Ronald Hugh Morrieson 2012

Table of Contents Foreword – Mayor Ross Dunlop

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Judge’s General Comment – Fleur Beale & Paula Green

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Secondary School Short Story Division 1st Place – Sophie Andersen-Gardiner, Libby

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2nd Place – Dawn Mills, The Angel and the Burgandy Suitcase

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3rd Place – Romane Limoges, Renaissance

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Highly Commended Bliss Bishop, The Beauty of Our Culture

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Reuben Hall, The Day I Died

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Seonaid Pentelow, Great Barrier Island

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Stephanie Clement, Destroyer of Dreams

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Wade Taylor, Pig Hunt

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Te Rei Bigham-Dudley, A Victim of his Own Success

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Secondary School Poetry Division 1st Place - Laura Francis, Thank you and I love you

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2nd Place - Erinna Rowlands, There and Here

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Open Short Story Division 1st Place – Chargn Keenan, Monday Club

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2nd Place – Warwick Gibson, Fathers and Sons

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3rd Place – Danelle Walker, The Girl stuck inside her own head

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Highly Commended Emma Collins, Dear Spacey

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Phillipa Harrison, Taranaki Perspective

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Open Poetry Division 1st Place – Alison Condon, Forever More

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2nd Place – Sonja Lawson, The Waterfall

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3rd Place – Gareth Aston Carwyn Kahui, No hea koe

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Very Highly Commended Cameron Shane Curd, Reasons for going into Dentistry

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Dave Lee, Anzac Dawn

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Merry Wallis, My Friends

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Highly Commended David Rei Miller, Kaupokonui

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Denise Smith-Watty, Our Nana

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Sonja Lawson, Sheare Speak

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Foreword Ross Dunlop South Taranaki Mayor Ronald Hugh Morrieson is South Taranaki’s most famous author. When he was living and writing in this community, like many creative people, his talent was not recognised.

Remembering Ronald Hugh Morrieson with these annual awards has been a great way to recognise his contribution.

Ronald now receives the recognition he deserves. His four novels have been made into movies, with Predicament being the most recent. Tawhiti Museum is building a tribute to him with his attic that survived 25 years of storage as the centre piece.

Congratulations to all those who have been involved in 25 years of the Ronald Hugh Morrieson Awards. As an organiser or a participant, you make me very proud and thanks to Ronald Hugh Morrieson for being a ‘good bugger’. Congratulations to all the participants and to Pam Jones and the Council staff for organising another very successful event.

Congratulations

Judge’s General Comments Fleur Beale 2012 Secondary School Division It’s been a most interesting task judging these stories. I’ve been impressed by the range of topics, and was very pleased to see a great deal of truthfully realised emotion on the pages. The scope of the topics ranged from trust between parents and children, friendship, love, sport, outdoor adventure, to what appeared to be NCEA writing exercises - these stories showed evidence of careful crafting.

The strongest stories were about more than events. They showed relationships between characters, they showed at least some degree of complexity and they were layered.

Most of the entries were proper stories in that the world had undergone some sort of change between the beginning and the end. Even the character descriptions were structured as stories – superbly, as the winning one demonstrates.

It was pleasing to see the writers focusing on topics they had experienced or knew well.

The incidents the stories were based on were well chosen and the stories were mostly uncluttered. The writing was often impressive, even when the overall story didn’t quite work. I think the high standard has got to be a reflection of the encouragement and hard work of the authors’ teachers.

The advice I would give generally is to watch a tendency to over-write. Some good stories were weighed down with adjectives and verbs that strained too hard for effect. Less is often more. Figures of speech too sometimes ran away with the writer. For a simile or metaphor to work, the comparison needs to be accurate rather than dramatic. Several of these young writers will improve their writing if they aim for accurate verbs, and use fewer but more effective adjectives.

There were a few stories written in the second person by addressing the reader as you.

This is a difficult point of view to pull off successfully and I didn’t feel it did these stories any favours. Sometimes it felt as if the writer was lecturing the reader.

Many of the sports stories suffered from not identifying who the protagonist was.

Sometimes too, it was difficult to work out which team s/he was playing for.

My over all impression was that the writers had for the most part grasped how to structure a short story: something happened; things were different in the protagonist’s world by the end of the story. There was some confident and assured writing amongst the entries that augurs well for future New Zealand literature.

Open Division There were some terrific stories in this section too, and it was difficult choosing the final winners. In the end, it came down choosing stories that had more to them than a simple story – they revealed character, relationships between characters or had some degree of complexity. At the stage of final selection, careful proofing had to be taken into account as well. Some very good stories didn’t make the short list because of errors.

A lot of the writing was strong and the stories themselves covered a wide range of topics even though most of them were firmly rooted in South Taranaki.

Paula Green 2012 I was delighted to be asked to judge the inaugural poetry section of the Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards, but I was even more delighted by the calibre and craft of the poems entered. For me, the entries highlighted what poetry can do: good poetry can do a thousand and one things, and more. I fell upon poems that made me chuckle, that moved me, entertained me and challenged me. There were poems that sang for my ear and poems that rang in my heart. There were very short poems and poems that went to maximum length (50 lines). Many poems met the challenge and brought aspects of Taranaki to life on the page – whether people, place or experience.

Secondary School Division With only seven entries in the secondary-school section, I was a little disappointed in the turn out as I had been really impressed at the poetry produced in the workshops I undertook at the schools earlier in the year. I also recommend bearing the brief for the Awards in mind and finding ways to bring the people, places and experiences of Taranaki alive in poetic form. The two poems that I selected as winners achieved that marvellous poetic feat of showing what you feel about someone or something by providing strong detail. When you do this, the person or the place at the heart of the poem matters so much more.

Open Division After much reading and thought, I managed to whittle the entries down to a list of fifteen knowing it was going to be tough selecting winners out of such a strong field. These fifteen poems all felt fresh, energised, well crafted and full of both music and elements of surprise.

Winning poems need to rise beyond the sum of their parts and have what I could call the X factor but I call charisma. These poems most definitely had charisma. I loved the way the mountain featured in some poems – in such a range of ways you know Mt Taranaki will never be redundant as poetic subject matter. There were a couple of standout poems in this top fifteen that deserved to win but were let down by a lack of careful proof reading (a line that doesn’t make sense, a grammatical error, spelling mistakes). It’s a bit like Master Chef when you are trying to pick the winner out of the very best. A little mistake will count large. I do recommend getting someone else to check your poem.

That said I raise my glass to poetry in Taranaki. Long may it continue! I had such a tough time selecting my winners I have also picked three Highly Recommended and three Very Highly Recommend.

Secondary School Division Short Stories First Place Libby Written by Sophie Andersen-Gardiner Opunake High School When my sister was one, she fell out of her cot and gave herself a black eye. She’d been working on climbing out for weeks, sticking her feet between the bars and hoisting herself up. Dad can remember walking into the room she shared with our brothers and seeing her vertical, in the air, about to hit the ground. I can remember the thump and then the wail, like when my brother William ran through a glass door in Christchurch and sliced open his leg.

I was sitting in our great-aunt’s lounge trying to read Pride and Prejudice (I failed – I’ve never had enough patience for the classics) when I heard the deafening shatter, hard and loud and fast, and then the long, boys scream. Mum drove him to Christchurch Hospital where he was given five stitches. It was the first time us kids had been to the South Island. The thing I remember most about that trip is what we didn’t do. We didn’t go to the Christchurch Cathedral because we ran out of time and besides, we reasoned, we could always come back later. Then the earthquakes happened. Guess we’ll never see it now.

I can’t remember where I was when my sister fell. I do remember the way the skin around her eye swelled up, all purple-black and shiny. Dad said he’d get weird looks when he took her to Playcentre with her damaged face and his explanation, “She fell.” He joked that if he’d spun a tale of a sunny day, a cricket game and a stray ball, no one would have given them a second look. But our family was never the cricket playing type.

I doubt falling eyeball first stopped my sister’s cot-escape attempts for a minute, or at least longer than a week. One night one parent would have walked into her room and found her out of bed yelling and laughing and playing Duplo with the boys, and after that it would have been time for a Big Girls’ Bed. She was always so brave.

My sister was born at 7:30am on the 22nd of May 2003 at Taranaki Base Hospital.

My parents named her Elizabeth after her mother, Alice after Wonderland, Libby for

short. The left-over kids woke up to find our neighbour in the lounge reading a book.

Eventually Dad picked us up and we crowded into the hospital room and took turns holding our new sister and stroking her silky baby hair. Now my sister is nine and her hair goes unbrushed for days, so it hangs in greasy tangles down her back unless Mum can persuade Libby to let her near it. She has her mother’s hazel eyes and, like me, her father’s brown hair. Unlike me, she also has his ears. “Poor thing,” Mum sighs.

Last holidays Libby had her friend J over. The visit escalated from, “Can I go to the library to see J?” through “Can J come play for a while?” to “Can J stay the night?”

She’s good at that.

I was in my room reading when Libby tiptoed to the door. “Sophieeeee,” she whispered in her best baby voice, “I asked Dad if he would take me and J to the park and he said to ask Sophieeeeeee…”

I looked up. “Oh?” She nodded. I could have dragged it on ‘til she actually asked the fracking question, but I wanted to get back to Tortall. “Five minutes,” I sighed.

Fifteen minutes later she tiptoed back. “Sophieeeeeeeee…”

“Get your shoes on,” I groaned.

They waited patiently while I zipped up my boots. Then I chased them out the back door. “Be back by six,” Dad yelled from the kitchen.

As soon as we got there I snagged a swing and plugged my iPod into my ears, until Libby crept up to me and asked me to push them on the big ‘spinny thing’. I waded through the bark and nearly ruined my new suede boots. I only wore them because all my other shoes were broken, which was my reason for buying them in the first place.

I grabbed a rope and ran, then when the momentum threatened to pull me off my feet I let go and watched them whirl around with their heads tipped back, screaming, while I pulled off my boots. I could have bought sneakers, but of course I went for the knee highs with three inch heels. I always feel less clumsy in heels.

Whether I actually am is another story.

“Put some music on,” Libby begged, so I tracked down the happiest, poppiest, child-friendliest song on my iPod, plonked it on the base of the spinny thing and hit play. Then I spun them again.

As soon as the music started Libby tipped her head back and sang, “I’m feeling sexy and FREE!”

I laughed, not just because the song wasn’t really that ‘child-friendly’, not just because I doubted that my sister knew what ‘sexy’ means, but because the song reminded me of Libby’s Grease phase when she was three. Mum would take us to the playground and push Libby on the swing and she’d belt out, “Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee, Lousy with virginity!

Won’t go to bed til I’m legally wed – I can’t, I’m Sandra Dee!” There’s a snapshot in my mind as I think of this, of Mum standing in that same playground on a sunny day in her big yellow hat, face stretched in an embarrassed smile as Libby sings on. I don’t know if she was uncaring or oblivious. When I was young I was always aware of adults laughing at me, probably thinking I was cute, but I hated it. I’d rather Libby was uncaring than oblivious. The life of the permanently insecure isn’t exactly fun.

The other reason I laughed was because it was one of those rare moments when the music fits the mood. My sister and her best friend, whirling around shrieking with joy while behind us the sun set over the sea. Life has so few perfect moments.

I wished them both many more.

I managed to get them home by six.

I don’t think my sister was really named Alice after Wonderland.

Those last holidays were pretty memorable, because for a two whole weeks, William and Libby stopped fighting. They started up again later, of course, but those fourteen magical days of peace were miraculous enough for me and William to have a Serious Conversation about it. “Maybe you could stop winding her up so much,” I said, grabbing my jacket and checking the clock as my lunch break ticked to a close, “and you guys could get along ALL THE TIME.” “Well, yeah, but…” I waved his excuses goodbye and walked back to the Four Square.

The problem is Libby’s temper. Well, it’s the way William plays on Libby’s temper.

