Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards Finalist Booklet 2020

RONALD HUGH MORRIESON LITERARY AWARDS

2020 FINALIST STORIES

h Ronald Hugh

Morrieson

Literary Awards 2020

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

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

For more information about the Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards, visit our website: www.southtaranaki.com Cover design by Rachael Harris Book design and typesetting by South Taranaki District Council, Hāwera Printed by South Taranaki District Council Published by South Taranaki District Council 2020.

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h Ronald Hugh

Morrieson

Literary Awards 2020 FINALIST STORIES

TABLE OF CONTENTS FOREWORD

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

JUDGE’S GENERAL COMMENTS

Whiti Hereaka................................................................................ 7 Glenn Colquhoun........................................................................... 8 Matt Rilkoff..................................................................................... 9

SECONDARY SCHOOL - SHORT STORY

First place / Just Like Old Times Liam Finer / Hāwera High School..................................... 11 Second place / The Skate Isn’t Tight Enough Anne Larcom / Taranaki Diocesan School for Girls........... 13 Third Place / The Kumara Plant Lexi McQuaig / Ōpunakē High School.............................. 15

SECONDARY SCHOOL - POETRY

First place / Toothpaste Lexi McQuaig / Ōpunakē High School.............................. 18 Second place / Sensing Kevin Madaline Symes / Ōpunakē High School.......................... 20 Third Place / The Document Lexi McQuaig / Ōpunakē High School.............................. 22

SECONDARY SCHOOL - RESEARCH ARTICLE

First Place / Just a Bit of Luck Bethan Hansen / Taranaki Diocesan School for Girls........ 25 Second Place / Always give it a try Alena Hojdelewicz / Taranaki Diocesan School for Girls... 27 Third Place / The one risk you take can equal your life Hollie Radford / Taranaki Diocesan School for Girls......... 29

OPEN SECTION - SHORT STORY

First place / A Good Guy James O’Sullivan / New Plymouth.................................... 32 Second place / Pātea Pools Airana Ngarewa / Pātea ................................................... 37 Third Place / Milky Mountain Emma Hislop / New Plymouth......................................... 39

OPEN SECTION - POETRY

First place / Hope Maria Taylor / Stratford.................................................... 44 Second place / A worms eye view Koren Miller / Hāwera...................................................... 45 Third Place / Weightless Sasha Finer / Hāwera........................................................ 46

FOREWORD PHIL NIXON

MAYOR OF SOUTH TARANAKI Ronald Hugh Morrieson was a true product of South Taranaki. Having attended primary and secondary school in Hāwera, Morrieson lived his entire life in the house built by his grandfather at the corner of Regent Street and South Road. He excelled in English Literature from a very young age, and this skill, combined with his life experiences in small town, rural South Taranaki created the basis of material for his stories. Morrieson had a unique style from many other New Zealand writers because of his vivid depictions of New Zealand provincial life and colloquial language.

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

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was, as he predicted “one of those poor buggers who got discovered after they’d died”.

South Taranaki has a wealth of talented and creative people and I admire all of you for demonstrating these skills. COVID-19 has certainly impacted many people within our District and country in a variety of ways and the experience of lockdown has been a clear theme in the entries this year.

Congratulations to all who have submitted entries for the Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards this year, I am sure that Ronald Morrieson would be very proud to know that he has inspired so many to people to continue to share our stories.

JUDGE’S COMMENTS WHITI HEREAKA

SHORT STORY - SECONDARY SCHOOL AND OPEN It’s been a pleasure to be involved with this year’s Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards. I’m a big believer that stories and art help us all to navigate this often strange world — particularly in a world tipped off kilter by a global pandemic. Some of the entries into the short story competition this year reflected what is happening in our world: dealing with the realities of lockdown and the strains of mental illness. But there were also humorous stories and stories of hope. I thank every writer who entered their work into this year’s competition — I acknowledge your skills and your hard work in creating engaging stories.

The stories I picked all created vivid characters and felt very grounded in Taranaki. Each of them stayed with me after I had read them the first time, and I still felt excitement on reading them the second or third time. I’d like to offer my congratulations to the winners and the runners up.

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JUDGE’S COMMENTS GLENN COLQUHOUN

POETRY - SECONDARY SCHOOL AND OPEN It was a pleasure to again judge the Ronald Hugh Morrieson poetry competition this year. It is always a privilege to read what people have seen of the world, to receive their reportage and discover what has moved them. In my experience poetry is not something that we talk about commonly as New Zealanders. Those of us who scribble often scribble quietly. And in corners. So, there is always a kind of kinship for me in meeting others who tinker in their back sheds with pen and paper.

I like the democracy of poetry competitions too. The entries often juxtapose first time writers with those who have practised the craft for years. There is the possibility of fresh writing and voices and always our combined vernacular rising like steam off winter grass.

I like too the reflection it forces from me as a judge regarding what makes a poem work. Writing them sometimes reminds me of folding paper darts. We crease and crease. And unfold and re-crease. Measure angles. Counterbalance. Create arrow and sweep. But all that ever matters at the end of the day is what happens after the thing is thrown.

The range of subjects addressed in the poems this year was broad. The Taranaki landscape featured of course, with poems about the mountain itself, its rivers running, and old farmhouses weathering into the Earth. Poems too about Ronald Hugh Morrieson rising up from the beyond, and about local dances and surfing. There were a number about birdsong, especially the sound of Tūī in trees. The coronavirus pandemic made an appearance as well, with quite a few poems addressing the lockdown itself and the myriad ways of enduring it. Or enjoying it.

There were poems with memorable lines. A lonely Taranaki farmscape tied to the England it recreated with ‘Bronte’s

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never been further from home.’ And intriguing titles, such as, ‘8 ways of looking at a yellow jumper.’ But there were also poems about the completely unexpected: squashed mosquitos, house fires and making wax figures.

On reflection, each the of the poems seemed to work too.

Each one flew in its own way, trundling along the ground, gathering speed, then launching up into the air. Some dipped and wove. Some hopped. Some curled round to the left or right. Others roared overhead, fully laden with exotic cargo, the pistons screaming. But they all got to where they were going. The ones I responded to most made me feel like I was a glider pilot, that there was somehow an interaction between the sky and the earth that was holding me up and cutting me through some unseen cleavage in the sky.

There didn’t seem to be too many entries in the secondary schools competition this year. Despite the fact that there were a number of students in the workshops. In contrast to the school’s competition, the open poetry competition this year was flooded with entries. The workshops on the other hand were only very sparsely attended. When I opened the envelope containing the poems it was hard not to avoid the conclusion that my workshops must have scared lots of people away!

My thanks to all those who entered the competition. It is a brave and fragile thing to pick and pen and paper and write one’s observations and recollections of the world.

I acknowledge our kinship and the primal drive that first made me write as well. My congratulations of course to each of the winners. Thank you for the flight through the clouds.

JUDGE’S COMMENTS MATT RILKOFF

RESEARCH ARTICLE Ronald Hugh Morrieson wrote fiction, but his characters and descriptions of life were built from the keen observations of the people and places around him. He may not have even realised, but he was a researcher.

Thorough research underpins all good writing. It lets the writer tell a convincing tale, to take their readers to places they can believe are real even when they are not.

Research is a writer’s secret weapon.

The research category aims to get writers truly looking at the world around them and the people within it.

It tasks them with making connections that a picture cannot reveal, with understanding a person within their environment. We are more than just what you see and it is a writer’s job to reveal that.

This year the topic was to tell the story of a Taranakibased person who, good or bad, had influenced the writer. We did not just want to know who they were, but why they were.

It is no easy task to bring a person to life using words.

The finalists this year made their influencers real.

They revealed their motivations, their character, their charming idiosyncrasies, their habits and their philosophies.

The winning entry achieved all of these things. It was a delightful piece of writing. It made me nostalgic for a life I did not lead, for a person I had never known. The piece was full of warm detail and revealing truths that, like all good writing, showed much more than it told.

