering the grass consumed by the animals to make it easier to digest and therefore lowering the amount of methane ejected from cows. However, the most promising option is doing away with grass in the first place. Significant research has been done on cows consuming seaweed as an alternative to grass, and the results have been nothing short of remarkable.

The University of California has completed extensive research on the seaweed alternative, and it has proven to be an incredible turning point in the dairy industry. Their study found that with cows consuming primarily seaweed as opposed to grass, the methane emissions from flatulence significantly decreases, which would slow down the process of global warming, and lower New Zealand’s emissions in particular by a substantial margin. Not only can Taranaki benefit by using seaweed as an alternative, thereby keeping our dairy industry alive, there is also nothing to suggest that Taranaki cannot become a global leader in the seaweed production itself, and use it to keep our dairy industry afloat in New Zealand, but also be used as an export.

But in thirty years, the dairy industry can still exist, and if science and technology allows, could grow even larger to stimulate our economy and export market even more. For the oil and gas sector, the chances of survival are slim.

In thirty years, it is difficult to predict what could stimulate the Taranaki economy. Hydrogen has often been touted Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Award Finalist Booklet 2019 |

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as the next step for our economy, and while still in its infancy, the potential of hydrogen energy is enormous. The production of hydrogen energy could benefit the Taranaki economy in multiple aspects, from food production to sustainable transport. It’s important to consider that there is absolutely nothing restricting Taranaki’s economy to be based primarily around energy.

In the last year, the idea of business innovation and entrepreneurship has grown significantly in Taranaki, with the arrival of Johnson Corner on Devon Street in New Plymouth. The space is an open and collaborative work environment, designed to encourage innovation and creativity. It is not unrealistic to make the assumption that in thirty years, Taranaki could become a hub for business people, and the innovators and changemakers of our society.

New Zealand consistently tops the list of the world’s easiest places to do business, and with our economy which historically has typically shown much more growth than similar economies elsewhere, the possibility for Taranaki to become a global hub for localised innovation and entrepreneurship is very real, especially with the economic stimulation required over the next thirty years.

The reality is, without swift, reliable and safe transition, paying full attention and taking maximum advantage of every possible advancement in technology which could either maintain our current economy or provide new sustainable industries, the livelihood of our region will dramatically come under threat. Our region has incredible potential, and the Taranaki dream is alive and well. It is our collective responsibility to make sure it remains that way.

Sources • 1Statistics New Zealand - “Regional gross domestic product: Year ended March 2018” - Published 19 March 2019 https://www.stats.govt.nz/information-releases/regional-gross-domestic-product-year-ended-march-2018 • 2Jason Walls - “The Government’s ban on oil and gas exploration could cost up to $30b by 2050, NZIER say” - New Zealand Herald - Published 19 Feb 2019 https://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=12205320 • 3Statistics New Zealand - “New Zealand’s greenhouse gas emissions” - Published 18 April 2019 https://www.stats.govt.nz/indicators/new-zealands-greenhouse-gas-emissions

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SECOND PLACE BACK TO THE FUTURE EMMA HUGHES

TARANAKI DIOCESAN SCHOOL - STRATFORD At age 77, Berta Hughes already knows that it is unlikely she will see the year of 2050. She does, however maintain hope and a positive attitude toward region she has called home for nearly 63 years.

Taranaki aims to be as close to a zero-emission economy by 2050, and Berta believes it is achievable with hard work and determination. Coming from ‘a long line of hard workers’ she thinks the older generations should still have ‘some influence in the future’, whether they are here to see it or not. ‘It is still our family’s future and I want it to be good,’ She explains.

Berta immigrated to New Zealand from Switzerland in 1956 at age 13 along with her six brothers, a sister and parents. Her ‘brothers all wanted to be farmers, and there wasn’t a massive farming community in Switzerland back then.’ Her parents made the decision to immigrate to New Zealand to be sure that their sons would a chance in farming.

The family resided on a 150-cow share farm near Manaia. The boys quickly started apprenticeships around nearby farms, working the land. The girls, Berta and her sister Marie, returned to school for a mere year due to their limited English. As a result they were placed ‘in the little children’s classes.’ Berta promptly left and began work in a sewing factory before starting her own family farm in Manaia.

Looking towards the future Berta hopes New Zealand will be just as welcoming to new immigrants as it was to her family.

She would love to see Taranaki remain in the positive light that she sees it in and thinks that the region’s plans for the future is a ‘large push in the right direction.’

In Berta’s mind she envisions Taranaki to be more like the Taranaki she grew up in 63 years ago. Fewer cars on the road and a less money focused economy and more emphasis on the self-sufficient lifestyle.

In her eyes technology and new ideas are put forward each day, but some developments hinder rather than help the future, Berta reflects. She can remember the long days on the farm, helping her six brothers milking, in the walkthrough shed, 12 stalls, somewhat automated, but ‘nothing like today’s technology.’

‘Technology is moving fast, but I feel we’ve lost some qualities in today’s generation.’ ‘People aren’t as committed.’

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When we were children we didn’t flit around ideas, women had their thing and men had theirs. Women doing trades or farming wasn’t heard of. It wasn’t normal.’

Throughout the years, onlookers can see that social standards have drastically changed, especially surrounding technology. The milking processes that is common in many New Zealand households, keep being updated.

Technology is advancing and diminishing the need for hard, manual labour.

A self-sufficient lifestyle was the common ideal in the 1950s. No one really relied on the dairy shop down the road.

The meat was from your stock, vegetables grown at home and dairy from the cows. Milk fresh daily. For Berta, she believes reverting back to our history is the way to go. ‘Why export so many fruits and vegetables when we can grow them in your backyard?’ ‘We have so many ways to reduce waste and becoming more self sufficient is definitely a step in the right direction.’

Berta now lives in town in Hawera and still retains many of her old habits. She prefers walking over driving and has her own vegetable garden. She loves getting fresh milk from her younger brother’s cow. Yes, no plural. A septuagenarian, he still owns his own beloved cow who provides milk for him, his wife, his five grandchildren and their parents plus the neighbours down the road and sometimes he has spare for Berta.

A sustainable life isn’t hard, according to Berta. She did it for so many years, so it comes naturally to her and many of her generation. She still struggles to grasp the technology side of it because it ‘moves all too fast’ but ‘that doesn’t matter,’ Berta reflects.

All Berta hopes for the next generation of Taranaki citizens is for things and people to slow down. ‘The world is changing so fast, people forget to just enjoy the little things. Even just eating home grown produce, it just gives the best sense of self achievement, like, “wow, I grew that,” and it also helps the planet, so that’s good too.’

Her advice to the people of Taranaki is to just stop and think. Think about what you could do instead of picking up a plastic wrapped lettuce imported from Ecuador. The little things do add up and contribute to the whole equation.

And, most of all, take time to enjoy the small things that our beautiful region has to offer.

Berta stirs the tea leaves in the teapot, and stares at the mountain majestically towering outside of her kitchen window. ‘It’s not half-bad,’ she states with a smile.