Two truths become evident whenever Libby loses it: -When Libby was younger she quickly learned, as we all do, that blaming an incident on someone else gets you out of trouble – or something else. Most of us

use this tactic with a little subtlety. Libby would start screaming at objects as soon as anything went wrong.

-Libby shares my gift with comebacks. And by that I mean she thinks “not true so HA HA” is a clever and cutting response.

Once Libby was sitting in the corner of the house she’s claimed as her own, at the desk covered in her drawings and glitter, with the rest of the family spread through the kitchen and the lounge. Suddenly she jumped up, yelled “It’s not my fault it’s all your fault HA ha HA ha HA ha!” blew a raspberry and ran shrieking down the corridor, until we heard her collapse onto her bed and start dramatically crying. We looked at each other with practiced bemusement, holding back our grins to make the moment as sitcom-y as possible, then we got up to see which inanimate object had done what. I think her scissors had dropped.

I don’t know why William feels the urge to exploit this, especially since it always ends with him getting slapped and the whole house sulking for hours. And I know they can get along. I’ve seen it happen. Once.

Libby always got on better with Thomas, though. We were all born in pairs – two years between me and William, then a four year gap between William and Thomas and another two years between Thomas and Libby. While William and I are slowly growing up, Libby and Thomas are still playing with Lego and watching G-rated movies. Not that I mind. I don’t want either of them to grow up.

There’s different reasons for this, some more complex and harder to work out than others. I’m scared for Thomas, that’s easy enough. I’m scared for his eternally childlike side. I’m scared that he’ll get hurt too easily by people who don’t understand the way his mind works.

Libby’s a little more complicated. I’m sure she can take care of herself, but sometimes I can see myself in her, and it scares the ish out of me. I don’t want her to be like me. I want her to be fearless. When she can’t be fearless, I want her to be brave. I want her to know that she doesn’t have to ‘settle’ for anything or anyone. I want her to be happy.

There’s also the fact that she’s the youngest and none of us want her to grow up for the selfish reason that none of us will be able to do it again. The day before Libby’s birthday, Mum looked at her and pouted. “Don’t be nine, Libby. Nine’s too old. Stay eight.”

Libby just shrugged. To her it was just a bigger number. To Mum it was seeing the last of her babies begin to slip away.

While we’re on birthdays, William and I were both born on the first of our months.

Our great-uncle Brian calls us ‘white rabbits’. White Rabbit Sophie and White Rabbit William.

I like it. It suits me. Nervous, occasionally pompous. Always late to important dates.

A few weeks ago my sister called something ‘gay’ and I marched into the bathroom and gave her the lecture of her life. Well, I tried. I ended up standing behind her spluttering about being mean while she spat out her toothpaste.

I feel a little sorry for the two youngest. It must be tough, having a feminist for an older sister. Soon they’ll start dropping words like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ and, G*d-forbid, ‘faggot’, and I’ll have to explain what they mean and why I never, ever want to hear them again. Not while we’re sharing a roof.

I don’t quite know how to tell them how important words can be. I grew up with words. I spent more time at primary school working through Deltora Quest than playing with my friends. Now I spend my spare time Googling the etymology of random words. Libby never loved reading like I do, so it will be hard to convince her that words are powerful things; that one word wielded the right way can cut deep wounds that only more words can heal. Words have been used to keep millions oppressed, but they’ve also been used to make millions fight back. I want to teach her how to dance around people’s hateful words. I want her to be able to look at any situation and say, “This is how I feel.”

I want so many things for my little sister, but I don’t want to hand them all to her. If sometime in the very distant future she decides to start partying, I want her to tell me so I can make sure she’s alright. If she ever gets called a name I want her to tell me and I’ll explain why they’re all wrong. If anyone ever hurts her I want her to tell me and I’ll rip their face off. But that night I felt like I’d always be her uncool older sister, forever stuck behind her, watching her roll her eyes in the bathroom mirror.

On second thoughts, I don’t think I like the name ‘White Rabbit Sophie’. If it wasn’t for the White Rabbit, Alice never would have got into Wonderland. But once she was in, he left her to her own devices, and Alice barely makes it out alive. If my Alice is ever stuck in Wonderland, I want to be with her every step of the way. I don’t think I can though. I have to run ahead and live my own life, while she trails behind drinking things she shouldn’t and giving herself black eyes, occasionally straying from the path I’ve left, hopefully being reasonably polite to everyone she meets.

Then again, if my job as an older sister is to keep Libby out of Wonderland, I suppose I just have to keep her away from opium and my job is done.

Judge’s Comment The character study of Libby lets us into the world of the family. We see Sophie, the oldest of the four children, by turns exasperated, admiring and fearful for her little sister.

The strongest emotion that comes through – and is never mentioned – is the love she has for her. The story is also about Sophie working out how to be an older sister, and about her thoughts about life.

The story avoids any suggestion of sentimentality – Libby’s a strong personality, she can be manipulative, she’s unafraid and she lives completely in the moment.

The structure of the story is very skilful, weaving backwards and forwards in time. Each episode transitions easily into the next. Family dynamics are never spelled out, but there’s the suggestion that Dad is the main care-giver and that Mum works.

The writing is strong, smooth and a pleasure to read. This story is a worthy winner.

Second Place The Angel and the Burgandy Suitcase Written by Dawn Mills Opunake High School A tall, wiry man stood outside the darkened building, tapping his foot in a rhythmic beat. He held an old worn burgundy suitcase which was innocently swinging in his hand. His long dark fringe fell into his emerald eyes. He flicked it away muttering in annoyance, hoping he wouldn’t he wouldn’t lose his beat.

57, tap 58, tap 59, tap…

The door opened at exactly 5:30am and the tall, wiry man called Stan stepped through. You would call him obsessive. He would call himself precise. He took the stairs of the Hawera Water tower in threes, because... well, just because it seemed right. Someone had told him that the word three sounded a lot like the Chinese word for death and that’s just what he wanted today.

Most people who committed suicide had a purpose, to prove a point or to be with someone. But Stan’s purpose wasn’t a purpose at all.

Stan was the smartest man anyone in Hawera was likely to meet (though in Stan’s opinion they didn’t set the bar very high.) But Stan was different. He based his life on other people’s thoughts. Although Stan was a genius he also had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. He didn’t know this though. He was used to giving a diagnosis, not getting one.

This is why Stan was expertly undoing the screws on the frame that barred the highest window in the tower. He could always just lob himself off a cliff if he wanted.

But in his final moments he wanted to outsmart the system yet again by showing how even a simpleton could break into Hawera’s beloved building. His plan started off with him working in the building for several months as the janitor and groundskeeper. It was low paid, hard grubby work and quite frankly, embarrassing.

But Stan wasn’t in it for the money. And besides, the harder that he worked the more they trusted him. Eventually they were so ecstatic with his attention to detail

(every flower was the exact same length, and they were planted according to colour) that he was given all areas access, twenty four seven. All according to plan.

The idea that you think is crazed and a little unorthodox all began with a child teasing the town’s weirdo. You would think that someone who had been hassled all their life, then revered for their brilliance, would no longer care what others thought.

But because of Stan’s many disorders, what others thought of him constantly haunted his mind. Now because of a seemingly harmless ‘Why don’t you just jump off a bridge if you hate life so much?’ a maniac scheme had hatched.

And because of these reasons, which you wouldn’t think are reasons at all, Stan was now calculating what would be the best angle to jump for maximum effect.

Once he had decided jumping head first would give the most gore, he swung the burgundy suitcase onto the window ledge and caressed its thin, worn velvet. He smiled and popped the locks in two rhythmic beats, click, click. Inside the old case were four neatly printed documents. One was a letter to the Taranaki District Council telling them to up their security and the other three were official suicide notes, which Stan couldn’t choose between.

“Hmm...” His deep voice echoed around the empty building. “Dramatic, heroic or depressed?” he mused.

“How about insane? Or pointless?” a musical voice answered him.

Stan whirled around and glared at the intruder. Standing in front of him was a teen in all the latest trends. Glasses too big and pants too small.

Stan sneered then turned away. A ruffian, who does not deserve to be in the presence of Stan, on the day of his heroic feat. Yes, he thought and he turned his attention back to his suitcase. I shall go with heroic.

“Heroic? You have the intelligence to solve world hunger, yet you would rather chuck yourself out of a window because a little boy bothered you.”

Stan whirled around to snap at the boy, who had rather hurt his feelings. But in the teen’s place there now stood a glowing brilliance which shaped itself into the form of the boy before. But he now wore all white and a halo hovered over his head.

Stereotypical, he was obviously mocking Stan with the human’s typical picture of an angel. Stan did not like being mocked, as you can tell by the extravagant plan to off himself.

“Well I’m sorry Gabriel, but the intelligent life form in this room has things to do.” He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t move his eyes from the angel.

“I do have things to do, so I would be very pleased if we could hurry this up. And God’s messenger, Gabriel has more important problems to solve than a man with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder who wants to kill himself. And my name is Aaron.”

Stan did a double take. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder? Why didn’t he ever notice? Now that he thought of it, the signs were very clear. But it didn’t change things. He had come here to kill himself, and he intended to do so.

“Aaron?” Stan sneered. “That’s not a very holy name.”

The angel raised his eyebrows

“I wasn’t a very holy person.” He shrugged. “But that has changed and now you have a choice.” Aaron walked over to the burgundy suitcase and closed it. When he opened it again, there were only two documents, one marked LIFE and one marked DEATH.

On a normal day, Stan would be outraged that Aaron had destroyed his documents even though he had five more copies of each at home. But today was not the norm and Stan was intrigued. He walked to the open case, and glanced at the DEATH document. It was blank. But the other was not. It told the story of a rich and happy life, where he would win a Nobel Peace Prize for fixing global warming, and name his first child with his girlfriend Anna, Stan junior. As Stan read this, the choice was

made for him. He didn’t really want to kill himself in the first place. He loved Anna.

He loved life. He even loved the gardens he had cared for, for the last couple of weeks. He looked up to tell the Angel but he was already gone and sitting inside the suitcase were his documents of death from before. Stan laughed and knocked them to the ground. He ran to the window and he took a gulp of the fresh and perfumed air. The sun had now risen and Stan welcomed it. What a beautiful day.

“Stan.” A dead voice called from the doorway. Stan smiled and turned to see his beloved Anna. She was holding one his suicide notes, the dramatic one Stan believed. “You were going to leave me,” she whispered, tears forming in her eyes.

She came forward. “All this talk of death, and here you are. Don’t you love me, Stan?”

“Yes!” Stan cried his smile so wide it hurt his usual frowning face. “Of course I love you! And that’s why I...”

“You are going to kill yourself? Well, I won’t let you Stan. It’s not going to happen.”

She stepped closer and Stan held his arms out wide. He knew she would understand.

Then she pushed him.

“Goodbye, Stan.”

They found his body at twelve o’clock, a peaceful smile on his face. In his hands was a dramatic suicide note. No one in Hawera was surprised. “About time” Old Nanny Nemea said.

The young rookie cop who had come to remove the body looked down at Stan amongst the flowers with his arms outstretched and he had backed away, spooked.

When the Chief asked him why, the boy shook and said, “He looked like an angel.”

The Chief shook his head, and came closer to the body. He grabbed Stan’s arms and shook him a little.

“See? Harmless,” he chuckled.

And that’s when Stan opened his eyes.

Judge’s Comment This is a clever, funny story that Ronald Hugh Morrieson must surely have approved of.

The character Stan is unique with his three disorders and his brilliant mind. This is a delightfully comical story with a couple of brilliantly executed twists at the end. The idea of having Stan write suicide notes in three different styles is great.

The writing has excellent energy.

Third Place Renaissance Written by Romane Limoges Opunake High School I can remember this day from the beginning to the end. It is still crystal clear in my head. I know that all I have done on this precise day on my life is somewhere in my brain. Every single detail is stored in my memory and, sometimes, when I close my eyes I can put all the slightest details together and relive the day.