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SECONDARY SCHOOL SHORT STORY CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE JUST LIKE OLD TIMES LIAM FINER

HĀWERA HIGH SCHOOL “Forget it. It’s too risky.”

The beat-up old ute kicked up dust as Vincent revved it down the farm track. The cool morning sun pierced the dirty windscreen, shedding light onto his brother Joe, who was busy munching away on a steak and cheese pie in the passenger seat.

Joe rolled his eyes. “What do you mean? The people at the bank will be completely unarmed. Nobody will get hurt – it’ll be just like old times!”

“What about the cameras?” Someday one of Joe’s ‘plans’ was going to go south, and Vincent didn’t want to be around when that happened.

“We’ll wear masks. Besides, you’re focusing on the wrong aspects of this plan. Think of the money!”

Even Vincent had to admit that they were running a bit low on cash, but he was sure there were better ways of fixing that. They hadn’t pulled anything this big in years. “This ‘plan’ of yours won’t work with just us. If I’m waiting in the car, you’ll be in there on your own.”

He pulled into the driveway, hoping that that would be the end of it.

“You won’t be in the car,” Joe said. “I’m putting together a crew.” *** The next morning after milking, they headed off. In the old days, they’d had a couple of mates who’d helped out with these sorts of jobs, but they were mostly in prison or far away. That was no coincidence. Martin was the only one still in the area, and they weren’t exactly on friendly terms.

When Vincent and Joe pulled up in their dirty Ford Ranger, Martin was lying on the ground, working on his stock car.

He picked himself up and brushed the dirt off his overalls as Vincent hopped out of the vehicle.

“Hey Martin,” Vincent said, as cheerfully as he could muster.

Martin’s glare told Vincent that he still hadn’t forgotten the money they owed him. “What do you want?”

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“We’re getting together a few guys for a job,” Joe replied, ignoring Martin’s well-merited hostility. “It’ll be just like old times.”

Wrong choice of words.

“Forget it,” Martin said. He turned away and began walking to his house. Vincent started to get back into the ute, but Joe hadn’t given up.

“Come on Martin. You’re the best getaway driver in Taranaki! This job will more than make up for what we owe you.

You’ll be rich!”

Martin hesitated. “How rich?”

Joe smiled, and he knew he had him. “How does a quarter share in TSB’s vault sound?” *** The next few days went by in a blur. Sitting around in the shed, discussing the finer details of the plan over lukewarm cups of tea – it all added to Vincent’s overwhelming sense of dread. He couldn’t back out now. Before he knew it, the day had arrived.

The sharp rays of the evening sun reflected off the windows of the Hawera TSB. The bank’s walls weren’t very thick, and Vincent could hear the screams echoing from within. Not for the first time today, he wondered how he had gotten himself into this situation. Last week, he had been busy shifting cattle on his farm, today he was standing outside the door of a bank, warding off bystanders with a shotgun. Vincent’s doubts were interrupted by a blaring alarm. Joe burst out of the bank, with their newest recruit, George, right behind him. Each had a full rubbish sack slung over their shoulder.

“Come on!” Joe shouted. Snapping out of his daze, Vincent ran to the side of the road, where Martin was waiting in an old Honda Civic. Behind him, he heard a someone shout. He swung around to see a police officer reaching to his belt where a pistol hung. Vincent didn’t remember raising his shotgun, or pulling the trigger, but he heard an almighty blast and saw the police officer fall to the ground. The next thing he knew, he was in the passenger seat of the Honda, yanking his balaclava off and dropping his smoking gun into the footwell.

Vincent half-expected Joe to crack a grin and say, “Just like old times,” but nobody said a word. *** Halfway back to the farm the flashing red and blue lights appeared in the rear-view mirror. Joe swore. They were going like hell, but the police cars got closer with every corner.

Vincent was still in shock. He’d never wanted to kill anybody. That hadn’t been part of the plan. “Can’t this thing go any faster?” he asked stupidly.

Martin made no reply, completely focussed on driving.

In the back, George was clearly having second thoughts. “You said that they wouldn’t be able to catch us!”

“Yeah, well they didn’t used to be this fast!” was Joe’s panicked reply. “It’s not my fault!”

For the first time, Vincent realised that his brother was way out of his depth. In the old days, Joe had always known exactly he was doing. Time seemed to have caught up with him.

Maybe Martin was the best getaway driver in Taranaki, but even if he had been the best getaway driver in the world, he would never have got past the road block the police had set up on Ohangai road. They were trapped. The Honda screeched to a smoking halt, and Vincent knew that it was over.

Joe swore again. Martin was praying, and George might have soiled himself. Vincent just sat in disbelief. How had he let himself get into this situation?

As the cops cuffed him and loaded him into the back of the police car, Vincent knew that this was nothing like “old times.”

Maybe times had changed.

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SECOND PLACE THE SKATE ISN’T TIGHT ENOUGH ANNE LARCOM

TARANAKI DIOCESAN SCHOOL FOR GIRLS I quickly step out of the car door before the wind slams it shut. Regardless of the forceful breeze my clothes were already starting to thicken with moisture and stick to my sides. After taking a falsely deep breath I haul my bag inside.

The rink felt naturally off, like it had been tilted into the shade, although the concrete was eerily warm. Today the walk over to the pit felt three times longer. My suitcase rolling over the cracks and slits in the concrete sent a clickity clack echo across the empty room. It’s so far away, but it’s brighter and more comfortable than the rest of the room.

Obviously, we’re all like moths, pinning around the light in this dark, compact arena, which stinks of sweat and failure.

My fingers fiddle with my laces, if you don’t feel the rope burn on your fingers, the skate isn’t tight enough. It takes me a minute to find my balance on the recognizably unfamiliar surface. Like a newborn fawn, I imagine I look all wonky and lanky with my many years of training I would hope I instead look like a picture of sophisticated grace.

The rink has always given me a weird feeling. It’s not a place of calmness and serenity, but it’s often cold and quiet, sometimes loud and crazy with people polluting the room. But other times it can be empty and make me feel minuscule amongst all my physical insecurities. I feel isolated and must struggle against my own mind as I’m trapped in a theatrical loop. Again, and again, and again. It’s getting harder and harder to prance around, acting flirty and carefree in a place I’m beginning to despise.

Light blue tiles rhythmically sound of hollow plastic as the waltz music chants its demands in a foreign tongue. The instructions are branded onto the forefront of my mind. My limbs selfishly move without thoughtful control or instruction. “Again!” Michelle shouts, a blur in my peripheral vision. Out of breath I take my beginning stance, waiting for the music that clouds my head as I toss and turn at night. Roll out. Arms up. Look up. Down and push. Push. Push.

Turn. Step. Step. Swing. “Stop. Stop. Stop.” The room comes to an abrupt silence as I fall out of flow. “Why aren’t you going fast? Haven’t I drilled that into you enough?” Michelle yells across the floor as I solemnly skate over.

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I’m not sure if the air was colder or if my skin hadn’t warmed up like the rest of the blood pumping through me.

Michelle’s instructions echoing past my absent-minded self. She means to come across as fun and kind, but her critiques feed my repulsive inner critic.

Push! Push! Push! Faster! Stronger! Hold your arms straight! Push! Push!

Breathe. Chest up, push, swing, glide. Relax, you’re okay.

Come on! Push! Push! Move!

Alright. Legs tense harder. Push.

Faster! Faster!

You want fast. I’ll give you fast! Push. Push. Push. Push.

That’s better! What happened to your arms! Strong arms! Push!

But my arms. Are. Strong. I’m going as fast as I can! The music will. Never. Go this fast.

Push harder!

I can’t go any harder! Goddamit tears I can’t see!

Just a few more!

I’ve already done 15 laps at this speed! You asked for 5! What else do you want from me?!

Push!!!

This is getting harder. And. Harder.

Keep those arms up!