Sources • https://www.sustainabletaranaki.org.nz/news/2018/12/13/taranaki-2050-transition-roadmap-seeks-communityvision • https://figure.nz/chart/HdSMOAyTNzvVTM7k • https://teara.govt.nz/en/1966/dairy-industry/page-4 • https://www.dcanz.com/about-the-nz-dairy-industry/ • My Grandmother -Berta Hughes

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THIRD PLACE WE KNEW

KAYLEN HOJDELEWICZ

TARANAKI DIOCESAN SCHOOL - STRATFORD You automatically picture the David Attenborough fridge quote you read each day and it reminds you why you have hope.

“Siri, open curtains. Light.” The LED lights comes on. “Door,” it swings open and you walk to your kitchen. A view of Mount Taranaki greets you but it never seems to have that white snow cap anymore, due to the warm winters.

Although it’s the middle of winter there’s no need to turn on any heating as the apartment is well enough insulated, thanks to new fi-bres and taking some ideas from european innovation. The changes have certainly had both positive and negative effects on the locals. It is Taranaki 2050 after all.

Grabbing your Apple iPhone 40 you walk swiftly out onto the footpath made from recycled materials. “Siri, car.” In a few minutes a car indicates and pulls over and you hop in. There’s three other passengers already and no need for a driver. The car automatically works using systems and algorithms, thanks to a very updated mapping database.

Land is extremely precious, now more than ever. Taranaki is popular, especially for those trying to find living space.

Many have migrated from the cities; Wellington and Auckland are drastically overpopulated. The great thing about the population increase here is the upgrades in transport and other technologies. Of course, there are downsides; for exam-ple, now that the oil and gas industries have been eliminated, work isn’t easy to come by. Employment has been increased in the alternative energy source industries however, such as the ever popular hydro power station set up right beside the sea in New Plym-outh.

Unfortunately the unemployment rate has increased, largely because machines and oth-er technologies have taken over many traditional jobs: there’s self operating cranes, cleaning bots and self driving hydrogen powered vehicles.

Checkout operators? Com-pletely non existent, just one of the earliest changes that led onto fully technologically run supermarkets. There is also the ongoing issue with those who are unemployable. Maybe if the earth were healthier its people would be too?

The Government legalised euthanasia over two decades ago and as a province we’ve seen the consequences. Some good came out of this move, with people suffering now having a choice, but it was also disastrous in ways, as the bill was not clear on terms of those eligible to be euthanised and over the years there have been awful tales of coer-cion and people making the permanent decision too quickly.

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Humanity did a good job of screwing up the planet, seas absorbed 90% of the green-house gases and the sea levels have risen about 10 centimetres since 2019. We are try-ing harder than ever to save the planet because now no one can deny global warming, not when Jakarta, Kiribati, Bangkok and a few other places have been overtaken by rising sea levels. Millions of people are displaced and there isn’t enough liveable room to give them all homes.

New Zealand has raised their immigrant and refugee quotas, as have other remaining nations, but it’s still not enough. Many of those affected by the rising sea levels prefer to stay and suffer the consequences, they don’t have a choice because when we had the chance to at least significantly slow down the effects of global warming, we couldn’t agree on how to take action.

We put money above humanity, unfortunately money can’t practically create land and get our cities and countries to miraculously resurface. In 10 years time Kiribati could be as much of a legend as Atlantis, that is if humans still exist by then. Us Kiwis, we are the lucky ones, our country is sitting above water level. Our climates have been affected though, on average our temperatures here in 2050 are about 2.2 degrees higher than they were in 2019 and frozen roads are a rarity in Taranaki. Yes, we tried eventually, but it was too little, too late.

https://therevelator.org/interactive-map-climate-2050/

Millions displaced due to rising sea levels, temperature rising, technology advancing, hy-dro-power…welcome to Taranaki 2050.

We are trapped on the planet we ruined and when our grandchildren see pictures of what the world once was, they ask the question many of us have been tossing around in our own minds; “Why did you wait?”

“At the time I didn’t think that what I did could make a difference.”

“But you always tell me I can change the world. So why didn’t you?”

Now it’s too late to save them.

Silence hangs in the air and you ponder.

Why didn’t we?

Why didn’t we care enough to change when we still had time?

You recall your daily fridge quote:“How could I look my Grandchildren in the eye and say I knew what was happening to the world and did nothing?” Do the youth care more about our planet because we are the ones who will live to see its demise? Because we are the ones who are handing on a broken earth, that our elders gave to us just before breaking point? Is it because if we don’t do something, we will die knowing we left our next genera-tions without hope for a future? We don’t want to do to our children what was done to us. We want action.

Sources • • • •

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/environment/global-warming/ozone-depletion/ https://www.nzherald.co.nz/business/news/article.cfm?c_id=3&objectid=11905422 https://www.stuff.co.nz/business/103187944/plans-afoot-for-an-economic-life-for-taranaki-beyond-oil-and-gas https://www.livescience.com/65633-climate-change-dooms-humans-by-2050.html

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OPEN SECTION SHORT STORY CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE THE LITTLE ONE PIP HARRISON HĀWERA

The last of the children had gone out to lunch now. Little Sammy had come back three times looking for his hat, his drink bottle, his shoes but at last, he’d joined the others under the shade of the trees at the edge of the playground.

The air in classroom settled, stirred again, as Janie clopped down the hall and then became calm once more.

Helen slumped at her desk. Cynthia, passing by the windows on her way to the staff room, raised an elegant eyebrow and an imaginary cup her way. Helen pulled her back straighter and managed a half smile, as she shook her head. Cynthia made an “Oh well,” face and moved on. Let her disapprove, thought Helen. This is survival time.

Wearily, she carried her bag to the cushions by the bookcase. She lifted out the thermos and poured water on to the herbal tea bag in her white china mug, the one with the roses on. Her mother had given her that cup. A tear escaped and she wiped it away. Concentrate on the camomile tea – not as hot as the cup at morning break but still wonderful.

She leant against the wall and felt the cool plaster on her back, the stretch of her throat. She heard the disquieting creak of – was it her vertebrae? – as she tilted her neck. She sipped and breathed in, down, down, down to her belly, hold and - out, out, out.

Pen in hand, Helen worked through the handwriting books. Tick the best example, smiley face for hard work, comment. Write in tomorrow’s date and letter example. “You do that out of class time? Oh, I do that while the kids are working.” Breathe. Eat a sandwich. Drink camomile tea.

She rested her eyes for a moment. She must try and pop in to see Dad after staff meeting. Only one more evening of reports to go. Perhaps she would get to bed before midnight. It was a shame about the film club – maybe next month. It would be the fund-raiser for Amnesty International then too. She’d want to be at that.

List what was needed for the whole school production. Long practice produced a flow of headings: costumes, music, song words, scripts, props, lighting, advertising. As she started to fill in the details, she slowed. “Really? You think it’ll work? I’d have gone for hip hop myself. Still, if you’re sure …” “I saw a great script on the internet. But if you’re happy with your one…” “Wouldn’t it be easier to plan it all on your computer? But then, you’re not really into computers, are you, Helen?” Breathe. Eat a sandwich. Sip the tea.

Helen heard a click. A sidle. A stealthy footstep. Sammy appeared round the bookstand.

“Oh!” He looked ready to run.

“Hi, Sammy. Outside at lunchtime, remember?”

“Yes, Miss H,” said Sammy. “Only …”

“Yes?” “Can’t I stay here with you? I won’t be noisy.”