I don't really know when this day ended, but I know precisely when it began.

My alarm went off at 5.32 on this 10th of July. I didn't want normal figures because it was not a normal day, but I had to make sure that the sum of the three figures was ten, like the date of the day. Probably because this logic was comforting. My first feeling when I woke up was fear. I immediately flung my left hand out of my covers looking for some kind of light. Once the light switched on, I saw the walls of my bedroom, my furniture, my objects and this huge bag on the floor. I wasn’t gone, not yet. My brief relief flew away when I realized that this night was the last I would spent in my bed for a good while. I turned over to see the wall behind me. It was entirely covered with photos of my friends, my family, my boyfriend, amazing scenery; train, plane and cinema tickets; funny pictures found in magazines… we could hardly see the orange wallpaper. My seventeen years of life were represented on this wall. When I managed to leave my bed it was around 6 o’clock.

I chose one photo off the wall. It had been taken four years ago when my mother left the hospital with my seven day old brother. All the family was smiling except my new brother. He was crying in my mother’s arms. I reckon I can now understand why a newborn baby’s first reflex when they leave their mother’s belly is to cry now.

They have been living comfortably for nine months and all of a sudden they are thrown into a new world where even the simplest thing, like breathing, becomes difficult and painful. This is what I would feel two days later. It would be like being born again. I put the photo into my bag and weighed it for the last time. It weighed 23.7 kilograms. It was only supposed to be 23kg but I was counting on the leniency of the customs officers.

I went to take a shower, trying to be as clean as I could because my next shower would be in two or three days. I put the clothes on that I had chosen the previous day and quickly put on my makeup. It didn’t really matter because after two days spent in planes and airports I wouldn’t be presentable anyway. I was ready at 7 o’clock. My family and I had decided to leave at 9. My plane wouldl take off at 6.25 pm in Paris and the trip to Paris was quite long.

I spent half an hour sitting on my bed thinking of what I was about to do, living on the other side of the world for nine months. It seemed crazy to me and I wondered why I had chosen to do so. I have always been bored by doing the same thing every day, going to the same school, in the same bus, attending the same class… so I guess I had finally found a way to escape my daily life, but at the moment it just seemed a bit too radical.

Because I had still one and a half hour to occupy I made breakfast for my family, gave my brother a shower, helped him to get ready, printed a map of Paris, checked my handbag for the hundredth time, printed my placing sheet, read it a last time – it was the description of my future new family – and put it into my handbag and gave my other brother a cuddle. I was doing everything carefully, as if in slow motion and I couldn’t help thinking “This is my last cup of coffee in this house” and “This is the last time I will help my brother to put his socks on because when I will come back he will be able to do it by himself”. The word “last” was in every thought.

I was acting as if it was the last day of my life, as if the next stage was the death corridor. It seems silly now.

We finally climbed into the car. I drove through the street on which I have been living for seventeen years. We left the town. I was staring at the road and everybody in the car was quiet. After a while we began to talk. About me, my trip, New Zealand, what will happen during my absence, my brother turning five, my grandparents getting older, my brother entering high school and all that I would miss. I can still hear my brother’s voice: “Do you reckon that they have McDonalds there?”

Near midday we stopped, ate lunch in the rain, took a little time to rest and to let my brother stretch his legs. The atmosphere was relaxed. We were talking about funny memories. The only one I remember is when my cousin in her white alb fell in the mud five minutes before the beginning of her first communion. Then we set off again. My father was driving this time.

After a good while in the traffic jam we finally reached Charles de Gaulle’s airport. Everything became noisy. There were people lined up in front of check-in desks, children crying, parents yelling, people running, pushing luggage trolleys… the more the decibels were rising the faster my heart was beating. We went to one of the desks to register my bag. The woman ordered me to open it and to take out 0.7kg. I randomly picked three things out of my bag with tears in my eyes.

We found the meeting place and I met the three others future exchange students who would be with me during the next two days. They were with their parents. One of them, a tall long-haired boy, even had ten of his friends with him, which made me think about my friends and the last time I had seen them. The adult in charge of us gave us our passports, visas, boarding passes and a nice word. He wished us a good trip, said that we will never regret what we were doing and that he

still remembered when he left for New Zealand ten years ago. We could hear nostalgia in his voice.

Then came the time to say goodbye. I embraced each member of my family once. My mother asked me twice if I had all my papers. Without answering, I embraced them a second time, except my four year old brother because he was more interested by the airport’s escalators. It was a strange scene, four teenagers saying their farewells, trying to realize that the day they have been waiting for, for more than a year, was finally happening.

We slowly moved to customs. Our families were still waving at us. We began to talk when we were out of sight. The others were either freaked out or excited. I think I felt kind of a mix. We found our way to the plane. We were constantly speaking, all at the same time, probably because while we were speaking we were not thinking. Thinking about everything we were leaving behind us. I just remember climbing into the plane, finding my seat and then everything is blurred. I probably fell asleep.

I don’t know when this 10th July ended. We were flying for hours and hours.

The time was always changing, as we went through ten time zones.

Then, before I knew it, I was in New Zealand.

Judge’s Comment This tells the story of a girl waking up at home on the day she’s to leave on an overseas exchange.

Choosing a French girl and writing about her trip to New Zealand gave the story an interesting perspective. It’s about the family relationships, and about fear of the unknown.

I would have liked more attention to paragraphing but despite that, Renaissance is a strong story.

Highly Commended The Beauty Of Our Culture Written by Bliss Bishop Opunake High School C’mon kids! Time to hit the road! yelled my uncle as he forced our “not quite ready to go home yet” bodies into the van. We’d just spent an amazing week in Turangi having the time of our lives, the weather scorching hot as the sun’s rays beamed down upon us all week, tanning us up as we ate creamy mouth-watering soft serve ice cream that melted in our hands leaving them sticky-icky and drunk the traditional fizzy drink of New Zealand: ice cold ‘L&P’ by the beautiful water-front of Lake Taupo.

“This week went so fast” I muttered to my cousin as we made our way to the van, dawdling to kill time. We were both down in the dumps, because the thought of home and getting back to school was highly depressing, considering we were all still in “holiday mode.”

Un-willingly we hopped aboard the cruddy old van that needed a spoon to start the ignition after saying our goodbyes to everyone and for home we headed.

My uncle is very passionate about his culture, so he took us for a visit to his marae before we left for home. We arrived at this spooky broken-down, old rugged sinister looking building. The roof looked as if it was made of rust. The windows were either with cracked or were completely smashed. Us kids were all hoping this wasn’t the marae and thank goodness it wasn’t! It was only the old storage shed.

The marae was located up the hill further, so we headed, up calf muscles pumping, salty sweat dripping down our faces as we tried to conquer what seemed to be a mini mountain.

We finally reached our destination and there standing in the middle of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen, healthy green flax bushes, a range of differently coloured blooming flowers, and native ferns, stood a majestic building with Maori

carvings engraved in it, each piece telling a story about the marae or the ancestors of the iwi the marae belongs to, It was a lovely sight to see.

My uncle continued on to tell us a bit of history about the marae. As he run his hands slowly over a piece that was carved into the marae by his own great grandfather, I could tell that this particular piece meant a lot to him because of the emotions expressed on his face. Relaxed with eyes closed, he felt all over the carving with passion, lips murmuring the words of a meaningful Maori chant that is usually said in remembrance of ancestors. This piece represented the seven Maori chiefs who ruled this piece of land back in the 1800’s and their bodies were contained in the vault next to the marae.

My uncle took us over to the vault. He bowed his head in karakia and we did the same as a sign of respect. His karakia blessed the land and thanked the gods. The vault was another beautiful building with finely painted Maori designs, so intricate and detailed, as if painted with a pin.

‘’When the next Maori chief passes, the vault will be re-opened and the iwi belonging to this marae will re-unite to farewell him. And speaking of farewell, we better be heading home, eh kids?’’ said my uncle as he grappled me and trapped me in a head nougie.

‘’Last one to the van gets locked out,’’ yelled my cousin as the three of them raced to the van, sprinting as if their lives depended on it. Sure enough I got locked out for just a few seconds. But I used those few seconds to look around the beautiful scenery one last time as I thought, “What a wonderful experience this was.”

Judge’s Comment

This is a gentle, well told story. The interplay between the generations is beautifully handled.

Highly Commended The Day I Died Written by Reuben Hall Opunake High School All I hear is the ting of metal clashing with metal, as a bullet ricochets off the big, solid plane beneath me. I repeat over the intercom, “Enemy spotted!” I dive off the plane as if it’s going to explode, landing behind two crude, wooden crates, the size of small cars.

“Covering fire! Bomb site entry!” I yell over the intercom, like a sergeant would in basic training. I wait the longest four seconds of my life, only to be disappointed with one unsettling word, “Negative!”

“What’s happening out there?” I scream though the intercom with the loudest, heartiest voice I can produce. There’s an unnerving silence and suddenly I hear the defining crackle of a rugged P90, spraying its deadly ammunition like a swarm of killer bees, locked on to the helpless victim. From this moment on, I know I am on my own. And I know I cannot win this hopeless battle.

(Two minutes earlier) “GO GO GO” I listened. I heard the words. But I was fully unable to comprehend the simplest cluster of words. I was frozen like a fruity ice block.

“Shudder! What are you waiting for?” I heard the words, the voice of the most skilled soldier I know. He is Delacroix. I realized we had started, so I put away my blunt, rusted Russian machete, and pulled out my Barrett M82 sniper rifle. It’s long, black barrel was in front of me. It’s shiny, black scope was centimeters from my eye, ready to pull across in a quick scope if I the chance presented itself. I followed close behind Dela, like a leech on his back, because I knew if I stayed close to him, he would keep me from being shot in this dry, dusty desert airport.

He and I take out two rugged enemy soldiers, with clean shots to the head. We caught them out in the open, running towards an oversized truck that looked too big for any man to even attempt to drive. One man made it to a steel, orange ladder on the far end of the oversized truck. He touched the ladder as a fifty caliber bullet ripped through his skull like a tornado demolishing a house. Blood, the color of tomato sauce, splattered on the truck. His lifeless body fell to the ground like a deflating air tube, as the tip of my barrel let out a puff of smoke with satisfaction.

“Let's head into the hangar,” Dela suggested with caution in his voice. I nodded and followed him through the incredibly tiny side door of this gigantic aircraft hangar.

We went to the target, an aero plane supported by massive propellers that looked like they should be on an Air Force helicopter.

I climbed on top of the enormous plane or helicopter, whatever it was. I walked over to a basic square hatch in the top of the plane and took my position.

(Present) “Dela? Dela, are you there?” I curse under my breath.

A man comes around the side of the aircraft wearing a desert camo uniform, worn out as if it had been worn for many years. His eyes are solid black from the bad lighting.

The man pulls up his SMG, but is too late. I have my pistol in my hand and am still firing, emptying the gun into him in a matter of seconds. All that I can hear is the clicking you would hear from a very bored man with a pen. He drops to the ground and I’m still attempting to fire the empty pistol that my gray gloved hand is wrapped around. Then I drop it. It flies from my hand as if it had been struck with an electrical surge.

I sprint around the plane, out the door I came in. Dela is on the ground, dead. I curse again.

A man in the same camo uniform is climbing down the ladder, oddly placed beside the door behind me. He sees me and jumps off the ladder, hitting the ground hard, obviously hurting his leg. I pull my M82 up quickly aiming through the scope. I fire. I miss. The man kneels as he grabs his Desert Eagle pistol from his injured leg. My hand flies to my back, reaching for my blunt Russian machete, when a bullet enters my head. “ HEADSHOT,” I hear through my oversized headphones. The words in bold, red writing at the top of my screen.

“RED TEAM WINS.” I press enter on my keyboard, opening up a chat menu and type, “Ha ha, sorry. He scared me! Dela, you ready for the next round?”

Judge’s Comment Lots of well written, fast action here. There’s a battle going on which kills the protagonist and we don’t discover until the end that he’s playing a video game.