That’s if I can feel them!

Faster!

Dang it woman! I’m already defying the laws of physics with this speed!

Keep going!

The rink didn’t feel off. When doesn’t it feel off? It’s always ‘off’. The room is cold, but my blood is boiling. My breathing is shallow as I haul my bag onto my shoulder. I continue sweating as I briskly walk out the door, the forceful breeze feels as though it’s trying to push me back into that god forsaken room. I get in the car as the wind slams it shut.

Just, hold out to nationals. You need hold out until nationals... You won’t ever have to come back here after that.

Keep surviving. Just. Keep. Surviving.

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THIRD PLACE THE KUMARA PLANT LEXI MCQUAIG

ŌPUNAKĒ HIGH SCHOOL

Eyes darkened by the demons corrupting his mind; now free whoever, this is an ode to the boy I once met.

Pussyfooting upon intrusion of my shrine with that kinda slick, cool kid attitude. Pomare Hakaraia instantaneously made a mark on my life. I’d heard the other boys call him ‘Hak’, disgraceful in my opinion but who was I to judge, especially if God is willing to accept all. Slumped two thirds along the 7th pew down in the holy house of God, this boy’s lack of mana brought some sense of familiarity. Among the crowd of other wannabe gangsters, Pomare played on my mind throughout the service. How could someone who carries such a rich cultural heritage show such a lack of respect for the words I preach, the speech of god’s own principles. As the weekly service concluded, I swiftly approached Pomare as if I had known him my whole life. Clasping his arm as if my life depended on it. I guess in a way it kind of did.

Seated next to the boy, I felt a connection stronger than the struggles around us. You know when you begin to really, truly focus on someone’s face, you begin to notice the features that only they have seen, features that tell the story of their past, present and future. Honing in on Pomare, a distinct scar lining the faint crevice in his forearm left me pondering his life before prison along with the cigarette burns spotting the side of his neck. Most prominent however, was the gang affiliation inked into the pores of his skin, forever a reminder. It was obvious that this was a home job.

It took a while for Pomare to open up to me, as I perched beside him, the aggression frowning upon me as this may as well have been all that he knew only encouraged me to engage in conversation with him even more. “Kia Ora māreikura” I intended to treat him with Aroha for that is God’s teachings, funnily enough, Pomare stared blankly. For what he understood of my greeting, I am unsure. “ Do you understand me Mate? C’mon at least greet your elders with respect.” For a moment longer, silence enchanted the room.

In the next weeks, I continued to keep Pomare after the service. He was apprehensive at first but a couple of weeks later, he began to speak. Starting with “Hi Dog Collar ‘’ for that is how he chose to address me, it was as if my friendliness was the earthquake and his walls were beginning to crumble with such force, I believe was more powerful than the hate he displayed. We began to speak of his day, his life, his experiences and it soon became evident that this boy was not alone in his struggles. I started to teach him a bit of the Maori language. It astounded me how someone with the name ‘Hakaraia’ was so oblivious to the culture and heritage that accompanies such a sacred family name. We spoke of his iwi, his family connections, I told stories of local chiefs as Pomare’s eyes lightened, freeing the demons haunting him. I fed him words of hope, of aroha, until the boy slumped two thirds along the 7th pew down in the holy house of God, was simply unrecognisable. Chest raised like a soul resurrected, he thought I changed his life but little did he know that in hindsight, he truly changed mine. I remember fondly one day after service, Pomare approached me with one of those canvas New World bags, painted with dirt, the design faded

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however, you could tell he had treasured this bag. Anyways, it wasn’t the bag itself that pinched a nerve, it was the lone Kumara inside. “ Dog Collar, look what Aunt gave me, and there are plenty more where that came from, far she gave me a whole plant. She must be rich as aye.” Pomare continued to clasp the handles of the canvas bag with both hands, gesturing for me to collect the Kumara. Pomare’s smile was large, and as I began to focus closer on this newly discovered feature, I noticed the accumulation of decay corrupting his beautifully straight teeth. For what I knew of Pomara Hakaraia, the gift of a Kumara, literally and figuratively will have changed that boy’s life.

The trip home that night travelled for as long and far as my thoughts, for as I glared in my peripheral vision, the dirt dusted skin of the crimson kumara obtaining the passenger seat comfortably was a reminder of my progress. Arriving home, I felt a sense of unfamiliarity in what should be second nature to me. Slipping my weathered feet into the old pair of red bands at the back of the house, I shuffled slowly towards the long grass accumulated in my garden that once thrived. Sun caressing my face at the hour of dusk, I inhale the cool night air and feel it seep through my lungs.

Once again, taking off my shoes, a nostalgic feel of soft grass tickles the soles of my feet. Tick tock, my watch tells time. And in that moment, my knees sink to the grass, smacking the soil as hard as the battles I faced in my past. A single tear falls as time stops still, and a scream pierces the air so loudly that the birds flutter. I don’t know what is wrong with me, or maybe I do. For Pomare is now a changed boy, a man in fact. Once a reminder of a life I wish to forget, the connection so strong between him and I truly impacted my life, because once upon a time, I stood in his shoes. As I watch the sunlight wither, I sit amongst the grass and pray for the kumara to grow.

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SECONDARY SCHOOL POETRY CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE TOOTHPASTE LEXI MCQUAIG

ŌPUNAKĒ HIGH SCHOOL Did that make you feel clean?

Fresh?

Is my flavour spicy enough for you, the one you like right?

Come back for more Make sure you do I’ll be waiting Day And Night I promise it will be worth it And when you’re done Don’t forget to slice

me

through

Surely you’re not done with me yet Scrape me clean

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Until only speckles of me Remain Across the foggy mirror Did you enjoy it?

Or maybe was I too hot on your palette?

I hope it burnt a little.

Make sure you replace me before the day has ended For now, I remain forever Just Another Empty Tube .

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SECOND PLACE SENSING KEVIN MADALINE SYMES ŌPUNAKĒ HIGH SCHOOL

He always seems to follow me around Like a bad smell But he would probably like me calling him that Sometimes I hear obnoxious chewing in my ear A slight scent of coconut macintoshes fill the space between us Although he doesn’t share I feel a cool breathe on my skin Telling me a joke, probably something dirty But I can never make out the words Sometimes when I feel like he is no longer there On the corner of my eye I see an irish cap coming towards me But limping slightly to its right side If the wind changes I can smell his cologne, spicy yet sweet Or the washing powder only he uses Sometimes when I talk to him I feel two frail shaking hands cupping my chin The gentlest tug of my hair A screech fills the space between us His hand fiddling with his ear piece That he once said used to tell him secrets Sometimes I see a man coming towards me on the street A man with an slight sway to his step The smile so straight only fake teeth can provide

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He has glasses that fog up far too often But he is for sure undeniably happy Even if his body no longer isn’t Sometimes he is everywhere I go Even when I don’t want him there But he always did love to annoy me One day he will leave me, because he knows he needs to The smell of him will go, his touch far from me But I know he will come back, because I need him to

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THIRD PLACE THE DOCUMENT LEXI MCQUAIG

ŌPUNAKĒ HIGH SCHOOL How to make the perfect presentation in class: Let’s start with the title, Original.

A lot can be determined from the first few words.

Now for your text.

Size is so important obviously, Massive Is Ridiculous.

Nobody can read it if it’s too big.

If we are being honest, Big is ugly.

Messy.

But not too small, others might assume.

A condition, a disorder, who can read anything at size 8.

However, size 12 is perfect, not too big, not too small and it allows the CAPITAL letters to really stand out.

How about fonts?

Now we don’t want anything too flamboyant.

It speaks for itself.

Sensible Is Best.

Stick to the guidelines and you’ll be fine.

The test is to keep it attractive, interesting, The better the font, the more intriguing the presentation.

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All aboard the colour station.

Now this is a big representation of the quality.

Although equality is important, we all know that some colours look better right?

Something with depth?