Helen looked at him. The raised shoulders. The tight, pale face. And, she saw, grass in his hair, his shirt askew.

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He looked like he needed some camomile tea too.

“What’s the problem, mate?” she asked.

Sammy’s eyes filled with tears.

“Hector got my hat,” he gulped.

“Oh dear. Did you talk to - Ms K is it - on duty?”

Sammy nodded.

“What did she say?”

“To talk to Hector. To tell him I didn’t like it.”

“And have you?” asked Helen gently.

Sammy nodded again. He squeezed his eyes tight shut. “He just copied me and then he called me … he called me… a snot face and everybody laughed.” Sammy threw himself down on the cushions and sobbed and sobbed.

“There, there,” sighed Helen, rubbing his back. “I know, Sammy, it hurts and it’s not fair.”

“And he threw my hat over the fence and Mum’s going to be so mad,” Sammy wailed.

If I were his mum, I’d be mad too – but not about losing the hat, Helen thought. This wasn’t the first time. Last week Sammy had been in the toilet and Hector had held the door, so he couldn’t get out. The poor mite had been beside himself by the time Helen had arrived. She’d sent Hector to the Principal but whatever he’d taken from that encounter didn’t seem to have stuck.

If I were my mum, I’d be pretty mad as well. The idea popped into her head and hovered there, as she called a kindly Year 6 girl across and asked her to take Sammy, with his wiped face and shaky breath, to get his hat back from the neighbour. Aurora smiled at Sammy and, with the expertise of a big sister, raced him to the gate.

“It’s not right, Miss, what Hector did,” commented Aurora, when they came back just as the bell was ringing.

“No, it’s not. I’m glad you can see that,” said Helen. “We must make sure Hector finds out too.”

“You will be at the meeting this afternoon, will you, Helen,” asked Janie, as she passed. “Only we haven’t seen much of you recently.”

Aurora’s and Sammy’s eyes widened at the teacher’s tone. They looked at Helen. She could feel herself flushing but mustered a smile for them and said to Janie, as calmly as she could, “Yes, I’ll be there – as usual.” Janie tossed her head.

Aurora pulled a face and went off to class.

Sammy put his hand into Helen’s, offering comfort in his turn.

Breathe. Breathe again. Set it all aside. Smile.

The children had come in hyped and noisy. They seethed on the mat, tussling, crowding, chatting, complaining.

Helen gave the signal for quiet and put Mr Magnifico’s exercises on the smartscreen. She could use him telling her how fabuloso her stretches and shoulder rolls were and it would do the kids good too. Her smile became more genuine, as she copied the small cartoon figure and the children calmed down a bit.

She settled them to work and took up her reading hat, so no-one would disturb her fifth group of readers for the day. The groups needed re-jigging again, she thought, scribbling a couple of arrows on her list and jotting down levels. And the next lot of reading boxes needed to be found and brought from the resource room. She sighed and hoped the aide would be back tomorrow.

Janie accosted Helen, as she arrived at the meeting.

“Have you still got the box of time-telling stuff? It’s meant to be in the resource room but it’s not and I need it for my unit.”

Helen’s heart sank.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Janie. It was one of those things that didn’t get done. I’ll bring it along to your room after the meeting.”

“Lazy cow,” Helen heard her say, as she sat down.

Leanne called the meeting to order.

Helen had meant to raise the issue of Hector’s bullying but she was barely holding back the tired, beaten down tears. It would have to wait for another day.

The last item on the agenda was the new computer program they were to use for record keeping. Dave, the IT teacher, gave a presentation and then said, “Just let me know, if you need extra help with it.” He looked round the room and his gaze rested on Helen. There was an amused murmur from the group and an outright laugh from Janie, who muttered something about the technologically challenged.

That was the end of the camel for this particular day. Helen looked back at Dave, the smile absent.

“What were you doing in the 1980s, Dave?” she asked fiercely. “Oh, that’s right, you weren’t born yet. That was when I got to grips with my first computer. In a processing language called Wordstar. What we choose to prioritise and the way we choose to work are not necessarily about our capabilities.” Her gaze swivelled to Janie. “I fear for Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Award Finalist Booklet 2019 |

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the children in your class sometimes, Janie.”

“Oh, I don’t think that was called for, Helen,” Leanne blustered.

“No? There are a lot of things not called for around here and others that are crying out for attention. Perhaps we could discuss it next week.” Grabbing her bag and jersey, Helen made it out the door before the angry tears fell.

She paused to stow her papers more securely and heard “can’t take a joke” behind her but also, wonder of wonders, Cynthia’s voice saying, “Perhaps it’s you, who can’t tell one, Janie.”

Nonetheless, painful sobs fought their way free, as Helen blundered her way back to her room with anger churning – towards them, towards herself. That had been an unprofessional way to speak to the Principal, dammit; she expected better of herself. At least someone had spoken up at last. Someone had noticed.

Perhaps she should apologise to Dave. No, stuff it, he might not have been nasty but he had been patronising.

And that Janie – it was just too much.

They were all so stressed. Too many demands on top of whatever else was happening. Leanne had a sick husband. She’d heard that Cynthia’s marriage was on the rocks. Who knew what problems Janie had: there might be some excuse even for her rudeness. And for Hector’s beastliness too, no doubt, if anyone just had time to find out.

The adrenalin had drained away now, leaving her limp through and through but still with Dad to visit and those blasted reports to finish. She sat at her desk, weary to the bone.

Breathe. Mop your face. Look forward to the peace of home. Survive two more days of the week, two more weeks of the term. Sleep.

Aurora’s head appeared round the door.

“Hi, Miss. I told that Hector – I told him he’ll be the little one some time. That’s what my dad says: we have to help each other ‘cause we’re all the little one some time.”

The endless tears pricked again but Helen gave the girl a tired smile.

“Thank you, Aurora. Your dad knows what he’s talking about. I think you should be called Hope.” Aurora’s face broke into a broad grin.

“But I am, Miss – it’s my middle name! You want a sour worm?”

She came forward, holding out a creased packet.

“Thanks.” The acid taste delivered its pleasant zing and, with it, a spurt of energy.

Scribbling, “Sorry for the delay,” on a post-it note, Helen paused, shrugged and added a smiley face. She herself would know it was an attempt at kindness rather than surrender. She put the note on the resource box Janie had been looking for.

“Let’s get this down to Ms K’s room, shall we, Aurora Hope? And then – I think that’s quite enough for one day.

It’s time we all went home.”

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SECOND PLACE VISITING THE DOCTOR JAMES O’SULLIVAN NEW PLYMOUTH

Mum and Nan are always arguing. Sometimes it’s about politics. Mum votes Labour, Nan supports the Maori Party.

“Thank God we got rid of those bunch of no hopers and fraudsters,” says Mum.

“Labour is just using us,” says Nan. “Maori Party is the only party that’s for Maori.”

“They sold Maori to National,” says Mum. Nan snorts.

Then they argue about our home marae. “When you taking us to our turangawaewae?” says Nan.

“I can’t just drive to Patea willy-nilly,” says Mum. “You got any gas money?”

“It’s not right we neglect it so much.”