Great Barrier Island Written by Seonaid Pentelow Opunake High School Can I make it up another daunting Great Barrier hill? It’s a mountain. My exhausted legs are burning at the thought of moving, the tearing pain in my pack-rubbed back remains from the last heartbreaking hill. But I'll never be the one to express the torturous pain. Expressing pain is like admitting it has defeated or beaten me. Just block it out, I think. We are all feeling the agony.

If anything is going to test my strength it's this sky-scraping hill. It's not like the rest of the hills beautified by the towering native trees, the hope and curiosity of what's around the windy track, the chirpy wildlife, like the fantails happily bouncing on the many spindly branches above our focused heads. It's not like the rest of the hills brightened by Jacqui's blonde comments such as ‘can we step on the dead plants?’ or Mitchell's irritating cheerfulness at such exhausting times. Nor Danielle and Clare's harsh threats to beat Mitchell with bamboo if he does not choose the smart option of shutting up. Not even Dylan and Taylor’s duet of The Climb ‘There's always gonna be another mountain, I'm always gonna wanna make it move’ or the much needed encouragement from Maysen.

No. This Mt Everest’s mirror image is different. It's a ladder to the sky. Every step physically and mentally challenges us to push forward. The distant hilltop is still no nearer than the finish line we will be seeing tomorrow. Getting to the peak is going to be harder than finding the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. This steep barren hill is disheartening. It makes me wonder why I'm here at the foot of Satan. Why anyone would be crazy enough to climb hills like this?

I know why someone would be crazy enough to climb hills like thisor grander ones, soaring the skies higher than birds, or to enjoy running around with painful bulky packs on, to tramp unexplored areas, to raft in icy watersand camp in the torrential rain or in the blazing sun. Because we cross the hard-earned finish line all the pain and tears are worth it. The experience, the accomplishment and the people we got this far with. We’ve made great friends. I know what they’re capable of, how far to push them and what assets they are to our team. We have team roles that have become instinctive. We’ve met new and incredibly talented people but most of all, I’d do it all over again in a flash if I had the chance because if you’re from the Opunake Get2go team 2011.

You know that ‘pain is temporary, but glory lasts forever’ Judge’s Comment There were several stories written on this topic. This one is about more than the physical effort involved in the challenge with an insightful exploration of the reason people ‘would be crazy enough to climb hills like this’. The story is let down by lack of careful proof reading.

Destroyer of Dreams Written by Stephanie Clement Opunake High School Spring.

The air is so hot and dry it’s amazing how anything can live in such a hell-like environment. Tourists scurry around the streets like ants desperately looking for food before the winter comes. As the ants scurry from mound to mound to keep cool they ignore the shabbily dressed beggar. His clothes are ripped and it seems that he is slowly but surely dying of starvation and dehydration. But as he sits, only bones remaining, his dogs lie there fat and plump knowing that they are loved and that being left on the street to fend for themselves is not an option.

‘Have lost home, need money to feed family’. ‘Need money to feed dogs”. These are just some of the cardboard signs along this busy strip that the richer, more glamorous people walk past. They seem scared to look at them, as they live it up in their different themed worlds.

“WINNER!” A man yells, not sounding happy to be where he is. A second later screams of joy and excitement fill the large area, but none look or listen. They’re in a world of their own, addicted to the sound of money that doesn’t exist. The excitement soon fades and the constant ‘binging’ continues to ring in my ears. There will not be a scream of excitement here again for a long time. Winning is not a common thing in this town.

Walking outside is not a relief at all. At home in Taranaki the air is fresh and there is no smell of car fumes in the air. But here it’s the opposite. Taxi after taxi line up waiting for prey, while others are already running away with their feast. A whistle blows and a yellow and black monster comes rushing towards us, eyes looking us up and down. Were we worth the wait? The valet opens the door, not saying a word, just looking for the next sacrifice to throw in the deep end.

“Where to?”

“The Stratosphere, please”.

He then plants his foot and off we go into the stampede of cars and taxis. Soon there are no tourists to be seen, and the buildings don’t shine like glowworms any more. Dull colored yellow buildings let me know that we are not in a friendly part of town. The driver doesn’t speak. He just looks for the next road to go down. A faint glow appears in the distance but it is not enough to reassure me that I am safe.

The Stratosphere is just like any other casino except it has the rides at the top.

That’s what we are here for. The thrill. Security isn’t as tight here. Unlike in the airports, security here is friendly. They actually talk to you without assuming that you have a bomb in your back pocket. There’s the thirty second ride to the top. The elevator rattles and shakes saying, “Don’t move or I will drop you”, scaring me senseless.

Once stationary I sigh with relief. To be a thousand feet in the air doesn’t scare me as much as being on the dry desert below where someone might jump out and grab me. The elevator doors close with a quiet bang and we’re left to find our way in this dark, dingy place. Light gleams into the room. I follow it to see what may be hiding behind its brilliant shine.

Then it’s there, the glowing glowworm-like place to the left and the true face of this dry land to the right. It is beautiful but sad seeing so many people lost in this cruel town. So many dreams destroyed in seconds.

Here in Las Vegas. Destroyer of dreams.

Judge’s Comment This has a surprise ending, but it would have been a stronger story if the reader knew up front that the city was Las Vegas and not some dystopian city in the future. Good, strong writing.

Pig Hunt Written by Wade Taylor Opunake High School The first weekend in June had arrived again and we were heading up to the Waipingau hut, between Mimi and Tongaparutu, a place we have hunted plenty of times before. There was Dino, Monkey, Dad, Wyatt, Kadin and myself. Staying out in the hills with these guys for four nights is an experience the lighthearted shouldn’t take on. There’s Dino, number one blow ass, Monkey a small cheeky fellow who quietens any arguments down between them all. Wyatt is the same age as me and comes out from Waitara to get away from his Mum and Kadin is my younger brother who can keep up with the fastest hunters scrambling through the dense bush. My Dad, well… let’s not say too much about him. On the third night, everyone in the hut looked tired and ready to give up. We all kept blaming the dogs for being too fat or no pigs were in the area or maybe we just had bad luck. Three days of bad luck!

Will tomorrow be our day? Or will we be going to the Waitara pig hunt empty handed? We all slept on it, not that anyone had a good sleep because we were all nervous and Dino was snoring like a wart hog stuck upside down.

We woke early in the morning, knowing there was only one more piece of land that we had any chance of getting a pig on. We shuddered when Dino said we were going to hunt the “Taumaranui Flat”, the biggest, meanest, hard-to-get-to flat in all of the Waipingau bush block, but there was sure to be our prize- winning boar up in amongst the supple jack and gigi. So off we went on our mission. We stopped at the point where we step off the main track and into the twisting, dense bush that climbs uphill to take us to the Taumaranui Flat, but the dogs had other plans and went the other way, across the creek and up into supple jack country. We waited and listened. Dino and Monkey rolled a smoke and talked quietly about our plan if the dogs got on to something. We waited for the bail. Our two main dogs Flinn and Popeye split up and went opposite ways. Our day was looking grim. Flinn went up the gully about 500 metres and let off a bark. We listened, hearing the quietness of the bush, a faint call of a tui somewhere close by, hearing each other breathe, then another bark from Flinn. My heart started beating a little faster. He was onto something! My Dad had said I could get a dog from an ad in the newspaper when I was twelve. Now he is our main finder. I’m proud of my dog. Now we heard a commotion up in the bush. Flinn had turned the pig around and was heading towards us! “Load the gun! Load the gun!” Dino said excitingly, but the pig veered off by the sound of his voice and went back up the top of the ridge...then silence.

Flynn stopped barking. We waited again in the peaceful silence, all muttering under our breaths. Then all hell broke loose, our young pup Spot flew over the edge of a small bluff and up the ridge to help out his mate. The pig turned and ran into Spot.

We could hear one heck of a scrap going on. The pig broke down the creek some

more and ran into Popeye, who had stopped to have a drink in the middle of the drama. The pig had another scrap with Popeye, as Flinn and Spot joined in for a great bail up. It’s interesting to watch the dogs work together as a pack, similar to wolves; every member has its job to do.

“Come on we have to go” Dad said.

We all sprinted off down the creek leaving Dino behind. As we got to the pig and dogs we heard crashing on the other side of the creek. Dino and Monkey had a running race to get to the bail. They both jumped into the creek grabbing the pig by the hind legs “We got em”! They both yelled out as the pig was flipped over and stuck in the middle of his black hairy chest and a red river of sticky blood ran out.

Everyone was in a good mood and praising the dogs, but not all of the dogs were there.

“Where’s Spot?” I asked. Dad came around the corner carrying poor Spot, his stumpy tail wagging. Dad had picked him up out of the creek. He had passed out from heat exhaustion. We gave him a breather while Dino gutted the pig and Monkey amped himself up for the carry out, always a hard and difficult job, but the rule of the bush is, if you stick it, you carry it and get to keep the jaw, which is a pig hunter’s trophy hung in the shed to remind himself of the event.

We got back to the motorbikes at 7.00am. It was still early so we put the pig in the shade and carried on up to the dreaded Taumaranui Flat. The track was overgrown with supple-jack and gigi making the journey difficult. The dogs were all excited and wanting more action. They’d picked up on some scent and were now off and up on the flat. We started to move on a bit faster, because if we get too far behind the dogs, by the time we get to the bail the dogs have bitten the pig and bruised the meat, which is a waste.

Monkey, being as nimble as a chimpanzee, raced down the creek dodging logjams and over -hanging branches. “Yee ha! He’s a goodie!” he yelled to us.

The boar was a goodie all right. We may be in the running for winning biggest tusks with a set like that, I thought. Keen as, Monkey stuck the boar and took first go at carrying the monster pig out.

As Monkey was carrying the pig out he stopped and asked, “How far have we got to go?”

“About 300 meters roughly,” said Dino.

So Monkey picked himself up and said “I’ll carry it the rest of the way then” I noticed a funny smirk on Dino’s face. We got back to the motorbikes with our prize pig. We were all in high spirits, happy and headed back to the hut for a cold beer.

Next morning was the day of the weigh in. We went for a quick hunt, but the dogs didn’t pick up on any scent and there were no signs of fresh rooting around. So we packed up our gear and headed back home to a well-deserved warm shower and towel. We weighed the boars. The first caught was 37kg, and then big boy with the hooks weighed 47kg. Maybe we might get a prize for average weight also.

In Waitara the pigs were weighed and the winners announced. We all crossed our fingers for the average weight division, but we were too heavy by 3kg. Close, but not close enough. The next category was biggest tusks.

“And the winner for biggest tusks goes to team 17”.

“That’s us, yeah”, my brother Kadin yelled.

Dino went up and collected our prize. $100. Not a great prize, but a prize still. We all said our goodbyes. And it was off home to a good soft bed.

Judge’s Comment I liked this story very much but it needed more crafting. The author takes the reader right into the dramas and frustrations of pig hunting. The writing is lively and energetic.

A Victim of his Own Success Written by Te Rei Bigham-Dudley Opunake High School “You have to choose.” The four words he dreaded hearing had been said.

He knew he had to make the difficult decision, even though he really wished he didn’t have to. He had become a victim of his own success, having been selected for two national teams in different sports. He definitely wouldn’t have to pick between the two if training times and game days didn’t clash, let alone all the traveling around the country.

It had come after a long, hard three and a half hour basketball session. The coach had called him over to talk while his team mates walked off to get changed.

“You have missed way too many practices. You really need to commit to being on this team properly or you can’t be on the team at all,” the coach said with a serious look on his face.

The boy was extremely cut up. He didn’t want to stop playing soccer or basketball at such a high level, but deep down he absolutely knew the coach was right. He had been struggling to make all the trainings and it really wasn’t fair on either of his teams.

He thought about asking his friends and family what they would do if they were in his situation, but he decided that he really needed to make up his own mind. After all, it was his life and his future at stake. It was totally his decision to make.