Nothing pale or too bright like the sale signs.

Dark Is Depressing.

And White Is Too Light.

But whatever you choose, be proud because you’ll be stuck with it.

Alignment Can Make All the difference.

Preferably the hourglass alignment; centred.

The single sided formats are a bit rolly polly for me, They hills me remind of Unruly, chaotic, disastrous.

Keep the important information in BOLD. UNDERLINE it.

Make sure that it stands out.

That’s what people truly look for in a perfect presentation.

Keep the background transparent And Whatever you do, Don’t Be Boring.

SECONDARY SCHOOL RESEARCH ARTICLE CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE JUST A BIT OF LUCK BETHAN HANSEN

TARANAKI DIOCESAN SCHOOL FOR GIRLS

Grethe Hansen is one of those real salt-of-the earth type of people. She’s an artist, a ‘beeaudy’ cook, and possibly the best grandma you could have. Friendly and hardworking, she’s built not only a life for herself, but also for her family here in New Zealand.

Grethe’s a kind woman with a warm smile, hardworking hands and eyes that miss nothing. Her home is cozy, with lots of cases stuffed full with old books, her collection of over 500 nutcrackers and her beloved classical CD’s. The kettle is always boiled, and more often than not you can count of a freshly baked loaf of bread just coming out of the oven. When you sit down for a cup of tea and one of her Pebernoder (a spicy danish cookie), out comes the dogeared Canasta cards for a quick game- she always wins.

All four walls around you are adorned in her paintings - it’s a little galley dedicated to her life’s work. Art has always been one of her passions and so when they moved to Stratford in 1989, she joined a local art group.

31 years later and without fail she stills goes every Tuesday. She loves socializing with the other artists there and finding inspiration for her own work. It’s a special group for a lot of art loving locals.

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One difficulty she’s had to face is that she has Aphantasia, a condition with means you cannot visualize images in your head. This can make painting difficult, she told me, as she always has to be looking at the image to draw it. She’s never let it hold her back, however, and creates amazing pieces that often are on display in the Stratford art gallery.

From when Grethe was a child her life has changed greatly she reckons. Her childhood was spent on her family’s small 10-acre farm in rural Denmark. It was a good life, but a hard one.

Once they had fattened up one of their pigs they would get three wonderful days of fresh meat before it all had to put in a big wooden barrel preserved in salt. At this time they had no freezers in their homes. Occasionally on a Sunday as a very special treat her father might go into the forest and shoot a hare or a pigeon. This was always amazing, Grethe said, as often it would have been their first fresh meat in months.

One memory she has from childhood is going snake hunting with a little shovel. They were little black adders her and her brother would find while picking raspberries in the forest near her house. That definitely makes possum hunting seem a bit tame.

Her childhood home was a 200-year-old brick building. The house was split in two, one half where her family lived, the other a stable for their animals. It was heated only by the one fireplace. In the bedrooms, she told me, it was so cold they would wake up to ice on their duvets.

Every year it would snow, often being over a meter deep. This made the 2km walk to school rather difficult she reckons. When asked what her school was like, she told me “I’m so old that we still used chalkboards and could get whacked by the teacher with a ruler.”

Fast forward many years and you see her today. Happily, situated on our 600-acre family farm in Huiroa, she’s living a good life now. The first few years in New Zealand weren’t so easy, however.

Their first job here was on a farm ‘out in the sticks’ as she said. My grandfather worked out on the farm and she was the cook. They lived together along with the other shepherds in an old villa. The closest town was Whanganui which was 45 km away and so they could only take a trip into town once a month.

“It was very lonely, and I was homesick for quite a while,” Grethe told me. Her only contact with home were weekly letters from her mother. Once a year though, at Christmas, there would be a 3-minute phone call home. These few minutes were very precious but were very expensive as it cost a full week’s wage for them.

To her, staying connected with family is one of the most important things in life. Because of this, those early years were very hard on her. Originally, they planned to visit Denmark again after just a couple of years. 13 years passed however, before they managed to finally find their way home.

Eventually, after many years of hard work and saving they bought the farm they live on today. It was a good farm, though “a bit rough around the edges”. But after a lot more hard work and the help from some fertilizer it’s now thriving. And the best part of her life today? “The family from the other side of the world is just a skype call away.”

When I asked my grandma what she believed was the key to her successes, Grethe Hansen’s reply was “Hard work, planning – and just a bit of luck”

A good day on the farm with my Dad and my Grandma

Reference List 1. Personal Interview with Grethe Hansen on 5/08/2020 2. Personal Interview with Niels Hansen on 7/08/2020

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SECOND PLACE ALWAYS GIVE IT A TRY ALENA HOJDELEWICZ

TARANAKI DIOCESAN SCHOOL FOR GIRLS 2:14pm, it was one of those days you wouldn’t even know there was a mountain looming in the back field at Taranaki Diocesan in Stratford. The senior class of 2020 sits in the common room laughing and chatting, all of them unaware of the time that flies by sitting on those comfy couches watching Tik Toks.

“Hey anyone know what class is next?”

“Classics!”

Time stands still as they all freeze.

“With Mrs. Gonouya!”

“Yes…”

Figure 1: Caroline Gonouya

2:15pm, all the students immediately grab their bags, once calm, now a rush of cyclops. Everyone knows you’re never late to Mrs Gonouya’s class…

Maybe is due to the never-ending laughs, or maybe it’s Mrs Gonouya’s Michael Jackson dance moves she perfected in third form with her best friend at the time, back in Zimbabwe.

Coming from a small mining town called Zvisitavane (Zvishavane on the map) in Zimbabwe, as a young girl she got her first taste of a city when her parents moved her and her two younger brothers to Gweru. This is the third largest city in her home country. And, as Mrs Gonouya explained, is a similar size to New Plymouth, where she lives now.

Figure 2: Screenshot of google maps taken on 05/08/2020 at 8.55am of Gweru (star at top of image) and Zvishavane (at bottom of image)

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Looking back if there was one thing, she would’ve liked to tell her younger self, it would’ve been to “enjoy your life more” and “there will be plenty of times to be serious.” For although life was good growing up in Gweru, having lip sync battles with her friends, like many her age, Mrs Gonouya put too much pressure on herself to succeed. Because of this her worst regret was that she didn’t communicate more with her brother when they were younger. She thought they would have more time together, but they lost him too soon.

Life was very different in Zimbabwe to what it is here in New Zealand. Back when Mrs Gonouya was young it was still very conservative. In Zimbabwe it was very patriarchal with the roles of males and females. In New Zealand she found we have a lot more freedom. Women here aren’t expected as much to dress and act a certain way. However, if she could change something about New Zealand society, she would broaden our knowledge of other cultures. In her words, it is because we are so isolated, we have no idea what we have.

In a way Mrs. Gonouya is changing our society in her classroom. Speaking to one of her many students whom who stated, “I love our class discussions about different views… it is great, we can talk openly.”

Described as “Passionate but aggressive… in a good way” by the same student, Mrs Gonouya is someone who “puts things back into perspective” according to her work mates. She loves “to teach about empowerment… especially in women.”

As a girl she actually wanted to be a lawyer, but she chose to become a teacher instead after being influenced by her own History and English teachers at school. In a way she became a bit like her idol Oprah. Earning the name of ‘Queen,’ she pushes her students to be the best they can be. Saying things like ‘You can settle here, or you can keep going and further yourself.’

Her best experiences teaching at Taranaki Diocesan involve attempting to eat her students while performing Odyssey as a Cyclops with a Year 12 Classics class back in 2016. As well as being a part of prizegiving last year, she mentioned she was glad when she didn’t drop a trophy. And finally, seeing her students grow from shy year 9’s into established and confident young women ready to take on the world. Although she does expect a mention when they become famous, Mrs Gonouya is always “stoked when they do well.”