Nan’s usually sitting in her chair drinking her wine. Mum usually doing the housecleaning. “What’s the point anyway?” says Mum. “Most of it’s just pretence.”

“The McAlister’s go back,” says Nan eying Mum. “They help out, they look after their turangawaewae. And they live in Auckland.”

“Oh yeah,” says Mum stopping her cleaning and eyeing Nan back. “Aren’t they wonderful?” But she’s being sarcastic. “Mow a lawn here, dig a few weeds there, and then head back to Auckland with all those plaudits ringing in their ears for another year.”

“They donated a new oven.”

“It’s very easy to be generous when you go off to Auckland and make heaps of cash,” says Mum.

Sometimes they even argue about the mountain. “That mountain is our ancestor,” says Nan.

“Oh give me a break,” says Mum.

“You’re just not spiritual.”

“You look at that mountain,” says Mum. We can all see it through the lounge window. “You look me in the eye and you tell me you genuinely think that mountain is your ancestor.”

“You’re just not spiritual,” says Nan and sips her wine.

“Mt Taranaki is just a big piece of rock with some frozen water on it; not a bloody ancestor. It’s plain science.”

“Pakeha science. And I’ll thank you not to speak ill of our ancestor.”

“It’s science, Mum, just plain science.”

And sometimes, like now, they’re arguing about Nan’s wine. They usually argue about Nan’s wine when Nan runs out of it.

“I need my wine.”

“No you don’t.”

“You don’t look after me.”

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“Don’t you dare accuse me of being negligent.”

“Then where’s my wine?”

“Why should I buy wine for an old alkie like you?”

“You don’t respect me and you don’t look after me properly. You get money to look after me. I know you do.

Spend it on yourself, I bet.”

“I spend it on running this house,” cries Mum. I look out at Mt Taranaki and think maybe it really is our ancestor peering through the window at us and wondering why Mum and Nan argue so much. “I certainly don’t do it to be rich. Everyone else has gone away. I’m the only mug who has stayed behind in this cow town to look after your paua arse.”

“I help out. You only need to give me some money for my wine. Just a cheap bottle, not even a cask, come on.”

Mum takes a deep breath and says, “There just isn’t enough money, Mum. I have to spend the last I’ve got on milk and some cheap-as crappy supermarket bread so people in this house can have something to eat for breakfast until payday. There’s no money left for your wine.”

“There’d be more money if you’d kept a man.”

“Don’t you dare talk about that bastard!”

I used to have a dad when I was a baby, but Mum kicked him out; that’s what she told me. I don’t know his name; Mum only says “that bastard” and Nan just mentions “keeping a man”. Nan is my dad.

“You get money for looking after me,” says Nan pulling a face.

“And I spend it on you,” says Mum getting angrier. “Hayley, it’s a nice day, go take Nan for a walk.”

“I’m not a bloody dog.”

“Then stop yapping like a dog. How’s your breathing, sweetie?”

“Better,” I say.

“Good. When you get back you can have another puff on your huffer.”

“Where should we go, Mum?”

“Down to the park and back.”

“I’m not a bloody dog.”

“Just go for a walk, Mum. I’ve got cleaning to do and you’re in the way.”

“I’m just sitting here.”

“You’re in the way.”

“Fine,” says Nan manoeuvring herself out of her chair. “We’ll go down High Street and beg people for money because my daughter is too stingy to give me any of my own money.”

“Don’t you dare,” cries Mum.

“You give me no option.”

“You do that and I’ll throw you into a home. Hayley, get your shoes please; there’s sometimes broken glass on the footpaths.”

Nan watches me put on my shoes. “That medicine’s no good for her. Maybe we should go see Dr Annandale.”

“No way. She’s a quack, she’s not even a real doctor.”

“She says she is.”

“Not a proper doctor.”

“Pakeha medicine isn’t the only medicine,” says Nan.

“It’s just medicine,” snaps Mum. “And that stupid Annandale woman is white anyway.”

“She’s spiritual. You don’t understand, you’ve lost your spiritual side.”

I get to my feet. “Go down to the park and back, sweetie,” says Mum.

“Maybe I’ll go get some money,” says Nan.

“From where?”

“Maybe someone owes me some money.”

Mum just shakes her head.

“Do you think the mountain really is our ancestor?” I ask Nan as we walk towards the park.

“Oh yes,” says Nan. “Without doubt. He’s watching us now. He’s wondering why your mother is too stingy to buy me my wine. He’s wondering that right now.”

“If I had money, I’d give it to you.”

She pats me on the back. “Kia ora, dear, kia ora, but you keep your money, even if it is pretend. Your mum gets money for looking after me. It’s mine by right, it really is.”

We arrive at the park. “Let’s sit on this bench, dear, I’m not as young as you are. I need a little rest.” We sit and watch a man throwing a tennis ball for his dog to chase. He’s using one of those sticks with a scoop on the end.

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He’s got a big gut and he doesn’t move much.

Nan sighs. “I really need my wine.”

“But where are we going to get money from? Can you get it from that fulla who owes you money?”

Nan sighs again. “I really need my wine. All I ask is for some wine. Why won’t your mother spend any money on me? It’s my money.” She looks sad. I don’t know what to say so I watch the fat man and his dog. “How’s your asthma, dear?”

“It’s okay.” I wish we were walking again.

“Shall I take you to see Dr Annandale? She’ll help you. She uses spiritual therapy and stuff that most people don’t understand.”

“Okay.”

“It’s your choice, dear.”

“Okay.”

“Just don’t tell your mother we went to Dr Annandale; she doesn’t understand, she’s not spiritual like you and me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She sighs again and we start walking again. We walk three blocks until we come to Dr Annandale’s house.

It’s old. It has a rusty front gate and the bottom scrapes against the concrete when Nan pushes it open. We walk up the path to the door. Nan knocks and a woman opens it. She looks at me and smiles. Nan tells me this is Dr Annandale and she wants to look at my chest. Dr Annandale has big frizzy grey hair, a round face and a wide smile.

She’s wearing a long brightly coloured dress.

“I’m going to help you get better, darling. What’s she on?” she asks Nan.

“Ventolin.”

“Poison,” says the doctor. “I’ve got a natural balm. Come through to my wellness room.”

The inside of her house smells like Nan’s house did before she moved in with us. And it also smells from some smoky little sticks in the wellness room. The room is decorated with all sorts of wall hangings, mostly sheets of material with weird shapes painted on them. There are cushions on the floor, but no chairs, just a little table with the smoky sticks on it.

“Sit on the cushions, darling,” the doctor tells me. I sit on the cushions. “I’m going to check your spiritual strength.” She has a cloth bag with her and she sits cross legged in front of me and waves a smoky stick in front of my face. The smoke makes my nose twitch. “Just blow slightly, darling, so I can see how the smoke moves.” I blow slightly. “Good, that’s very good. Hmmm, nothing wrong with you spiritually.” I glance at Nan and she’s standing by the window watching us. I smile at her. She tries to smile back but she looks sad. She must be missing her wine real bad. “Now, shall we have a look at your chest? Can you whip off your shirt?” I take off my shirt. The doctor places her hands on my shoulders. She has nice warm hands. “I’m just going to feel your energy. Internal energy is transmitted out through your skin. You have such lovely skin, darling. She rubs down my arms, then reaches around and feels my back. “Hmmm,” she says. Her face is close to mine and her breath smells of oranges. “Your energy is good. I see you’re getting some bumps on your chest. You’re going to get the boys running after you soon.” She smiles and I’m embarrassed and smile at Nan, but she’s not smiling. “Now, I’m going to rub some healing balm on your chest, okay?”