The coach had only given him a week to choose. It was now day seven. He had a lot to think about, like how far he thought he could go in either of his most-loved sports, what fitted best with his life and most importantly, which he loved to play more.

Soccer was the one he had played for most of his life. It was a sport he knew he would always love, no matter what he chose. He thoroughly enjoyed getting out there in all weather conditions, especially with the team mates he grew up playing with and knew everything about. Some of them had become life-long friends off the field as well.

Even though he had only been playing basketball for a few years, he had a major passion and drive to play and go hard out every time he stepped onto the court. He loved the fast pace, the physicality of the game and he had achieved so much in that short time, far more than he imagined he ever could.

The decision came much more easily than he thought it would. He picked up his phone to ring his soccer coach to give him the news. The coach was disappointed to lose such a good player, but was happy for him and wished him all the best.

Afterwards, as he was dialling the number of his basketball coach, he smiled knowing he had made the right choice and was already thinking about how hard he was going to have to run to make it up to the coach and the team.

Judge’s Comment This is a sport story with a difference. It’s about making hard choices. Plain, strong writing that suits the topic. It feels emotionally truthful.

Poetry Secondary Division First Place Thank You and I Love You Written by Laura Francis Blonde hair sparkling with gel Blue eyes a deep ocean Oversized feet clomp around Cracking jokes all day Whiskers wild on your chin Short and clumsy walking about A grin as big as can be The dominant one of your features Personality happy and bold But caring all the same Wondering weekly of the worldly Tales that you tell Always unprepared For the stitches that are felt Tears of laughter Tears of pain We share them once again You wouldn’t have guessed Or even thought That I need you in my life You are my boat My floating device From all things bad and wrong You bring renewed hope When things seem so blue Making a rainbow Out of anything you use When I’m scared and don’t know what to do You come along and help me get through We are different but the same Big brother I want to say

Thank you and I love you Forever and always.

Judge’s Comment This magnificent poem is a heartfelt tribute to a brother and it comes alive in all the carefully picked detail. The poem shows the love a sibling feels for a brother, but what makes this poem stand out is the way the poet has managed to make the brother seem so real. I love the way there is a sprinkling of clever rhyme that adds to the rhythm. I love the way we don’t get a superficial portrait of the brother but one that goes much deeper.

Bravo!

Second Place There and Here Written by Erinna Rowlands Gone are the dusty roads Gone is the traffic Gone are the adventures Gone are the meetings Gone are the people

Compelled to compare What is this place I once knew?

Where the mountain would inspire as strength Where the water tower would prevent A fire, Now moved through me from travelling afar

Here streets seem empty Here traffic moves straight Here adventures are minimum Here Hawera is my home

There the dusty track was full There the traffic flowed in a serpentine

There the days were everlasting There I felt at home

See there No wants, nor greed No complexities of luxuries No hiding, only findings Of the person I’m meant to be

To try and live with nothing To find my grounding I live in idealistic views

As my adventures come near My wandering here will disappear But it is to be recognized I will visit

For my gratitude of all Hawera is The People I love The lessons learnt Will have me returning

Judge’s Comment This poem is like an ode to Hawera as it sings of the poet’s love of the town. I love the way the changing repetition at the beginning of the lines gives the poem terrific movement. I also love the way the poem shows how your relationship with a place can change and how the place itself can change, but how your feeling for a place can remain strong and true.

Open Division Short Stories First Place Monday Club Written by Chargn Keenan Ngawari came down the drive in the iwi van. Late again. Aunty Lola had been waiting and waiting on the front porch. Her good coat on. The one not good enough for weddings but good enough for church. Hardened eyes.

“Come on Tony that Maxwell’s finally turned up.”

“Morning aunty morning uncle.” Ngawari used his lulling voice.

“Late again.” Aunty Lola never fell for that voice.

Uncle Tony closed the van door and hopped in the front. He had seen Aunty Violet.

He was in no mood to talk to his sister especially with Uncle Roy sitting there.

Mongrel, thought Uncle Tony, he still hasn’t paid me back and now lining up the next one. Cheated at cards then cheating us now. Now sitting next to Uncle Stevie.

They looked and raised eyebrows the same way they did back in school through the works on the bowling green. Uncle Stevie lost more than his wife last year. Lost his reason. Uncle Tony never knew what to say so said nothing. Uncle Stevie did not mind.

Ngawari now came down Aunty Iri’s. Ngawari tooted and was quickly told off by the aunties. He got out knocked on the door then two windows. Good thing the door was unlocked. Aunty Iri was on the computer squinting at a very long e-mail.

“Morning aunty you ready?” Ngawari stood in the lounge doorway smiling. Aunty Iri squinted at him.

“What for?”

“It’s Monday Aunty day for morning tea.”

“Where?”

“The iwi office.”

Aunty Iri smiled back. She did not like that e-mail anyway. And she would rather go to the iwi office than the pa any day. Too much to do at the pa.

Mihirangi concentrated on placing pikelets on the platter. Pensive. She had worked at the iwi office here on the West Coast for two years. Shame she was from the East Coast. Mihirangi could see the hardened eyes of Aunty Lola looking at the tension between Uncle Tony and Uncle Roy. Aunty Violet intimidated by the group.

The tough gruff from Aunty Reirei and the smooth sooth of Uncle Ropata. Aunty Iri playing impishly on the sidelines. Uncle Stevie not minding.

Pikelets buttered jammed creamed. Sandwiches quartered. Fruit washed towelled stacked. Madeira cake iced sliced. Mihirangi did the tally. Enough for each to find a favourite and for each to find a fault. The perfect balance.

Ngawari now parked outside the iwi office. Mihirangi breathed deep and uttered Christ-here-we-go. She turned to the front door. A big smile overcame her.

Mihirangi kept that smile as she helped aunties and uncles out of the van over the kerb up the stairs into the office. Moist kisses sat in the creases of her right cheek.

Ngawari slunk in. Texting. Mihirangi elbowed his and motioned to the teapot.

Ngawari gave that why-do-I look but Aunty Lola’s eyes hardened. Uncle Roy gave the karakia much to the disgust of Uncle Tony. Aunty Violet noticed Uncle Roy forgot the same part each time he said that karakia. Aunty Iri squinted at the sandwiches trying to work out which ones to grab first before those other buggers.

Ngawari tried to concentrate on the tea and the text but the tea came off second best. On the tablecloth. The special white tablecloth made of linen. Uncle Ropata just smiled at him. The aunties were too busy eyeing off the cakes and the competition. Mihirangi leaned toward Ngawari and he started to pass the teapot to her. She took his mobile.

“Your boys doing alright in Australia?”

Aunty Iri looked at Uncle Ropata. She had no boys in Australia.

“Oh I don’t know. They’re doing alright to stay away.” Aunty Reirei missed her boys and mokopuna. And her daughters lived in the city. Might as well be Australia.

Uncle Ropata let his eyes and lips relax to a smile. His boy too was in Australia. Oil. There was oil near him and Aunty Violet. Not the right oil. Not Australian oil. His boy was forty two no wife no kids no cares. Uncle Ropata knew his boy would come back. They do when they’re broke. There was always something for them here.

“Young people need to live their lives.”

Aunty Lola had lived all her life here. Even when she was young. Did not understand that young-people-have-to-leave-to-live rubbish. Aunty Lola just saw Aunty Reirei lonely. Young people. Uncle Tony looked at Uncle Roy. He was going to say something. Indirect. Pointed. Mihirangi got up and reached for the Madeira cake. She knew Uncle Tony could not stand Madeira cake.

“Uncle Tony have a cake Stella made it specially.”

Uncle Tony looked at the cake. Looked at Mihirangi. Knew what she was doing.

Uncle Tony had to do something. Say something.

“Stella’s a good girl baking for us.” Aunty Iri thanked Uncle Tony for the compliment about her moko by rolling her eyes.

“Better on the table than in the oven.”

Deep chuckles around the table. Even from Uncle Stevie. Aunty Iri did not mind.

The child was at the age that kept Aunty Iri young. Even Aunty Lola did not mind the child. Who could blame the child. Ngawari turned his back. Flushed. No one knew who fathered the child. Except him. Uncle Tony decided it was time.

“Remember you Roy with that girl from down south? You were damned lucky her dad never found out. Running around the long grass pulling your pants up!”

“Aw, her old man was alright. Bit blind sometimes. His shotgun was a different story though. Never missed.”

“Where she now?”

Aunty Violet tried to look even braver.

“Why, I saw her at a noho marae. Was it last year? You’re talking about Mary?

She’s working for some health outfit. Podiatry I think. Mary asked after you Roy.” Aunty Lola knew Aunty Violet made that last part up. Gave a look and an eyebrow.

Aunty Violet spent some time deciding on which apple washed towelled stacked to eat.

“Hope you told her I own seven farms holiday in Fiji retired at forty. Richest Maori in these parts.”

By making every other Maori poor, thought Uncle Tony.

“You were forty when you found out where Fiji was.” Aunty Lola could say that.

“Internet says they still playing Cowboys and Indians in Fiji. Can’t sort their places out. Shops burning and people revolting.”

Aunty Iri loved the internet even the squinting. Moko tried to show her how to make the font bigger but it just did not look the same after that. Aunty Iri thought learning should be difficult. Something to work for. Moko did not get that.

“Not only revolting people in Fiji.” Poor old Uncle Roy just couldn’t help himself.

“That mongrel Waimanu and the time he got everyone in a revolt. Standing on the paepae saying we all got our tikanga wrong. Shouting at us waving his arms at us speaking pakeha and swearing! In front of the Manuhiri too! We all too dumb to shut him down.”

The aunties remembered that day well. The chorus began. “We weren’t the dumb ones.” “Not our way.” “His boy’s in the mental ward.”

“And he’s never sat on that paepae again.” Aunty Lola shut that one down.

Mihirangi nudged Ngawari and her eyes pointed to the teapot. Ngawari looked wounded but got up emptied the teapot put fresh tea leaves in filled the teapot from

the urn put the teapot back on the table. Whispered “Can I get my phone back?” to Mihirangi.

“Fresh cup of tea?” Mihirangi asked the Monday Club. She liked it when Ngawari whispered. Gave her an excuse not to hear.

“Least they kept their land in Fiji.” Uncle Roy spoke through a ham lettuce tomato sandwich quartered. “Not surprised they’re fighting. Land’s the only thing worth fighting over.”

Or stealing, thought Uncle Tony.

“Is that so?” Uncle Ropata had finished his corned beef relish sandwich quartered.

“We’ve lost all of ours and still we fight each other.”

“Pakeha aren’t worthy opponents” Uncle Stevie was very relaxed.

“That city slick Johnston gave it a shot. Typical pakeha lawyer. Who was he acting for again? Those back block farmers wasn’t it?” Uncle Ropata still had bad memories of the community consultations.

“We acted true to ourselves in the past as we do today. What of it? I thought this was a morning tea not a hui.” Aunty Lola realised she was acting harsh today. It put the others on edge. Aunty Lola realised earlier today she was now older than her kuia. Weighed heavily.

“And we still keep each other company. That’s one thing that’s never changed.”

Uncle Ropata let his eyes and lips relax to a smile. Aunty Lola always appreciated Uncle Ropata. A good man even if he was more from the iwi neighbouring the south through whangai.

“Even when there’s fewer of us.” Uncle Stevie spoke from another place. “Once you could have filled this room with the old people.”

“Ae and would you want them back?” Aunty Reirei turned to Uncle Stevie. “Arguing over money over what they did as kids over their old people. Nup not me. Sick of it.”

“I’d be worried if they came back right now.” Aunty Iri found her cheeky grin. “Be more worried if I was you Roy.” Bloody good job, thought Uncle Tony.

“Perfectly innocent misunderstanding. Koro Tuterangi should have read the contract more carefully.” Uncle Roy found his politician voice. The one he used every time this was brought up.