Speaking to her, she told me some advice she would like to give to her students going out into the world. This would be to “give everything a go,” seize the day and “enjoy it.” For according to Mrs Gonouya, “giving up isn’t an option” and we can’t “limit ourselves over things we failed at in the past,” but rather “get back up and give it another try.”

If she had to choose only one piece of advice it would be to never let anyone tell us we can’t, but to always show them we can.

So, you should always remember, to never be late to Mrs Gonouya’s class, for you never know what you may miss…

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THIRD PLACE THE ONE RISK YOU TAKE CAN EQUAL YOUR LIFE HOLLIE RADFORD

TARANAKI DIOCESAN SCHOOL FOR GIRLS Matt Coleman

At the age of nine, Matt Coleman was put in the back of a police car and escorted home. A group of his friends and himself were lighting fires at the local high school. Matt liked to push boundaries with his parents but overtime he became more responsible and less arrogant.

The type of person that inspires Matt is a person who makes a positive change to the world. Barack Obama is one of these humans. To be a person of colour and to be so successful in making positive changes that were better for the American people. Whereas previous and more recent politicians were and are only focused on looking after themselves.

Matt’s parents weren’t very wealthy. His father Jeff, drove trucks and his mother Penny worked in hospitality.

This led to his family not having a lot of money. Every summer holidays his parents would take Matt and his two brothers somewhere different in New Zealand. On a larger scale, Jeff and Penny sold their house to give their sons an experience of a lifetime. They traveled to England and on the way, they stopped in at Los Angeles to go to Disneyland.

On the way back they went to Singapore before returning home to New Zealand. “I was very lucky to have this experience because not very many people had the chance to go overseas because it was too expensive.”

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Penny has shaped Matt by setting very high expectations for her three sons. They weren’t academic expectation as she wasn’t very academic herself but just in terms of the quality of their personality. “Meaning the reliability, punctuality and honesty they had” Matt said.

At age twenty-six an indecisive man took a life changing risk. He quit his job of eight years, packed up everything he owned into his car and moved to Christchurch to attend Canterbury University. He wasn’t a very good student at school so, to give up something that was secure to him was a huge risk. “The first year was a challenge because I had to learn how to learn again”.” Matt was proud of himself for completing the years he needed to at University.

When Matt had finished university, he had a degree in teaching physics and geology. One opportunity he had was to work in the Petro chemical industry, another option was he got offered a job with met service to become a weather forecaster. The third option he had was to put his application in for a teaching NZ scholarship. “I think I choose to become a teacher because the other two, whilst appealing had aspects of them that were very anti-social in terms of raising a family and my wife Katie was pregnant at the time with our daughter Zoe.” Matt doesn’t like being away from his family or doing shift work. He wasn’t passionate about teaching when he first started but the passion grew and now, he has made the biggest accomplishment by sitting in the principal’s chair. In his life he’s worked at Stratford High and now at Taranaki Diocesan.

Matt is a very sports-oriented person and has been since he was a young boy. He would only go to school to eat food and play sport. There’s not one sport in the world he is set too. Golf was a big part of his life but when he had his first child, he decided to give it a break. At present he really wants to go back to it. Matt decided to stop playing golf because it took him away from his family for a whole day at a time and he felt guilty because it wasn’t fair on his family. Even though Matt has a family that consists of his wife Katie, daughter Zoe and son Luca he still feels young at heart.

He is a person that lives with no regrets. He’s not unhappy with his life he is living right now. Matt does wonder sometimes what it may have been like to work for met service but that’s a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

One thing not many people know about Matt is he has a second-degree black belt in Martial arts. But, one thing everyone does know about the acting principal of Taranaki Diocesan is that he loves his hats. The students describe his hats as “unique, the Oliver twist and the train driver hat.” Matt also loves his food, especially spicy things. The best thing is a Rogan Josh, a spicy hot curry originating from India.

Many people describe Matt as approachable, even tempered and is always going out of his way to make everything better for everyone else. Matt credits his family, his mentors and experiences in shaping and creating the person he is today.

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OPEN SECTION SHORT STORY CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE A GOOD GUY

JAMES O’SULLIVAN NEW PLYMOUTH

“You’re getting old,” exclaims Barry’s wife. “Old and drunk!” He explains he only shared one jug at the pub with Wiremu. And Wiremu had asked him in. What was he meant to do? Yes, it was a bit early in the day for drinks, but it was hot out, and Wiremu had asked him in. You can’t turn down an old friend if he asks you in.

It is an airtight excuse, as far as Barry is concerned, but his wife sees things differently.

“I only asked you to go and get one thing,” she chastises. “A half dozen eggs. One thing!”

“That’s six things, dear,” he corrects calmly.

“You get back to that dairy, Barry,” she hisses. “And you buy those bloody eggs this time. I can’t bake a cake without eggs!”

“Oh, I’ll need some more money.”

“Why? I gave you some money just before.”

“Yeah, but I spent it at the pub with Wiremu.”

“Useless men,” she cries grabbing her purse from the bench top.

“But he asked me in,” protests Barry as his wife thrusts a ten dollar note in his hand and pushes him out the door.

“He asked me in.”

Contemplating the unreasonableness of women, especially women married forty years, Barry walks by Alan’s house, and he has to stop. Alan is out front, wearing only a pair of old grey sweatpants, digging up his lawn, or, more accurately, his landlord’s lawn. The hole is already a decent size and Alan’s flabby hairy gut is glistening with sweat.

“Whatcha doing, Alan?”

Alan stops digging and looks across his rickety front fence at Barry. “Digging a trench.”

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“Does your landlord know about this?”

“It’s for when it rains; that way the basement won’t flood.”

“Your basement floods?”

“When it rains.”

“It hasn’t rained in weeks, Alan.”

“When it rains the basement floods.”

Barry looks at the hole in the overgrown lawn, looks at Alan’s ramshackle house. It’s built against a slope leading down to a paddock where horses graze. Beneath the house is a carless garage. He looks at the hole again. “Are you sure about your engineering, Alan?”

“My engineering?”

“Do you think that trench is going to divert the water away from your basement?”

“When it rains the basement floods.”

“Yeah, but it just looks like you’re digging a great big bloody hole in the lawn.”

“When it rains the basement floods.”

Barry shrugs. “Fair enough.”

He takes a step back to avoid Alan’s atmosphere of body odour before saying, “Tell me something, Alan, when the wife sends me down to the dairy to buy some eggs, and then a mate asks me inside the pub for a drink, it’s not unreasonable to forget I was going out for eggs, is it? That doesn’t mean I’m getting senile, does it?”

“Wanna help me dig the trench?”

“Sorry, Alan,” says Barry taking another step back, “I’ve got to go buy some eggs. My life depends on it. And you should really tell your landlord you’re doing that.”

“When it rains the basement floods.”

“See ya later, Alan.”

After Barry walks away, Alan rests against his spade for a few moments before turning over another sod. The day is getting hotter and the sun is burning his bare sweaty skin. The breeze is warm, offering no comfort.

“What are you doing, Alan?”

Simon is watching him from the footpath. Alan stops working and grins at Simon. He likes Simon, likes his wife Lisa, she bakes biscuits for him sometimes; they own the cafe next to the dairy, she’s in charge of the local kids’ playgroup. Simon isn’t smiling, and he usually smiles.

“Digging a trench,” says Alan. “When it rains the basement floods.”

“Is that right?”

“Do you want to help me? No one else is helping me.”

Simon looks both ways along the street, sighs. “Yeah, I’ll help you out, Alan,” he says stepping over the rickety fence. Alan finds another spade in the garden shed and both men start digging.

“How deep are we digging this trench, Alan?”

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“About ten meters should do it.”

“Ten meters along, or ten meters deep?”

“That should do it,” says Alan.

Simon smiles for the first time. “Sure thing, Alan, we can do that. We can do anything.”

“Yeah,” agrees Alan. “We can do anything. You’re a good guy, Simon. Barry Windle didn’t want to help.”