“Okay.”

She rummages around in the cloth bag until she finds a little jar of ointment. She unscrews the top, scoops out a dollop and rubs it on my shoulders and down my arms; it smells funny but not too bad. Then she takes another dollop and rubs my chest. She rubs it on my bumps, rubs it in heaps. I look straight at her chest while she rubs, and she’s got great big massive boobs beneath her dress and I’ve only got little ones. I smile at this and the doctor smiles.

“It smells nice doesn’t it, darling?” I nod. “Just a little bit more on your chest. It will help to clear up the bad energy in your lungs.” She rubs the natural balm into my chest again. Her hands are warm and gentle. “Well,” she says screwing the top back on the jar. “I think that should do for now. You can put your shirt back on, darling.”

When I’ve put my shirt on Nan says, “Wait outside a few moments, dear, while I talk to Doctor Annandale.”

Nan is still sad and silent as we walk back to the park. She wants to sit on the bench again. The fat man and his dog have gone. “We can go to the supermarket now and get some wine,” she says, but she doesn’t look happy about it.

“I’ll wait outside while you get the wine so they’ll serve you. Was that doctor the person who owed you money?”

“Yes, dear.”

I wait for her to get up and go, but she doesn’t. Instead she says, “Don’t ever start boozing, dear, booze does rotten things to you.” She’s not looking at me, just staring ahead like she is still watching the fat man, even though he isn’t there anymore.

I don’t know why she’s so sad about getting her wine, her lip is starting to tremble, so, to cheer her up I say, Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Award Finalist Booklet 2019 |

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“I really do believe the mountain is our ancestor, and he’s watching us now and thinking how nice you are taking me to the doctor to fix me up.”

But it doesn’t make her happy, in fact her lips tremble even more and she bursts into shuddering sobs and it scares me and she says, “Oh God, oh God.”

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THIRD PLACE BLACK SAND MIKAELA NYMAN NEW PLYMOUTH

It’s the dog that draws her closer. Sleek and dappled, it runs circles around its owner, who is staring at the sea and doesn’t seem to hear its high-pitched bark for attention. An abandoned orange dog ball launcher at his feet.

As soon as Rachel enters the dog’s territory it comes bounding towards her, looping around her and its owner, drawing them closer, as if wielding an invisible lasso. Broad shoulders hold up a body that has turned flabby, the way rugby players appear when they stop training and their muscles turn into fat. She feels sorry for the dog. The dog yelps as if she’s stepped on its tail and the man spins around to face her.

‘Do you know where we are?’ He gestures towards the sandstone cliffs with his smartphone. No greeting, no hint of surprise at seeing her. The barrel of his torso poured into a red-and-black Swanndri made for a smaller man.

Rachel narrows her eyes and shifts awkwardly in her father’s oversized raincoat. One of his steel-capped boots buries the dog’s toy in the sand causing the Dalmatian to whine and jump up and down on the spot on its hind legs.

‘This is Black Beach.’ She tilts her head. Doesn’t he know where he’s gone for a walk? The dog stops jumping and tilts its head too.

He looks relieved and closes the distance between them in two strides. ‘I’m thinking of calling the police.’

Rachel looks up and down the beach, unsure what he would need the police for. Taking two steps back, she pushes her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat, feeling its weight pulling the skull and jaw towards the spine.

‘My nephew went out to get the buoy …’ The wind swallows the rest of the words as he glances over his shoulder towards the bleak sea. When he half-turns, Rachel spots a pair of white sneakers and socks on the sand behind him. A wallet in one shoe and the glint of sunglasses in the other.

‘Shit!’ He runs towards the sneakers as the incoming tide claims the ground where he was standing a moment ago. Flecks of white foam on wet black sand.

Following in his footsteps, she picks up the ball launcher and hands it to him, but lets it drop by her side when he holds up the shoes, socks, wallet, sunglasses and two phones towards her. It’s as if he can’t keep his mind focused, his eyes are flitting between her and the waves. Salt spray hits her face like spittle.

‘He went out ten minutes ago. You’d think he’d be back by now.’

She can hear the question mark even though it wasn’t meant as a question. A phone and a sock slide out of his grip. Rachel bends down and rescues the phone and holds up the soaked sock. At least it’s not child-size. Without a word he accepts them, his eyes boring into hers now, waiting for an answer.

‘Did he have a wetsuit on?’ From the surprised look on his face she can tell that’s not the response he was hoping for.

‘No, no wetsuit. He went in his jeans and hoodie.’ His bushy eyebrows bob up and down before they knit together, as if he’s trying to figure out what she’s on about.

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‘Why did he go in?’ she finally asks.

‘To get the ball!’ He nods towards the orange stick in her hand as the flush creeps up her neck and bleeds into her cheeks. ‘But he’s been gone for too long.’

‘Yeah, maybe best to phone the police. There’s rips over by the rocks. Lots of rips.’

They back away from the encroaching sea. She holds his belongings for him and listens to the one-sided call with the police while she wonders how she could have misheard ‘buoy’ for ‘ball.’

The dog starts to run around them, anti-clockwise this time, a blur of black spots on white fur. Something is not right with that dog. Shrugging her shoulders repeatedly she tries to release the stiffness in her neck. Tightness in the trapezius muscle, that’s what the physiotherapist said, caused by all that repetitive motion at the checkout counter. No one even wants to hold a conversation these days. ‘How’s your day?’ and ‘Do you want the receipt?’ is as good as it gets.

‘No, New Plymouth,’ the man shouts. ‘Yes, I’ll hold.’ He rolls his eyes at her and leans forward, trying to shield the phone from the wind.

As she scans the horizon she spots a black cylinder bobbing up and down a fair way out. She grabs his arm.

‘There, I see him!’

He stares in the direction she’s pointing and nods, before he directs his attention to the phone again. ‘What?

About ten minutes, or no, make that fifteen. Or maybe twenty by now. Where we are? Wait, I’ve got a local here, I’ll hand you over.’

Rachel grabs the phone and notes his hand is shaking. She hopes they won’t ask for her details. But the police have no interest in her. They want to know their whereabouts, how many hundred metres up the beach they are, which car park they’re closest too, and Rachel tells them they’re by the Sugar Loaves, just a hundred metres down from Paritutu rock.

‘I can see him bob out there, but he’s drifting pretty quickly down the coast,’ she says before she hands back the phone with fumbling hands, feeling the tingling of the nerves as her thumb and index finger go numb.

Now that they’ve established the situation, she slips into the role as spotter. Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of the heavy coat, she makes a mark in the compacted sand and stares at the building waves. There! Another glimpse of the black cylinder. Must be his hoodie. The black object stands out against the grey and white. She picks up the shoes and socks and moves a couple of metres, taking up a line of sight between two rocks, making a new mark. Staring over the top of the rocks towards the horizon until her eyes ache and her vision blurs.

‘Have you seen him? I haven’t seen him for a while.’