In my face, thought Uncle Roy. Aunty Lola would not shut this one down. Anyway, she knew what had happened.

Only people who knew should speak. Anyway, she had her own concern now.

Aunty Lola looked at Uncle Tony by looking ahead. Kept an eye on him. Took a sip of tea. Bit cold. Anyway, not her family not her concern.

“You stole that land from Koro.” Round one.

“Can’t steal if money passes hands.”

“From whose hands to whose.” Round two. “You ripped him off. You know it.”

“Read the contract didn’t he. Knew the offering price didn’t he.”

“After two days of whiskey and cards. Your whiskey your cards.”

“Koro was always going to hand that land to me.”

Mihirangi watched. Just watched. She lost track of the words. Words were not important now. She watched the old people who had grown up together had the same arguments over more years than she had lived. The tones were less virulent.

But flavoured by decades of bitter experience. The actions were less aggressive.

But moved through decades of repetition. Became stronger. Mihirangi thought of her own old people back on the East Coast. Just the same well, maybe louder.

Less reserved. Her old people who had grown up with each other who fought each other who married each other. Who relied on no one else. Would not trust anyone else.

Aunty Lola had already decided the men started it the men could finish it. She was working out who would. Aunty Violet had given up on her brave face. She and Uncle Ropata would have words at home. Aunty Iri had already turned the napkins into harakeke. Uncle Tony had leaned right forward on his chair left arm resting on his thigh right arm moving down through the decades his face alive large and righteous. Uncle Ropata had folded his arms on the table waited for Uncle Tony to lose steam. He would have to do the same with Aunty Violet later on. Uncle Roy had sat right back in his chair rugby photo pose. The same grim determination gripped his body. Another talk he and Aunty Lola would not have at home. Uncle Stevie had an empty plate in front of him. He knew he was being brought back into the room. Aunty Lola was waiting for him to intervene. Must be his turn.

“Girl, must be time for lunch.”

Mihirangi nudged Ngawari and her eyes pointed to the teapot. Ngawari looked wounded but got up.

Judge’s Comment Continued Nothing much happens in this story about a group of old people going to the iwi office for their regular Monday morning tea. We learn a great deal though, about their history and their relationship to each other as well as their opinions about each other. There’s also a side story happening between the driver of the van who transports the old people, and the acerbic Mihirangi who organises the morning tea. The deliberate lack of punctuation gives the flavour of the old people’s speech. Mihirangi’s understanding of them is clear-sighted, realistic but not unkind.

This is a very interesting story in content, structure and style. Much is told in few words.

The repetition of lists is humorous and also contributes to the feeling of continuity; Mihirangi has done the same actions many times before and expects to do them again next time.

Second Place Fathers and Sons Written by Warwick Gibson Bill couldn’t believe it. His own son!

It didn’t help that he was half awake, and what small part of his brain was functioning had to concentrate on his driving. He thought of calling the boy back on his cell phone, but realised he was too angry for that.

He looked at his watch. Quarter past friggin’ two in the morning! He lifted his hands over his head in exasperation, then slammed them back on the wheel as the car skated over a long stream of cow muck. Bloody typical. The council could warn him for burning off after he’d cleared out a boxthorn hedge last year – and promise him a hefty fine next time – but wouldn’t do a thing about his neighbour fouling up a road the whole community used. For a moment he thought of putting in a complaint himself, but the truth was you had to live with each other out here on the Waimate plains.

His feelings of irritation returned in full force. What was wrong with the boy!

All that money spent on driving lessons, and two weekends at the skid rink learning how to avoid exactly this situation. And where was his son right now? Sitting on a bank with his stupid mates while a tow truck pulled his car off a tree!

It was so hard to teach him anything. It had taken years to stop his son calling everyone ‘Dude’, and even longer to accept that half the population now seemed to call the boy ‘Sledge’. What sort of name was that? What was wrong with Roy? His mother had given him the name – God rest her soul – and it seemed sometimes like young people had no respect for things like that.

Then he realised he was talking to himself, just like his old man used to. That woke him up in a hurry. If there was one thing he’d wanted to be all his life it was not like his old man.

He rounded a corner, and saw the tow truck. When he reached it he pulled over, somewhere out of the way, and advanced on the knot of figures standing around the car. His son leaned against the boot, eyes downcast, his friends starting to move away from him.

‘Staking out the sacrificial goat for the wolves, eh, you bastards,’ thought Bill, his anger flaring momentarily. Then he calmed himself.

They were young. They knew no better.

He tried to stop kneading his fists as he approached the car, and unexpectedly found himself remembering the tongue-lashings he’d got from his father, and the scorn heaped on him every time something like this happened in his life.

He stopped beside the lone figure.

“Don’t understand how it happened,” said his son, his young man’s voice heavy with frustration. “One minute we were on the right side of the bend up there . . .” and he pointed with an arm that suddenly went shaky “. . . and then I thought we were going to roll!”

Bill looked down. A bald strip of rubber stared accusingly up at him from the outside edge of the back wheel.

How many times had he talked to the boy about maintaining his car properly, not treating it like some sort of cartoon way to get from A to B? Didn’t he realise the damn thing was a weapon, far more dangerous than the 22 they kept for possums, or the 308 the neighbour had for pig hunting.

It didn’t matter these boys thought they were invincible – it was hard to keep a lid on a tank of raging hormones – but they didn’t think about the cost to others, the damage and the deaths they would eventually cause. To them it was always an “accident”.

Bill felt a sense of outrage burn darkly within him, and he turned away before he started in on the lad. He wasn’t sure he’d know how to stop.

“Didn’t change that back tyre,” he said eventually, settling back against the boot. “Thought we talked about that.”

He felt his son tense up beside him.

It was then he realised the hopelessness of the situation. What the lad hadn’t taken on board by now he never would.

For a moment Bill felt himself elated by a sense of freedom. The boy was old enough to look after himself, wasn’t he? It was society’s problem now! But that moment was short-lived. Bill felt his view of the world begin to shift in an odd way.

He reached out for his son.

“Happens to us all, eh boy?” he said softly, putting an arm across his son’s shoulders.

The boy looked startled, then glanced up to see if this was a prelude to something far worse. Reassured by the look of understanding on his father’s face, he slumped back against the boot.

“We’ll get you a new tyre for that wheel – if this heap of yours can be patched up,” he said. “And we’ll get it properly balanced this time. None of your short cuts.”

Bill realised he was running on a new kind of instinct. Something told him it was okay to show his son there were rules, and how much it hurt him to see them broken. But if there was to be a glue holding it all together and making it work, it would be him supporting the boy through it all.

His son started to say something, and his voice quivered to a halt. Bill tightened his arm about him, taking some of the strain – emotional and physical – for his son. They stayed like that, motionless at a barely recognisable turning point in time, until the boy straightened up again.

Then the rest of the story came out, the old man grunting now and then as he nodded encouragingly. Inside, his emotions beat a bewildered counterpoint to the calm he portrayed for his son.

Together, they stepped away from the boot as the towie came in to do his work.

“You’ll pay me back for the tyre!” said Bill in a mock growl, slipping his arm under his son’s shoulder before immobilising him in a headlock he’d showed the boy when he was much younger.

“Yeah, yeah, right Dad, absolutely. First pay day,” said his son hastily, the relief evident in his voice as he struggled to get his hand under the outside edge of the choke hold to peel the arm off his neck.

Bill let him go before he got there. The boy probably didn’t realise his father was too old to be seriously contesting the point with him.

They settled back against the fence, while the low whine of the winch brought the car off the tree. Whatever it was he was doing, Bill thought absently, it seemed to be working. He hadn’t felt this close to his son in ages.

As unexpectedly as the first time, hazy recollections of his old man returned.

‘Bloody hell,’ he thought dazedly, ‘a man can change.’

Judge’s Comment This is a beautifully realised and understated story of a father reconnecting with his adult son. It’s told from the father’s point of view and his voice is consistent and authentic.

Third Place The Girl stuck inside her own head Written by Danelle Walker How can I begin to describe how I feel? Like I can't breathe? Almost like my heart is beating to fast without beating at all? Like a twit, because I feel this way over you when I know I shouldn't?

Perhaps I'll go for sad, because you will never know how much you hurt me. Me and my silly little crush.

Yes I’m a silly teenage girl, and yes we do tend to blow things out of the water but the fact of the matter remains that we are easily led. Our minds go there naturally and when you are encouraging us to think that way about you, then I’m sorry to say but, you sir, are in the wrong.

What am I talking about? It really wouldn’t surprise me if you couldn’t remember; after all it never seemed to register to you. Perhaps I shall remind you. Write it down so that if you should ever stumble across this piece of venting then you will know what I am going on about and you may even remember what a dick you were.

So to start with you were my friend. Nothing odd there. I talked to you and acted playfully because that’s the type of person I am. A couple of times my mind would wander to that hormonal place where I size people up as a potential boyfriend, but I never go past that point. I do not let myself feel a feeling that I’m afraid could potentially be unreciprocated. It’s too much off a mess in my mind otherwise. I’ve seen my friends get hurt that way and there is no way that I will walk down that path.

So we were friends and then, then you did something odd. You started to cross that blurry line that I perceived as the difference between friendship and something more, something else. How utterly confusing for that hormonal part of my brain reserved for being stupid. You approached me first and that tiny little floodgate stopping me from being just another unrequited... it opened, just a bit. I thought there was a maybe in there and so I let myself be a fool, but not too much of one.

Then the plot thickened, because nothing is ever that easy. Turns out you had a girlfriend. Gosh thanks for making me feel a bit used. I felt even more confused now. You still crossed that boundary, but for me it had stopped being blurry and become clear. If a guy has a girlfriend you do everything on the safe side so that you don’t cross any of those lines. But here you were throwing me completely off balance by crossing them yourself. It was only worsened by the fact that I was friends with the girlfriend.

The relationship ended as many do, I remained cautious around you. I first established that you didn’t need sympathy as you was the one who did the dumping. That little part of me bubbled up with a little bit of hope. I returned some of the gestures. Using you as a cushion like you had once used me as one, claiming that the tides had turned and how did you like it? You accused me of flirting not long after you had broken up with your girlfriend, but all I was doing is what you had done to me. So were you actually flirting with me before? Needless to say that side of me didn’t get any better she only got more hopeful. More so after sharing a few texts.

Then you disappeared for a while. No reason for it. You just went from hanging out with us sometimes at lunchtime to never being around. So a little bit off unhealthy pining and that side of me holding to the hope grew a little more. But of course just as things don’t go easy, things don’t work out for me. You didn’t hang out any more because you had a new girlfriend.

Do you see how this might have hurt me just a little? You brought the side of me that I kept carefully locked up, out into the open. You led me on. The worst part being that I still don’t know what I am to you. Just a girl you used to get some kicks out of being bad? Or someone you legitimately felt for? I dearly hope it’s the first because if it’s the second as I often fear, then I think I will never recover my self esteem. I’d be the girl that you liked but chose not to choose. I’d be second best.

Are you remembering any of this? Are you beginning to feel guilty for how you treated me? I sincerely hope so, because maybe next time you’ll think twice before hurting a girl by making her think. Think she was special, think she had a chance.

Our minds are our weakness, far too many of us fall because of them and our inability to stop what we think from influencing how we feel.

You were my first real crush and you hurt me. You made me realise why they call it that. Because it never really comes to play when our minds are doing the thinking and our hearts end up crushed. But I’m okay, don’t you dare think I’m not. I’m getting over you as I will any other silly crushes that may arise. This is because I am strong, I am special, I am worth having and I’ve come to the realisation that I wouldn't burn my life to the ground for you, but something sure as hell would catch on fire if you ever mess with me like that again.

Judge’s Comment The guy on the receiving end of this heartfelt rant should curl up and cringe! The story is an exploration of how the narrator got her heart broken and her trust betrayed. It’s in the form of a letter, with the reader addressed in the second person. It works because the reader knows who you refers to.