“Barry’s getting a bit old for digging trenches,” says Simon, spading another load of dirt onto the pile. “Ground is getting pretty hard down here,” he adds. “Hard to dig.”

“We can do anything.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Alan.”

The sun is relentless. The two men work in silence for ten minutes before Simon stops digging.

“Is your brother still around, Alan?”

Alan also stops digging. “Yes.” “Does he ever come and visit you?”

Alan doesn’t say anything.

“Does Fiona Lambert still come over now and again to see if you’re doing alright?”

“Sometimes.”

Simon glances at the house. “Do you ever get lonely living in that house by yourself?”

Alan sniffs, kicks at the pile of dirt. “It’s okay.”

“Do you ever wonder why we’re doing this?”

“When it rains the basement floods.”

“No, I mean, why are we doing anything? Why are we living full stop?”

Alan doesn’t like the way Simon is looking at him, as if he’s done something wrong, or Simon has done something wrong. He doesn’t like all the questions, all the whys.

“Because I need to dig this trench,” says Alan hoping that might answer Simon’s strange questions.

Simon nods. “That’s right, Alan. We might as well be digging this trench.” After a couple more minutes digging, Simon sinks his spade into the dirt pile. “I’m going to the pub for a beer, Alan. You want to come to the pub for a beer? I’ll shout you a beer.”

“Still needs to be deeper,” says Alan looking down at the hole.

“We can come back to it later. Come on, you must be hot and thirsty. Let’s go for a beer.”

Alan drops his spade into the hole. “Okay. We’ll come back to it later.”

“Go and put on a shirt, Alan.”

Alan goes inside and puts on a shirt; Simon stares into the hole until he returns. The two men cross the street and walk silently to the pub on the corner.

The pub is empty except for Barry and Wiremu sharing a jug at a table. Barry has half a dozen eggs in front of him.

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Alan and Simon walk up to the bar. Pam behind the bar smiles at them, but then pulls back half a step when she comes into range of Alan’s body odour. “A jug of Tui, thanks, Pam,” says Simon.

“Sure thing, Simon. Jeez it’s hot out there isn’t it?” Pam pours out the jug and gives them two glasses. Alan and Simon take the jug and glasses over to a table.

“How’s that trench coming along, Alan?” asks Barry from his table.

“Simon is helping me,” says Alan. “Simon is a good guy.” Barry and Wiremu exchange a smile. Simon pours out the beer, hands a glass to Alan, finishes his drink in one go and pours himself another glass.

Alan drinks half his glass. “I like beer,” he says.

“Tell me something,” says Barry generally, “is half a dozen eggs one thing or six things? I mean, they’re in one carton, but there are six eggs.”

“Ah, the great philosophical matter of the day,” calls out Pam from behind the beer taps.

“It’s half a thing,” says Alan.

Simon stares silently at his beer.

“But you say half a dozen eggs, with an s on the end,” argues Barry, “not half a dozen egg, with no s. So it must be more than one thing.”

“Well I guess that settles it then,” says Pam. “You’re more reasonable than my wife,” says Barry. “In fact you’re about the only sensible woman I know, Pam.” Pam smiles and wipes down the bar.

“Nice of you to say so, Barry. You going to give me a big tip?”

“Not that sensible,” mutters Barry. “It’s a crime what they charge for eggs at that dairy.”

The four men sip their beers.

“Hey, I hope you’re not going to dig up one of my ancestors, Alan.” says Wiremu, winking at Barry. “They’re buried all around here.”

Barry sniggers. “Yeah, it always amazes me how your ancestors got themselves buried by gas fields or somewhere valuable like that.”

“Tapu is tapu,” says Wiremu grinning.

“Nothing a bit of koha doesn’t solve though, eh?” says Barry.

Wiremu laughs into his beer. “We’ve always been crafty buggers,” he says.

“Hey, Simon,” says Pam. “Is that beer talking to you or something? You’ve been staring at it for the last five minutes.”

“Must have a touch of the sun,” says Barry. “I had an uncle that used to get a touch of the sun all the time. Never wore a hat.”

“Oh shit,” says Pam backing towards the spirit bottles behind her.

Constable Jacob has entered the pub, along with three other officers she doesn’t recognise. They are all armed with handguns and have armour vests on.

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Simon keeps staring at his glass of beer. Another couple of armed cops come out from the back way. They silently gesture for Pam to leave. She hurries out past them.

Wiremu and Barry, confused and alarmed, stand up. Jacob has a hand on the gun in his holster, he silently beckons them out. The two friends quickly leave, Barry making sure he takes the eggs; he cannot forget the eggs.

The six armed officers surround the table with Simon and Alan. Simon finally looks up from his beer, smiles grimly. “So you’ve found her?” Jacob nods silently. “Don’t worry, I’m not armed.”

“I have every right to dig that trench,” says Alan looking at the cops. “When it rains the basement floods. No ancestors down there.”

“It’s not about the trench,” says Simon quietly. “It’s about Lisa.”

Simon finishes his beer, stands up with hands outstretched in a submissive gesture. He’s patted down by a cop.

“We’ll take you through to Hawera to process you, Simon,” explains Jacob.

“Is Lisa sick?” says Alan.

“It was a pleasure working with you, Alan,” says Simon. “You’re going to have to finish that trench by yourself.

And make sure you finish it. Don’t let them stop you from finishing it.”

“About ten meters should do it,” says Alan. But then he frowns and wonders why Simon has tears on his cheeks.

“Don’t let them stop you, Alan,” repeats Simon as he is handcuffed. He adds, “Take care of yourself, Alan,” before being taken away, leaving Alan alone in the pub.

Alan pours himself another glass of beer. “Simon is a good guy,” he surmises. He thinks for a moment, and then says, “No ancestors down there.”

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SECOND PLACE PĀTEA POOLS AIRANA NGAREWA PĀTEA

A beautifully muscled boy is posted on the side of a pool, his feet fixed to the top of a pair of rusted handrails, an empty water bottle in his hands, his weight balanced, his expression determined, his knees bent, the lifeguard distracted, one of his mates watching her and the rest edging him on. You got this, bro. Lesgo. Hurry ow, ‘fore she turns around. The day is late; the sun’s harsh rays are settling and the boys well sun-burned – not that they’ll know until the morning. A darling little girl in an oversized t-shirt is doggy paddling in the deep end, ready to duck her head underwater when the young boy leaps, waiting to hear the full glory of the manu. She likes listening more than she likes doing her own; you can never hear your own, she reckons. Feel them, yeah, but you can never hear them. A symphony of 90’s hip hop blasts over the sounds of play. Splashing and yelling and ducking friend’s heads underwater and laughing. The Bluetooth speaker distorts whenever the bass kicks, but the boys know no different; they figure that’s just how they made music back then, over there, in the states. A group of older boys, teenagers, are laid out on the concrete, drying off, their backs unburned but peeling, one of the few favours dark skin offers in this mixed-up place.

A set of spotlights dot the third of seven concrete steps; they haven’t shone in years; for the boys, they are nothing more than a landmark, a thing to measure their manus against. The top step is a concrete table for 11 siblings sharing four scoops of chips with white bread and margarine and tomato sauce, the thick scent of deep-fried oil catching the breeze, mixing and marrying with the all-over smell of sunscreen and chlorine. Want some? Nah, you’re all good; I had a feed at mine. Six girls are playing touch in the middle pool, waist-deep, their legs thrashing and the water pooling over the sides, nobody having scored a try, the game practically impossible to win. A young mum splashes a toddler in the paddling pool, the toddler giggling away as he pours tiny buckets of water over his own head, his Finding Nemo nappy sagging, a size too big.