She can hear the growing anxiety in his voice. The dog has disappeared. She doesn’t want to say no straight away, so she holds her breath and says nothing, until she has to inhale. ‘No. Wait, yes!’

And there is the black cone emerging between the waves, only a few metres further down the coast, but a lot further out. They pick up the shoes and socks and walk a few metres South.

‘Where did your dog go?’

‘It’s not mine, it’s my nephew’s.’

‘Ah.’ She should’ve guessed it wasn’t his dog, the way it yelped and ran in circles.

He casts her a curious glance.

‘I wanted a Dalmatian once, but then someone told me they’re prone to moodiness, mirroring their owners.

They can become really depressed.’ She shrugs. According to her father it would have been a disastrous match. He didn’t need two basket cases, he said.

‘I haven’t seen him for a while, have you?’

This time she spots him straight away, but he is keeping curiously still, no waving, no attracting attention.

Maybe he’s treading water. The water is barely in the double digits this time of the year. She’s heard this part of the beach is tapu, that you shouldn’t swim here. ‘Some bad ju-ju going on, it gives me the willies,’ her friend used to say whenever she suggested they’d go for a dip between the Sugar Loaf Islands.

The Southerly picks up and sends a chill blast accompanied by drifting rain. His Swanndri must be soaked by now. The culprit ball has drifted to the shore by itself. Where are the police? Where’s the rescue boat? He’s glancing at his phone every two minutes.

‘Did they give you a number to call?’

‘No.’ He stares at the phone, checks that the sound is not turned off, flicks the switch on and off a couple of times.

She offers to run back to her car and drive around to the four car parks to check where the rescuers are. He nods but looks unhappy.

‘I’ll be back,’ she promises, in case he thinks she’s abandoning him.

Before she fetches her car, she runs in the opposite direction, towards the Paritutu end of the beach. The coat almost drags on the ground and her knees threaten to buckle. Out of breath, she moves towards the edge of the water and catches a glimpse of a telescope on top of the cliff. She waits until she sees two figures appearing next to

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the telescope, one of them points out towards the sea. Looking back in the direction she came from she can only see the curved slope of the beach. The man appears to have disappeared. As fast as her feet can carry her, she runs back towards where she left him, realising that she doesn’t even know his name. Her heart flips as she sees the red-andblack chequered barrel appear out of the sand dunes.

‘They’re up on the cliff trying to spot him,’ she shouts when she’s within earshot, and points towards the top of the cliff, as a helicopter sweeps in low over the Sugar Loaves.

Before he has a chance to reply, they see the pilot boat cut through the swell and beginning to move in smaller and smaller circles, about half a kilometre offshore from where they are standing.

‘They don’t seem to be able to locate him.’ Rachel wants to scream in frustration.

‘Can you see him?’

‘No. Can you?’

And then they both spot the black hoodie bobbing in the waves and jump and shout, pointing towards the sea, waving up at the police on the cliff. And as though they’ve heard them, the crew swings the boat around, and it shudders to a stop. The boat rocks from side to side, the waves obscuring what they’ve found. Something – a lifeless body? – is hauled up and over the side, but neither of them dares to voice their thoughts out loud.

The phone rings. They look at each other.

‘Yes? This is Dave.’ He bends his head and wraps his body around the phone, making it impossible for her to see his face, or hear what he says. But he merely nods and lets the person at the other end do all the talking. Then he turns off the phone and unfolds his body. ‘They’ve got him.’

The tingling in her hands grows painful as hot and cold blood courses through her veins. ‘Is he breathing?’

Dave nods and all of a sudden her father’s coat weighs less than it has in years.

‘They’re taking him to the hospital.’

‘Well, let’s go then,’ she says and takes the lead, which feels strange and exhilarating at the same time.

Dave is considerably slower than her. Now that she finally has time to take a closer look at her companion she realises he’s older than she assumed. He doesn’t have a car, so she offers to drive him to the hospital.

‘Or should we try to find the dog first?’

‘No, the dog is probably home by now.’

He tells her he lives up North and is in remission from cancer. He’s come to visit relatives and for a bit of rest and relaxation. ‘Some relaxation,’ he snorts, but she can tell it’s a happy snort. He’s looking forward to catching up with people he should have spent more time with, had he not been so busy working away the best part of his life.

‘Mine is the dirty white one,’ Rachel says as they finally sight the car park.

She watches him lengthen his stride, while she falls behind. Hears the soft thud of stones landing in the sand behind her as she empties her coat pockets.

Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Award Finalist Booklet 2019 |

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HIGHLY COMMENDED

BANKS’S HOLIDAY PARK BRUCE FINER HĀWERA

The Bogans had nearly broken us, their sickened family sprawling across our best sites. Dave-oh had been their only ally. When the battle was over, we were left with a vandalised camp full of bottom dwellers like some social services dumping ground.

I swore it would never happen again.

I liked to think myself a good judge of character, assessing each guest as they arrived and putting them safely in a box. Keeping things honest, straight down the line. Unfortunately, I’d been down the back of the camp inspecting a wasp nest when the new couple checked in.

“Smooth looking,” Bec said. “No car rego – walked here apparently.”

Bec’s a trusting soul. She twirled her pen above the register absently.

“How’d they pay?”

“Cash. For a week. I put them into cabin nine.”

Cash was good. Good but unsettling; like a tarot card, or a smile from a cunning child. I took some lawn seed and headed down through the shedding trees to where the Bogans had been, rueing the oil stains and their bottle tops needlessly stomped into the soured ground. There was no sign of life at cabin nine.

Mornings were my favourite, out doing the rounds. You can tell a lot from a man’s litter. Sum up a lifestyle from the inside out; the druggies, the nutters, the slobs, all their little quirks laid bare. The problem was, cabin nine’s bin remained empty.

I rapped on the door. Perhaps they were still in bed, rolling about in all their unaccountable cash.

“Use the bin out front here if you like. I clear them every morning.”

I wished I’d seen them arrive. Further along was wee Pauline, one of my permanents, still mourning her first love.

Pauline knew my ways, with her ideas and her usual stack of green bottles. Then on down to Dave-oh and his fast food wrappers and scratchies.

We’d had a better handle on things since I’d installed the cameras. Young Bec had been against them, but she was

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addicted now. Lewd, some of it. Less ratbags walking in for a free shower, anyhow.

Dave-oh appeared in his doorway, his tatty caravan rocking with anger.

“Get outa my rubbish, ya nosy little fucker. Ain’t nothing in there for you.”

“Just checking for bodies, Dave-oh.”

“Fuck off.”

I had the dirt on Dave-oh. Visits from the parole officer, you see. Next were the motorhomes, with their satellite dishes and gourmet waste, then on down to the leafy little green where we put the backpackers. Their humble trash didn’t tell the whole story; what they got up to you wouldn’t believe. Bec had been a backpacker once. She still snuck down there on occasion.

There was not a peep from cabin nine.

The next morning their bin was still empty. Uneasy, I delayed dealing with the wasps and drove the barren road to town. Bought another game camera, infra-red, the sort that triggers with a motion sensor. The Bogans had stolen my last one.

“You’ll only catch possums with that,” Bec scoffed. “What they’re up to is their business.”

“If they’re dodgy, that’s our business too.”