Highly Commended Dear Spacey Written by Emma Collins Dear Spacey, Long-time no see! I ran into Trisha Fantham the other day at Becky Laurent’s funeral, poor Becky, taken out by a tanker on the Normanby strait on her way home from work. All those years of healthy living and good works and look at what it got her. Trish said she still keeps in touch with you and she would post this for me. I find myself back in Hawera after all these years and I’ve been thinking of you and what we got up to back in the old days, when we were young.

You might have heard but Steve left me a few years ago, the kids had left home so he didn’t have to pretend anymore, ran off with some wench from the dentist’s office. So I came home to Hawera, and I had been teacher aiding at the high school up until recently, which makes me think of all those afternoons we used to bunk off and hang out at your place while your parents were at work. I look at the old photos now and laugh. In them I’ve got big hair and you’ve got none! Hawera’s first punk rocker. Have you still got those Doc Martens? I bet you’ve still got a copy of the Sex Pistols on LP. I went for a drive out to Turuturu Mokai last week, remember how we used to push bike out there for a swim in the river? We spent half the day just lying in the sun and splashing about. Didn’t know about UV factors then, nor holes in the ozone layer. I don’t think it would have bothered us though, we were too young and fit and free for the first time. The Pa site is all over grown now and the willows and blackberry have blocked the river. I thought about trying to find the end of the tunnel again, but I felt like I was trespassing. Wasn’t that an adventure, with TC and Dan and Ralph and that red haired chick, forgotten her name now. Digging out the bank with bits of wood, we were lucky it never caved in on us.

The summer of ’84 seemed to last forever, didn’t it? Our last year of high school, and didn’t we party! Lighting big bonfires of drift wood down at Ohawe beach in the dark, passing around a bottle and listening to tapes of the Angels and the Eurhythmics with the car door open. There was much more music around then, or I am just getting old? It seemed like every weekend there was a band on at the

Central or the Eltham Town Hall. I can’t remember half the names of them now, but there was the Knobz and the Girlz, the Back door blues band.

I know we saw Split Enz at the Bowl several times, you always used to end up in that stinking duck pond half naked. Amazing you never got pneumonia or something worse. Remember driving down Lemon Street looking for lemons to pinch to go with our Tequila? Or that time we got left behind at Opunake and spent the night trying to walk home (oh for a cell phone then!) and waking that guy at Sleepy Hollows so we could use the phone to ring my mum. Wasn’t she pissy about it! The Oeo Pub is shut now, by the way.

I’ve also been to King Edward Park recently. I remember you walking me home and picking roses for me in the dark and you cut your hands to bits on the thorns. And the time you pushed me into the lake, I was surprised that it wasn’t as deep as it looked. And I whinged that I would tell my dad when I got home and you jumped in too, and said that you would say I pushed you first. Then walking home with jeans dripping wet from the thighs down and smelling like duck shit.

I look at the Water Tower now and I remember you spitting from the top, trying to get the people below. I bet there are safety guards and security cameras all over the place now. I don’t ever need to climb it again, I think of what it was like then instead.

You should see the size of Kiwi, but they call it Fonterra Whareroa now. I think all of us worked there at one time or another. You used to bike out and back each day and pack milk powder into paper sacks, if I remember rightly. Where I used to work in the cheese bar is now the Salvation Army. I see that the old bike shop over the road is still there tho’ .I still have a tee shirt from the push bike pub crawl in 1985, that year you fell off and got run over by a tandem bike towing a beer keg! I can still picture you, all grazed and dinged up, trying to get back on a bike that had its front wheel all bent around. I had to double you back into town from the Furlong and take you to your olds place to be cleaned up.

By the way, I am sorry to hear that your parents are both dead, they were really good to me when we were hanging out together. My Mum’s in a rest home in New Plymouth, she’s got a nice view of the sea and nothing much worries her now.

My sister Jen lives up there too but I don’t see much of her anymore. She’s too busy being rich and important. Brother Craig has been in Perth for about 10 years now, he keeps threatening to come and see me. He married an Auzzie girl Tina, and they have a couple of boys and a girl, all at high school now.

My two girls are off doing their own things now. Ellie is married and living in Wellington, her partner Rob works for ACC and they’ve got a boy and a girl who I don’t see nearly often enough! Josie finished at Victoria last year, she majored in Sports Medicine, and she off on her big O.E for the next couple of years, she’s in Vienna at the moment. I miss them both something awful. They bought me a laptop for my last birthday and showed me how to use Skype, but it’s just not the same. I would rather see their faces than Facebook.

Trisha tells me that you aren’t with Claire anymore, I’m sorry to hear it, she was very pretty as a young woman, but I guessed she cut that lovely long hair years ago. You have grown children too, Trish tells me, all boys. But then you had a few brothers too didn’t you, I remember thinking your older brother Tim was just gorgeous with his cool panel van and surf boards. What ever happened to him?

Some days it seems hard to believe that 30 years have passed since our glory days, but I look in the mirror and I know it to be true.

Middle age is a cruel thing, I’ll never wear a mini skirt again for one thing or dance all night and walk home carrying my shoes. Staying up to watch the end of Coronation Street seems like a late night to me now.

I remember that flat you had over in the railway village off Turuturu Road, and we spent a whole weekend watching Live Aid from your couch. That’s not all I remember about that couch either!

My goodness I’m glad that furniture can’t talk.

That’s probably enough from me now, I didn’t want to get all maudlin, I just wanted to tell you that I still think about you and wish you well, best wishes Rosie.

Dear Mark, I was in two minds about whether or not to forward you this letter from Rose Glover. I met up with her at a funeral in September and we had a bit of a laugh

about the old days. I know you two used to be very close but I never knew what happened when you split up and both moved away.

Rose died a couple of weeks ago, she had a wasting illness and had come back to Hawera to prepare herself I guess. I spend some time with her, driving her around the places we use to hang out when we were younger, towards the end she couldn’t get out of the car to walk about but she did enjoy getting out of the hospital for a bit.

I have enclosed some photos she had tucked into an envelope with your name on it, so she meant you to have them. I hope you aren’t too upset, she went quietly in the end, she just slipped away.

All the best, Trisha

Judge’s Comment A story in two letters where the second puts the first into quite a different perspective.

Clever and unsentimental. It’s a different type of surprise ending.

Taranaki Perspective Written by Phillipa Harrison Bloody Darren. Bloody Miranda. Funny sort of best mate, hooking up with the girl you liked. F... No, hopefully not. Stinking pair.

The mini pushed upwards through the gathering dark, its engine note winding up with his thoughts. Suddenly he stamped on the brake as a goat loomed in front of him, its slotted eyes yellow in the headlights. The car slewed round and he fought for control. The sweat sprang up round his neck, adding to his churning misery.

The car stalled; the abrupt silence was shocking. A bit of lichen swung from the wire fence in front of him. Sam took a deep breath. It had odd snags in it. That had been too bloody close. Well, they'd be sorry if he died. He gave a little snort, second cousin to a laugh – that was just a bit melodramatic, even in his current state. Turning the key, he pulled on the wheel and eased forward again at a more realistic pace.

He supposed Mum would be pissed off with him for taking off but tough - he'd left a note. He just needed ... space; somewhere to discharge this energy, to get some perspective. Trouble was, he might have got that from his dad – and his mum hadn't really appreciated that about Dad. But she should have – charging up the mountain was surely better than punching a hole in the wall, which is what he'd felt like doing. Perhaps he should have put that in the note.

Sam parked the car below the DoC centre and pulled his tramping stuff out of the boot.

The minute lights from the encircling towns below twinkle up, a yellowed reflection of the many whetu shining down upon us all. Vast blackness spreads between, both above and below. The piwakawaka have stopped their squeaking. The kukupa have made their last heavy flights to their roosts upon my flanks. I am alone in the darkness with my grief.

Fastening a head torch under his beanie Sam ducked into the DoC Centre porch and scribbled his name in the intentions book. No-one else was going to Waingongoro - from this direction anyway. He wondered what Darren's and Miranda's intentions were. Oh forget it.

Twilight was a sentimental kind of word for what was around him. It sounded like that roaming in the gloaming song Gran liked – all company and open spaces with a cup of tea waiting for you. This was more dramatic and suited his mood better: the last of the light was catching pale stones along the way but making deep shadows round the trees and flaxes. As he reached the edge of the clearing above the car park, the darkness was definitely winning. Sam turned on his torch and entered the 'tree tunnel', as he and Dad had called it back in the day. The sharp LED light made the bush even darker.

There was very little noise up here at this time of day. A rustle in the undergrowth sounded loud and had his heart thumping and his lamp careering. Nothing worse than possums, he told himself.

He swung on at speed up the broad path, feeling the pull on his calves. He and Darren called this the kiddie path with its mat surface. Still, it was good for letting off steam, especially in the dark.

Bloody Darren.

I have peace again to gather to myself my sadness, my rejection, my longing. I remember again the hurt of ages that has brought me here and anger at those others of my kind flicks up into the sky. It whips around and draws clouds from the west and I wrap them around myself and hide my face.

The air was moist on Sam's face. The bush was filled with its own special smell wet leaves and damp soil. It was the smell of things rotting and settling back into the earth they'd come from. He tasted it on his tongue too - not unpleasant, surprisingly.

There was the signpost to turn off. Sam headed off along the narrow path. The urgency was going out of his steps. He was having to look where to place his feet.

It steadied him.

Looking up, he could see no sky, no stars but only blackness through the lichen covered branches. The air was getting colder now.

Here inside my swaddling cloud I can shout and crash around. Does Pihanga still remember me? Who was that high and mighty Tongariro to stand between us and send me away forlorn? Why should Pouakai stop my path to the sea, where I might drown my sorrow? There is no justice, no justice.

Sam tugged his beanie more firmly over his ears as a gust of wind reached him, even here among the trees. The quiet of the night was a thing of the past - the leaves and twigs and branches were swaying in the rising wind, rustling and banging against each other. It had started raining and what wasn't falling directly on him was dripping down through the trees.

With a sharp crack a branch landed on the track in front of him. Sam jumped back and glanced upwards.

Great - even the mountain was against him! Should he turn round and head back?

He must be more than half way now. He wasn't going to be going above the tree line. Branches falling were freak things - weren't they?

He felt uncertain but just going home seemed lame. Mum'd been going straight on to night shift from Cherie and Tony's anyway, so she wouldn't even see the note till morning – he could be back by then or near enough.

He pulled at the fallen branch and edged around it. He hurried on as best he could, the hut calling. His foot slipped on a wet rock and he found himself suddenly sitting on his backside on the muddy path. He pulled himself up. This was getting beyond a joke. It was so unfair. All his wrongs rushed to the surface again – Darren and Miranda, Mum probably mad at him, now the stupid mountain. The miserable, angry thoughts pounded through his head, as he made his way along the track.

At last, there was the hut – no light showing. Sam clumped up on to the verandah

and pushed the door open. The familiar dusty hut smell met him and he felt the cold stillness inside. He shoved the door shut against the wind and the reduction in noise was fantastic – a blessed quiet Miss Rose would have called it at St Jo's. Not that she often got to experience it.

Sam's cold hands were clumsy as he pulled his boots and pack off. He fumbled the straps and pulled out billy and stove, dry clothes and a towel. He set to getting the water heated, laying and lighting the fire. He was more relieved to have arrived than he cared to admit. The practical things started to calm him again. While the billy boiled, he got changed with shaking hands – he hadn't been this cold in ages.

Good thing he'd put the extra clothes in - thanks, Dad, for getting that message through.

Crash! See my power! Flash! Feel my pain! Watch out, Tongariro – one of these days ...

Thunder! A good thing he was here safe in the hut. Hot raro was making its way inside nicely and his hands were starting to function better. Sam pulled a mattress down off the sleeping shelf, so he could sit in front of the stove. Not what you were meant to do but this felt like the time to make an exception. He pulled out the pasta meal he'd brought and put it on to cook.