The young boy leaps, the muscles in his thighs tensing and twisting as he lifts from the handrail, his league shorts (let’s go Warriors) soaked through and glued to his skin, his whole frame sailing up, his hands – the empty water bottle – reaching for the heavens, his face stoic, he’s done this before; in truth, today is his first day back since the last time he did it. This is the only rule the lifeguard here upholds: a three-day ban for anybody caught doing bombs – she calls manus bombs – from either the handrail or the wooden bench. Too many accidents, she reckons, too many pretty children rushed off in ambulances. The boys think she’s lying. And they’re right. Pātea is small, anytime an ambulance leaves this place the whole town knows before the end of the day. This was true even before Facebook, the community page, before the senior busybodies here learned the intricacies of social media.

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The lifeguard charges 50 cents at the gate: rumour has it the pools are public and nobody should be charging nothing. Everybody’s heard this, because of course everybody has, but nobody knows for sure. This doesn’t stop the crowds from coming, paying, 50 cents placed either in the lifeguard’s hand or the sliced lid of an old ice cream container, the fancy kind, Tip Top, cookies and cream. A couple of water-rats live next door, stay just over a grey tin fence at the top of the steps. They show up every day, no matter the weather, sun shining or rain raining, and never pay, always jumping that grey tin thing when nobody’s looking. The lifeguard must know, she must, they’ve done it too many times when the pool is quiet, when they’re the only ones there. Maybe it’s sympathy that stops her from calling them out or maybe she can’t be bothered kicking up a fuss over a 50-cent coin those water-rats surely don’t have.

None but the young boy’s mates and a few less-than-subtle admirers watch him soar through the air. Everybody else has seen it before – too many times to count. This is most true of those drying-off-on-the-concrete manboys who have long graduated to doing bombs off the bridge when the tide is in; a sight that never fails to inspire uncertainty and fear and relief and awe. The young boy manus from the rusted handrails mostly as an act of rebellion, for the thrill of breaking the one rule you’re not allowed to break and the risk of getting banned again and the props he gets from his peers and the girls. The latter is mostly imaginary: the girls too clever to cheer the boy for something as unremarkable as disobeying the local lifeguard, a distant relation to many of them, a cousin or an aunty or a nan.

The boys’ changing room is plastered with shorts and towels and hoodies and schoolbags and singlets, none of which hang on the steel hooks lining the weathered timber walls; the girls’ changing room is much the same plus or minus the odd bra or bikini top. The toilets are steel and have no lids and the shower runs cold and the soap dispensers have long stopped dispensing soap. It’s all a mess really. Not that any of the boys and girls here mind.

Keeps the rich kids away, they reckon. Let them have Hāwera. This one’s ours.

For a moment, the young boy is floating, hanging as if in pause, as if time has stopped to adore him, body long, his hands still stretched to the heavens, ready to fold as gravity rips him back to the earth, to the wavering pool of water he means to displace, to send toward the late sun, that celestial thing that dared burn him the last time he was here, three days ago. Waves of admiration and envy wash over his mates. That boy’s got hops, aye. I could manu way bigger than him if I could jump that high. This one will be mean as. His arms pull down and his elbows tuck to his ribs and his hands come over his chest, palms facing each other, nursed gently around the lip of the empty water bottle, his legs lifting and his body pulling into a v.

All the boys here wear the OG skuxx cut, dark hair with long streaks of yellow (sometimes orange), a sort of hood mullet, long on the top and back and short on the sides, straightened and styled with Dax Wax whenever it’s dry.

Nobody knows who started it, they all just had it one day. The same is true of the side ratty: a longer-than-the-rest strip of hair braided and kept together using either a hair tie or a jelly bracelet – double points if they were borrowed from a sister or a cousin or a crush.

The young boy breaks the water with the base of his back, his body pulled into a v, his knees kissing his chest, his legs ready to kick out, his whole figure opening, his grip loosening, the pool shooting up in a jet of water – he is truly the son of Tangaroa – the empty water bottle shooting up with it, clearing the top of the spotlights. Far out. Chur.

Told you it’d be mean; Pohū’s always been the man at manus. The bottle dances in the air, flipping and turning and catching the breeze, then comes down hard, narrowly missing the heads of the teenage boys. They don’t budge. The darling little girl surfaces with a larger-than-life smile. That sounded like a bomb (hey, maybe that’s why nan calls them that, she thinks to herself).

The lifeguard appears from out of nowhere, the lookout forgetting his job in the hype of it all. She stands over the edge of the pool and grabs the young boy by his ears and pulls him from the water. These things just for decoration, boy? Bloody hell. Can’t look away for one second without you water-rats doing something silly. How many times have I told you ‘bout the kid who cracked his head open bombing off those rails? Jesus Christ boy. Go on, grab your gears, you know the drill.

The teenagers shake their heads and the group of girls looking on try to hide their smiles and his mates crack up laughing, holding their stomachs, almost crying. The young boy rubs his ear and asks if it was big. It sounded massive, the darling little girl replies. Shot, Sis; catch you at home. And you too, Nan, he says winking at the lifeguard. You’re a bloody nuisance, she reckons.

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THIRD PLACE MILKY MOUNTAIN EMMA HISLOP NEW PLYMOUTH

‘You’re spending a lot of time away from your place,’ Faith says. ‘I don’t want you to feel like you have to spend every night with me.’

Drew frowns. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

It’s a surprise when he holds her hand across the table later that night and says he wants to come to New Zealand with her. His face seems kind in the dimly lit bar. A few times a week for the past six months they’ve met up for a drink, then spent the night. She’s been thinking of going home for a while, sick of paying so much rent for her tiny London apartment. But the apartment has been one of her most stable relationships over the last five years.

‘I’ve always wanted to go,’ he says. ‘All those bush walks, that mountain that looks like Mt. Fuji. And I can work anywhere.’He orders an expensive bottle of wine and talks some more, making a good case, including London being filthy and Boris Johnson. That moment feels a bit like a completed puzzle and she surprises herself by agreeing.

They’ll try it for a year, two at the most. They drink the wine and it’s like he’s lit up.

They walk to her flat, and stop in a doorway on the way to kiss and touch. They go to bed. He usually likes to get deep inside her but tonight he’s too gentle and he comes and she doesn’t. Afterwards he slips his hand in hers and talks about things he hasn’t before, his family who she hasn’t met, his father, who was a brain surgeon.

‘We didn’t get on,’ he says. ‘He’d asked me to go hiking with him and I said I was too busy. He’d been dead for days when a ranger found him.’

In her head Faith pictures her family tree, rolled out across the lounge floor at her parents place. Her eyes are heavy.

‘We’ll be fine,’ he says and she doesn’t know what he’s talking about and she falls asleep.

The NZ flat comes furnished and Faith gets a job writing for The Daily News, with staff car. New houses have been built along the seafront since her last visit, huge modern boxes made from wood and corrugated iron. The shadows on the sea have a stark, vivid quality. The mountain is covered in snow already and everything below the snow line is green and she can feel the sea air in her lungs.

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On their first date, she’d listened as Drew talked about his job as an independent programmer. Because it was online, he’d explained, he’d found it hard to meet people because no one knew him, and though he wanted people to know him, he couldn’t really be himself, so instead he gave Tinder a go. So far it had only made him feel more alone.

‘Going out for dinner on your own - it’s depressing,’ he’d said, waving a hand. ‘Really, I just eat a lot of takeaways.’

Faith was sitting on the couch beside him, and though he’d muted his phone, sometimes it vibrated and he’d stop talking a moment, and Faith sat there looking at him - fuck he was handsome - waiting for the story to end. Months later, she thought how typical that was, him telling her about a problem that existed only in his head yet making her wait while he checked his messages. She’d later wondered a lot of things. It felt like basic information, but she didn’t realise then that she didn’t know it.

Her parents and her old friends are the only reminder of who she used to be. In her friends she sees all of their previous selves, just as they must see in her - teenage girls at the White Hart, confiscated hip flasks, crimped hair and house parties they weren’t invited to.

The mountain flows with cold and he complains incessantly about the lack of central heating. They binge watch true crime shows under the duvet and eat takeaways and fuck and sleep with their bodies pressed together. Faith leaves for work in the mornings when he is still curled up warmly in bed. She doesn’t know what he does all day.