I stomped off to blow some leaves, Their business – that was good coming from her. We’ve all a responsibility, you see, for public safety. If it smells like fish it generally is, either that or the scene of some grisly fish murder. That evening, I cleverly concealed my new purchase in the depths of a handy willow. Went home to monitor the shower cameras and make peace with Bec, smug with anticipation.

In the greyness of dawn, I turned the game camera over in my hands, squinting balefully at cabin nine. Some low-life had stolen the batteries. A backpacker would have taken the whole thing. Bec giggled when I got back; she didn’t see how serious it was. For all I knew they might be dead in there, or not even bloody well exist.

“I’m going to have to flush them out.”

“We don’t want to lose customers,” she cautioned.

She was right – we couldn’t afford to spook the backpackers again.

“More surveillance then.”

“They might be honeymooners.”

I could tell she was thinking about her precious highlights reel.

“Or bomb makers. Or running a P lab.”

Another decontamination drama was the last thing we needed. We had no choice; I took the secret weapon and headed for cabin nine.

It was empty. That would account for the rubbish situation. Their stuff was still there though, scattered about as you’d expect. No obvious cash. I rooted through their smalls, wondering why you would pay and not stay. Swapped the globe above the messed-up bed for the lightbulb camera and scratched my itchy anus with their tooth brushes. It seemed only fair after putting me to so much trouble.

Dave-oh saw me leaving.

“Pervert.”

‘Voyeur’ was the term we preferred. More sophisticated. I don’t know how Dave-oh knew about me and Bec, he just did. Maybe jail gives you a nose for these things.

“Been sniffing the sheets again, have ya?”

“Seen the people from here, Dave-oh?”

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“Not my business.” He stubbed his cigarette out on the side of his caravan. “Not yours either, to be in there.”

He spat and retreated. Not a great fan, Dave-oh. When we were a bit more financial I might give him the push.

Meantime a little something in his drinking supply would do.

There was no sign of them at all that day. That night I cut the power to one motorhome and slipped a cheeky turd into the water tank of another. Bec said it was small minded, but those guys had it coming, with their cocktails and their children. The backpackers got the blame for anything bad. Cabin nine still bugged me – reporting them missing was out of the question; things were a little testy after the Bogans. I walked back through the ruined play ground and thought about burning something. The wasp nest, perhaps; or Dave-oh.

Next morning, I woke refreshed; happy I hadn’t torched anyone and feeling more resolved about cabin nine. We had their money, after all.

“Got a minute, Banksie?”

Pauline had always called me that. Made me feel good, the way she said it. Respectful, like. I always had time for Pauline.

“Something funny ‘bout your guests.”

“They’re here?”

“Been and gone. One this morning. Cops dropped them off, saw the car out on the road.”

“Their stuff’s still there.”

I’d looked a minute ago. Suitcases. There’d been suitcases in their cabin. You don’t walk in with suitcases. I looked again. My lightbulb camera was gone.

“They got a car?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

I shook my head. The little shits were running rings around me.

Back at the office, Bec made me a cup of tea.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, passing me my pills. “Probably just car trouble.”

“They’re up to something.” I worried the label with a nail, then shoved the bottle aside. “We need to give them the arse. Before it rubs off on us.”

Pauline would know. The camp was still quiet at this hour. Bec didn’t know about me and Pauline. That we went way back. Pauline could be relied on.

“Nothing too harsh,” I said. “Just a little something to send them on their way.”

“Soak a man in fuel and he’ll run.”

Pauline was a romantic. I don’t know what she’d been reading, but that sounded a bit extreme, even to me. Too much chance of things going tits-up.

“No, no, something a bit – softer,” I said.

She thought for a minute, then looked up, smiling, and I remembered how she’d been as a child. How we’d both been.

That evening, I screwed cabin nine’s windows shut and pre-drilled the door; fixed a length of flexible ducting to the air vent on the back wall and readied the leaf blower. Settled into Pauline’s bus to wait. You could tell it was going to be a frost.

They showed up around midnight, smoothly scaling the fence and ghosting up the shadowy tree line; young and agile. As soon as their door shut I pounced, stealing across the dimly lit lawn and screwing it firmly closed.

My bulging wool sack seethed. Pauline had suggested tear gas, but now I had finally dug up the wretched wasps, there was no way I was going to waste them. I fired up the leaf blower, praying the wee buggers would still sting in

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the dark. As the sack emptied, the little cabin stirred, softly at first. Then the lights came on and it erupted; thumping and howling fit to raise the whole camp. I tore free the ducting, wasps streaming away into the darkness. It didn’t stop the screams.

Next morning, I swept the bloodied remains of cabin nines front window into the bin, mindful of getting every piece.

There was no sign of the wasps, bar a few of the fallen. The suitcases were gone too. Further along was Pauline, with her usual swag of bottles.

“You’ll never guess who picked them up,” she hissed. “The bloody cops.”

Down at Dave-oh’s, there was worse.

“You don’t know how much shit you’re in, Wanksie. Undercover, those little fuckers.”

I couldn’t believe it. How could they? We’re all fighting the same war. It was hard enough to keep things honest without that sort of sneakiness.

Investigating the Bogan poisonings, apparently. Even Pauline looked worried then.

When I got back to the office, they were waiting. Car loads of them. They wanted our computer, though I’m buggered if I know what’s wrong with watching people having fun.

They wanted us down at the station, too, to “help them out with a few things.” It wasn’t until we were in the patrol car that I saw how cruel things were. The morning sun lit the autumn colours and the frost still sparkled; out on the harsh road a lonely wasp lost its grip on the window and plummeted into our slipstream. So too our grasp on our home, our livelihood, our paradise. Who’d look after the place now?

Pauline, perhaps. Blood’s thicker than water. Whatever happened, Pauline could be relied on.

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OPEN SECTION POETRY CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE ANOTHER PARABLE ON THE WAY OF ALL FLESH KEN CRAWFORD WAITARA

Sheeps’ eyes are opaque and unknowable, amber lozenges that gaze down long noses into a world of grass and twig, a world made for tearing and tasting and slow ruminations ripe with the smells of greenness and sap.

Flighty as starlings they swoop and jink then sweep widely by on rattling hooves, fearing the dark shadow of human presence and missing the point entirely. Gasping, regretting their swag-bellied haste and racked with cough, they briefly dally then resume their heavy-headed ripping and tearing of the sour winter grass. Absurd on slender stilts, they lightly balance to snatch each tottering mouthful.

All grass is flesh in the theology of sheep, and calendar pirouettes of new lambs, dancing on daffodils, lead at the turning of the year to the heavy limping plod of motherhood, and the blood of parturition.

And all the while, says the farmer, in this kingdom raised on grass the seasons are still changing, the green withering to sere even as with quivering lip the ram sniffs and tastes.

Soon the abattoir’s sharp fingers will snatch all warmth away.

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SECOND PLACE RED BALLOON ALYX DEVLIN ELTHAM

I know that having one is a lot of responsibility I know that without one I can still go on adventures I know that as I am I am still a whole I know that without one I will still have love I know that I don’t need one, but I would like one very, very much.