Another flash and crash. He hoped Mum wasn't ringing him. No reception up here.

The storm might be just on the mountain, they often were.

He ate his food and had another drink. He fed the fire and looked into its flames, enjoying the warmth. He thought about Mum, settling the old people for bed, watching over them. She probably would have rung him. She was a bit of a worrier since Dad left. Well, it'd throw you to have your husband up and go.

Sam rummaged through his pack for a hut ticket and went over to stuff it in the box.

He grabbed the hut book off the shelf to take back to the stove. He filled in his presence overnight and glanced at the other entries. On the previous page he saw 'Wicked storm' in the comments column. Well, he could put ditto to that - the

weather was still crashing about outside. A leaflet fell out of the back of the book.

'The Story of Taranaki'. He started reading. Male mountains in the middle of the island all in love with Pihanga. Tongariro and Taranaki fighting over her and Taranaki losing and going off by himself, being stopped only by a new spur of the Pouakai ranges from throwing himself right into the sea.

And how many thousand years ago was that, mate? thought Sam. Time to get over it methinks. Catch me pining over Miranda for thousands of years - and throwing hissy fits all over the place, he thought, as another crash of thunder reverberated round the mountain.

His fingers itched for his guitar. A song was working its way into his brain.

Apologetically he tore a page from the back of the Hut Book. The words came flowing out on to the paper and his left hand cramped into the chords for the melody that seemed to fit – a kind of folky one, a bit old school.

These feelings were obviously a bit old school too when you thought of it – just look at songs. That Greensleeves old Herbison was teaching them in choir for example.

'Rejected!' they'd crowed, when they'd read the words. So thousands of years ago for mountains, hundreds of years ago for the Greensleeves people, a decade or two for Mum and Dad – now him.

What do you do with betrayal?

What do you do with hurt?

What do you do when your girlfriend's gone before she ever was?

Suck it up, suck it up or run away.

Suck it up, suck it up or fight.

Suck it up, suck it up and laugh it off.

Suck it up, suck it up or sulk.

What do you do with betrayal?

What do you do with hurt?

What do you do when your best friend's a dick and steals what you never had?

Suck it up, suck it up or run away.

Suck it up, suck it up or fight.

Suck it up, suck it up and laugh it off.

Suck it up, suck it up or sulk.

What do you do with betrayal?

What do you with hurt?

What do you when your husband's gone and taken every dream you had?

Suck it up, suck it up or run away.

Suck it up, suck it up or fight.

Feel the hurt, feel the hurt but find a new dream.

Sing it out, forgive and live.

Not that he wanted to see Darren just yet. He put a couple more pieces of wood in the stove and settled down in front of it. He was tired now, not so fraught. The wind and rain were still doing their thing outside but in here he could sleep.

Tired now, I allow the winds to blow the clouds of my longing towards my love, as the new day dawns. Was there ever a hurt like mine? Will I ever recover?

A white car in the car park. It looked like – Cherie's? But it was Mum he could see in the DoC centre porch - Mum, ready to make like the Pouakai, he bet. Sam looked at her warily.

'You okay?' she asked, giving him a fierce hug.

'Yup. Wrote a song,' he said.

'A song is good,' she said tentatively and they walked back towards the cars.

Judge’s Comment This is a clever story that entwines the legend of Mt Taranaki with a modern day broken hearted young man. The information about the legend is integrated skilfully into the text – not always easy to do. The story ends by letting us see the love of the young man’s mother for him. Beautifully done, particularly the boy’s laconic response.

Poetry Secondary Division Open Division First Place Forever More Written by Alison Condon He – slams his hand with calluses hard on shrill alarm that cuts a line through wake and sleep and silence reigns for moments more.

She – drags her feet from warmth to cold and fumbles for merino wraps and wipes the sleep from drooping lids to face the day.

And – children sleep in darkened rooms all wrapped in floating dreams of peace neath dense warm down in places safe where night still reigns.

They – pierce the dark with lights on full and seasoned gear wraps harshly round the mud gripped seats with forward thrust to break the dawn.

He – calls the herd then curses as the dripping cows break through the fence yells at the dog which doesn’t exist then turns his back.

She – revs her bike and in the still barks a retort that drives them to their milking corners in the shed to fume then heal.

He – plans his day as dreary rain begins to drip on sheets of iron and empty cows with heads hung low squelch through the mud.

She – surveys the grey that rests upon her spirit heavy with the load of here and there of work and home

that never ends.

He – returns his thoughts to warmth and fire and breakfast rich in taste and smell and coffee hot with frothing milk to soothe the soul.

She – dreams of the time when loads are less but just for now the days will creep today tomorrow and the next and next and next because now seems forever more.

Judge’s Comment In the spirit of Ronald Hugh Morrieson, the winning poem tells a story (some poets like to do this but it is not a prerequisite for poetry or poetry competitions!). The poem tells a story set on a farm, but it is a story revealed by a poet. To match the subject matter – the relentless daily routine, the argument, the toil and the early starts – the lines are short and clipped. Each stanza starts with a word, often he or she, separated by a dash which gives power to each pronoun. The words at the end of the lines are magnificent – sharp, accentuating the drama and the scene perfectly. The rhythm suits the tone and gives the poem terrific momentum with its shifting beat and one-syllable words (‘slams his hand’ ‘breaks the dawn’). The words are lively and at times unexpected with some words almost rhyming and the word order elastic (‘breakfast rich’ ‘coffee hot’). I loved the change in the last stanza that took you back to the title and underlined the circularity of daily routine.

This poet is writing with both ear and heart and the end result both moved and astonished me. A worthy winner!

Second Place The Waterfall Written by Sonja Lawson I listen to the rippling water Slithering over the rocks Like a snake trying to escape I hear its origins from afar

Crashing down and drowning the stream As I get closer I see the majestic waterfall Rushing like a herd of wild Kaimanawa horses Pounding hooves looking for new adventures

Judge’s Comment This poem is eight lines of subtle perfection: on the level of sound, on the level of image, on the level of metaphor and on the level of tone. It is a terrific example of how a poem can appear simple on first glance but can then slowly reveal exquisite layers. I loved the way the poem contrasts the quietness of a waterfall at a distance (stanza 1) with the cacophony of a waterfall up close (stanza 2). I loved the line ‘crashing down and drowning the stream’ – the way ‘down’ is hiding in ‘drowning.’ I loved the way the water ‘slithers’ and it is only in the next line you read ‘snake.’ I loved the almost rhyme in ‘like a snake trying to escape.’ The poet brings a waterfall to life in a way that is fresh and vivid.

Marvellous!

Third Place No hea koe Written by Gareth Aston Carwyn Kahui Ko “Egmont hardcore” te Maunga Ko most polluted (by nutrient standard levels) river in N.Z te Awa Ko 91 Mitsubishi Lancer SX saloon rego’d and warranted te Waka Ko Social services, Westpac , Winz, The Local me Pac n Save te Iwi Ko the hill me kaitoke prison ngaa Hapu Ko WWW. Te Rangatira Ko “doing shopping” te Marae Ko blankets me composure ooku Tupuna Ko channel 1, 2 and 3 ooku Maatua Kei the ‘Bearnt place’ e noho ana Ko Indegenous taku ingoa

No hea koe?

Judge’s Comment

Poetry can call upon old vessels (traditional forms like sonnets, haiku and villanelles) and play with them, but it can also invent new ones. This poem stands as a personalised and witty mihi – a welcome speech introducing the speaker to his or her audience with details that surprise. Like a number of contemporary Maori poets, this poet is drawing upon traditional Maori culture and everyday life. The poem has rhythm and movement so it pulsates with life. In the light of the dreadful statistics we read of in the press, it is also a brave, political poem that stops you in your tracks and challenges you, and then moves you. Magnificent.

Very Highly Commended Reasons for going into Dentistry Written by Cameron Shane Curd Chattering, throbbing, mouth of metal Whizzing, whirling drill of death Gadgets of dentistry brilliance aside sterile white tiles Spitting, stunned patrons, slither in an out under false pretences The rustling of the sterile bib against the shirt A nervous, shivering student, yarns at the preceding pain A child being dragged in by a fraught, feisty mother, anxious by the pitter-pattering of the rain falling in unison on top of her umbrella, yakking, yelping The lights at the dentists flicker off like only fluorescents can The majestic key, clicks and thuds, locking the 'house of horrors' for the night As the rain patters then pours, the dentist erects a black umbrella, retrieved from a soaked, leather bag, both smothered in thick, viscous blood.

Judge’s Comment

A poetic feast of words that might put you off going to the dentist – but that form breathtaking music and glorious energy on the page.

Anzac Dawn Written by Dave Lee Remembrance dawn On Anzac morn Those gathered mourn The loss of uncles never known Fathers who did not know Babies then unborn At time of leaving They now stand grieving Loss they share But do not understand They gather round still Still on foreign ground Wake up!

Reveille once played By bugler gone to god Now played through Music box of science Unknown to soldiers lost Souls dour in spirit Once bright pearls of future Joined with foreign soil Bound in commitment Hold their ground Still hold their ground

Young venture from These shores again To stand in foreign land In peace, respect they Come to join with Soldiers of lost fortune Less fortunate than those Returned to grow This generation Commitment bound We join with those who Still hold their ground

And hold their ground here In Hawera we stand Still in sober thought Men lost to us still known Through stories shared Strong in our hearts More young each year Hold their ground Wear their bravery Medals handed down With honour worn Still we stand their ground

Judge’s Comment This poem both moved and haunted me. All the elements – the rhyme, rhythm, repetition, line breaks, layout on the page, the images and the mood – form a fitting and terrific tribute to Anzac Day.

My Friends Written by Merry Wallis Black as the night Teeth so white Eyes of amber Pads so light These two princes of bark Truly melt my heart

Judge’s Comment

A terrific example of how a small and economical poem can do so much – with its shift in rhythm and tone and surprising ending, every word hits its pitch perfectly.

Kaupokonui Written by David Rei Miller Under the watchful eye of the moon; where the land meets the ocean, and the ocean the sky; where man looks out on the vastness to lose himself.

Rocks blasted far from the heart of the mountain; caressed and softened by the sea, worn smooth to one day become sand.

Marred only by the detritus, the flotsam, of so-called civilisation, washed ashore after being cast away.

At last retreating from the unceasing inrush of the tide, to seek security on higher ground inland, as darkness settles and tries to becalm the sea, I turn toward the warmth and light of home.

Judge’s Comment The strength of this poem is in the sumptuous vocabulary, the serious contemplation of the subject matter and the surprise of the final line where the poet turns to ‘the warmth and light of home.’

Highly Commended Our Nana Written by Denise Smith-Watty The grand old lady looks out for her children, lovingly peaking down at Fantham, swamping Ahukawakawa with love.

Tears stream from Kapuni as she flatly ignores Rangitoto.

She gently rocks Mackay and Lion and builds a castle with Humphry.

While spending monumental time with Ambury, Dawson falls down by her side.

Her temper has hit a Plateau ..............for now...............

Judge’s Comment

One of a number of Mt Taranaki poems, this one personifies the mountain and the surrounding places. The mountain as ‘nana’ is genius and the poet has crafted each line beautifully.

Sheare Speak Written by Sonja Lawson Egmont hath no fury but towards Wanganui One day returneth with love for Phanga thee Stratford having owneth Baldricks Big Day Out Shakespeare history entrenched locally very devout

Future doth hastens towards destroying sonnetry But kept aliveth well withstanding thy authority Fear not the geneology girls with haste save the day Paper Power encouraging thus contest without delay

The Stratford Press anoint with the local knowledge and words Along with the technical high school butt of jokes thee nerds A place of peace and remembrance at the RSA Entombed by ghosts of war but now do hath obey

Peace will go sleep with infidels avoiding strife Sheare speak evil through words and wit no life

Judge’s Comment

Hats off to the witty and playful poet who drew upon Shakespearean links and language to create a poem that sounds like another time and place but is utterly local. Bravo!