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THIRD PLACE BITCH, PLEASE ALYX DEVLIN ELTHAM

Alice may have fallen down the rabbit hole But honey you managed to find idiot Corner and followed it around and Down until you found yourself at Exit W115 – and here’s where I must come clean: Frankly, you wouldn’t recognise courtesy if it became a Go-go dancer and performed for you whilst Howling the national anthem of Canada.

I’d like to see things from your perspective but I Just can’t seem to get my head that far up your arse so Kindly take your boobs for brains self and Lick an electric fence – you never know, it May even boost your brain cell count.

Now, I know it’s difficult to Own up to your mistakes and honey, haven’t you had Plenty. Yet still no ‘I’m sorry’ no ‘shit, I mucked up’ this isn’t a Quest; there’s no slaying the dragon or Raiding the castle or saving this friendship because that Ship has already sailed and you didn’t even have a Ticket, let alone were ready to board you Useless potato.

Venture out into the real World and realise that it doesn’t revolve around you. You are Xanthan gum. You are pond scum.

You are humdrum. You are Zero-sum. Go fuck yourself.

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HIGHLY COMMENDED

NOW, IT IS WINTER MELISSA BROWNE OĀKURA

The sun will shine the moon wax and wane the earth stay dutiful on her course in half shadow, half light.

And you, sunk in that deep bed like a quince your eyes ebbing to grey When just last summer, we climbed the brow of the hill and looked out over the ocean I saw two blue fish skimming the bright water

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HIGHLY COMMENDED

PARIHAKA

JANINE MULLIN WAITARA

Parāhuka Marae Can I choose to belong here?

Can I lie down, can I curl up, can I go to sleep here safe with your people, with your whānau, with your tūpuna watching me from the walls can I be one of you?

Can I ask you nō hea au, ko wai au, can you teach me how to be?

Can I stay up all night listening to your kōrero and knowing what it means, can I wash the dishes in your sink, can I kimi noke with your tamariki can they be my tamariki too?

Can I hongi, can I kiss, can I say kei te pai and mean it?

Can I choose to belong here?

Can I stay? Can I stay?

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HIGHLY COMMENDED

RAIN

MELISSA BROWNE OĀKURA

You argue that there’s time enough for a quickie: It’s chucking it down outside The kids are in the shower They’ll be in there a while It’s warm beside the fire I duck outside for a cigarette Rain slashes the eves I push hard against the cool rounds of the woodpile Afraid of being saturated

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HIGHLY COMMENDED

FIRST DEPARTURE PIP HARRISON HĀWERA

The morning-empty airport inhales: fresh coffee brewing, fuel arriving, damp wool.

Rows of red chairs confront the rain-spattered window, that frames trees with leaves like bunting, and gangway stairs to nowhere.

Inside, bags are edged onto weighing machines, phones consulted one more time, as check-in smiles flash.

Bing bing bing bong.

The new flight is announced.

And Amelia, straightens her Mind Over Matter t-shirt, hoists her pack with fingers like the spume-laden waves crashing on the shore beyond the runway, each one white-tipped against the grey, and joins the queue.

Songs wail on the sound system.

“You take care now,” “Love you.”

The ssh and splutter of the espresso machine.

“At New Plymouth airport we take your safety and security seriously.”

The noise flows past, as Amelia in her flying clothes grips her cup, waiting.

A plane arrives, disgorging passengers.

Full becomes fuller and strangers mingle.

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COMMENDED

FEMISPHERE

MICHAELA STONEMAN PĀTEA

Legions of women, we nestle within hummocks Overshare in she-sheds As fresh black hairs sprout from areola We pout our musings over and betwixt our volcano lahars The gap in her teeth holds vertical horizons, star clusters, hoards of bats Flotsam gathered stashed taonga, a femisphere of pairs As darker clouds dance thunder claps purge The mounds, the hills Run to them Run for your lives

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COMMENDED

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND ALYX DEVLIN ELTHAM

It looks like a deflated accordion and all I can think is “Wake up Jeff!” which is precisely not what is needed right now.

I ball my eyes closed in the hope that my other senses will make this awkwardness seem worthwhile, but apparently they checked out earlier.

Bother.

And now I’m thinking about Winnie the Pooh and the purple Wiggle: this is going exactly to plan.

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COMMENDED

GRAFTED

PIP HARRISON HĀWERA

A metaphorical kiwi, plumage grey these days, I stand firmly on New Zealand soil, tang of bush humus in my nostrils, on my tongue; cadence of tui in my ear; accustomed mountain welcome in my peripheral vision.

The colours of the land harmonise.

Te Whiti o Rongomai and Parihaka find a place in my heart, though lie there uneasily – not mine to claim.

I am not a kiwi, not tangata whenua.

The deep roots of belonging both anchor and divide.

A child of peripatetic parents, an antipodean cabbage tree grafted on to English oak, will have shaggy foliage casting fibrous leaves, that hide the fallen acorns of her birth.

Is it in hiding your roots, you express your ‘now’?

Kotahi, e rua nga akaaka. Kotahi te rau.

A tree grown in two soils.

Or a bird pecking in one: a grateful half-kiwi still laughing,

after all these years,

as the ‘fairy’ sails into the harbour.

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COMMENDED

BOY

MARIA CUNNINGHAM NEW PLYMOUTH

The names your mother calls you Chase like pit bulls down the street While I watch at the window, you smile What do I have to return?

Wrap around you down our street How can I pull you in, protect you?

From her hate, lies, the statistics but it’s like my arms are chopped off Lies, hate, statistics, words Who believes in that bullshit anyway?

Not your mum, you’re her little shit And so like your father, the arsehole Not your mum, she blights the wind that Whips us down the street we share I can give you this one thing, Call you the name your mother gave you

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COMMENDED

BEFORE SUNRISE NELL BROWN NEW PLYMOUTH

Before sunrise The sky is a canopy of black velvet But A band of silver hugs the horizon The softest greys threaded in-between Hope Morning is coming Until it does the air is still The air is sharp Magic suspended in the layers of cold that blanket the ground The hills roll and fall before getting lost in the low fog Every blade of grass is dressed in crystal Silence The earth is holding its breath If anyone was out now their breath would dance in trendils behind them There would be an eerily loud crunch underfoot But there’s not Only the clouds move They drift with purpose across the sky Only a shade lighter than the heavens

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The trees along the fence line are masses of black A sleeping congregation Reduced to blurry shapes In this monochromatic landscape There are no stars A watery moon is drowning in the darkness It’s slipping Falling Silver fingers snatch at the clouds Gone From the east Bolts of gold pierce the treetops The trees become clear Rosy pink stains the horizon Light dances over the hills running faster and faster The grass is flushed with colour Diamond encrusted green There is a rustle in the wind A warble of sound Sunrise

COMMENDED

GLASS STORIES MELISSA BROWNE OĀKURA

One boy won’t eat the potatoes, Two perfect rounds, skins barely touching he bleeds wide tears when I beg; They remind him of Mummy and Daddy.

The other stands a whirling plughole Fully frontal with misplaced fear I place my hand where I think his heart should be say please don’t disappear.

Later when they sleep, Finally, I pick up your photo.

There you are in your wine coloured shirt guitar across your shoulder, like a harp You are telling us glass stories.

Title from Glass Stories DW Browne (Ddub) 1970-2019

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