When she asks him about work he says it’s not interesting, that she doesn’t want to hear about that. She can’t tell him she misses him when she’s at work, although she does and also wishes he’d go away.

It’s hot in the living room when Faith gets home from work on Friday. She makes her way across the debris on the floor, computer magazines, barley sugar wrappers, a pizza box - to turn the heater off. She flicks it off at the wall and calls out but there’s no answer. His laptop is on the sofa. She flips it open and sees a conversation not meant for her.

There are more girls, all slim and dark and pretty, like Faith at that age. Later she wondered why she didn’t see what that was about.

Renata and Jon invite them to a Matariki party. He’d rather stay home tonight, he says.

‘They’re good people,’ she says. ‘You’ve hardly left the house.’

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. It’s not until they’re almost there that Faith knows what it is. She wants to push his hand off her leg, tells him to stop the car, let her out. Instead she almost crushes the container of puriri seedlings she’s holding on her lap. They pull up to a row of parked cars in the drive.

There’s smoke from the bonfire and it’s a full moon.

Renata opens the door. Behind her, the hallway is crowded with people and strung with coloured paper lanterns.

The last time Faith saw some of these people they were teenagers and it’s strange to see them now, in grown bodies.

‘We were just saying how good looking he is.’

In the past, Faith’s friends have accused her of being picky. She hands Renata the seedlings and watches Drew shake hands with Jon. She thinks about all the years she’d lived in this place before he came here, all of the time they’d been strangers to each other - were strangers. She has to tell someone.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she says.

Renata pushes for details, asking Faith whether there is anything else. Faith hesitates.

‘I can handle it,’ Renata says, ‘just tell me,’ and it strikes Faith that her oldest friend is concerned. Renata who will say yes to most things because she can’t say no. It’s a good enough answer.

After breakfast they drive around. He leaves New Plymouth and heads south, towards the mountain. They pass the crematorium, then stretches of trees and farmland. They begin a slow, windy ascent. Trees bend over and they follow the road until the trees finally part. The visitors centre sits above the car park, where two other cars are parked.

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He’s paying at the tearoom counter and his driver’s license falls onto the floor. It’s the photo from Tinder, the reason Faith swiped left. Moody, stubble, up a mountain in Nepal. But it’s something else. When he turns, she hands it to him. His shoulders lift and fall like he’s trying to relax but he doesn’t say anything.

They sit in the window. The expanse of farmland is vast from up here, dwarfing the city. The coast sweeps around to Ngāmotu Beach and the port where the old power station chimney stands out. Paritutu rock, and the smaller islands around Back Beach. The silver sea is too bright to look at for long. Faith coughs, clearing the dry feeling in her throat and says: ‘I thought you said you were thirty three.’

‘Sorry?’ He looks as if he hasn’t heard right. ‘What made you think that?’

‘Your Tinder profile?’

He looks blank. Not playing.

‘Come on, you put your age at thirty three.’

‘Faith, I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.’

‘You could just tell me.’ She’s not sure why but the way she says it sounds like an apology. She stares across at him. She wants to take hold of him by the shoulders and shake him. Tell him he didn’t need to lie to her, not to lie to her.

‘You must have read it incorrectly. You do realise how crazy this sounds?’ He smiles when he says it but he’s fed up with this, whatever it is.

‘I just wondered why you lied.’

‘You don’t get to talk to people like this, Faith. It’s childish.’ Faith closes her eyes. It’s as though he thinks she’s trying to trap him, make him tell something other than the facts.

‘Christ, we’ve wasted the best part of the day. Can I assume the ridiculous questions are over now? Let’s go for a walk.’

‘I’m hardly dressed for it.’ She’s in a merino shift and slip on shoes.

‘There’s some gear in the car. Although I’m not sure why everything is my responsibility.’ Back at the car he pulls out new looking tramping boots in her size and thermals and jackets. She is at fault, somehow. He’s standing behind her, holding out a jacket. He doesn’t say anything but Faith holds out her arms and he slips the jacket on. She lets him zip it up. ‘About time you walked off some of those takeaways.’ Faith reaches hard inside herself, and finds it—finds a smile, and nods.

At first, it’s beautiful. A bush track, clean air, the sound of tui and toutouwai. They pass another couple, coming back down and say hi. Twenty or thirty metres up, towards the top of the curve is a smattering of snow, starkly contrasting against the deep green of the treeline. They walk in silence. She’s trying to figure it out. She lies sometimes, without planning to, or knowing why. The boots are heavy. Her footprints leave dark marks on the track, fading to chalky white beneath them, worn into the snow. Ahead of them stretches a line of smoothly eroded footprints, set at regular intervals, and she walks in these until she is about halfway up and the prints are lost in the snow. Maybe she’d read his age wrong, like he said. Faith looked younger than she was. Maybe the girls were old enough. He’s further up the track and he turns and does that smile. The track is steeper here, and sloping. The trick is not to look down, and not to stop. Stopping makes things worse. She’d made that mistake once rock climbing on school camp, and her body had seized up. The words press at her mouth.

‘Why didn’t you introduce me to any of your friends?’ she says.

‘You met Mike, didn’t you?’

‘Only because we ran into him that day in Camden. What about your family?’

‘Where are you going with this, Faith?’

Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Award Finalist Booklet 2020 |

41

‘Nothing. Nowhere.’ She says it too quickly. It occurs to her that she’s scared of the lie, what it represents.

The wind gets up. The jacket feels too tight on her body. She takes her phone out of her bag and checks for a signal. It’s low. Wind pushes her hair into her eyes, her mouth. She begins to descend the path and the slope propels her forward so she half runs.

She goes into the shop at the front of the tearoom. The woman behind the counter is sixteen, maybe younger.

Her hair is scraped off her face and she isn’t wearing any makeup. Faith can see the outline of her bra under her t-shirt. She tries to remember herself at that age. He will tell her she’s in the wrong, as she’s been so many times before. Her phone vibrates inside her bag. He’s in the room. How did he slip in here, unnoticed? She can see him looking, growing his smile and there’s nothing else in the room and she wonders what she’s given away.

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OPEN SECTION POETRY CATEGORY

FIRST PLACE HOPE

MARIA TAYLOR STRATFORD

The boy off the farm at Kakaramea’s 17 now; old enough to drive 30 miles in the ute to dance with a girl he barely knows young enough to be what he seems: sun-reddened and strong, years away from running to fat and hopeful hopeful as he shuffles awkward on the polished floor and holds her, giggling in his arms never quite sure of the position; of where, exactly, to put his hands when to let go and when to hold on, only knowing for sure, that clutching too tight could cost him it all a wasted trip driving through the dark and the alarm set for 4:30 the next morning.

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SECOND PLACE A WORMS EYE VIEW KOREN MILLER HĀWERA

With a worm’s eye view, Whiskey in one hand and Fountain pen in the other I envision Morrison Swaying on the stair Imagine the life and the parties Rolling through the years on these wooden floors.

Kauri cottage cries echoed in the table and chairs.

Dinner is set for one.

Candles flicker with a corner breeze, But his mum would be proud of his dry socks And words recorded with ease.

Guitar and double bass strums Fingering the air.

Plots of crime and intrigue Run through his mind, Te Hawera, ‘The Burnt Place’ An inspiration shunned by some.

The Watcher is watched.

Who wants to be remembered Even as a “poor buggar who gets discovered when they’re dead.”

With a worm’s eye view Morrison makes magic Upon the page.

Characters rise up Beneath the ink And dance in and out of shadows With their master.

Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Award Finalist Booklet 2020 |

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THIRD PLACE WEIGHTLESS SASHA FINER HĀWERA

I’ve been trying to keep a dream journal, I think maybe the sleep-fragments clouded in my head might deflate when transferred to paper. Lately I’ve felt full of hot air and sometimes I have trouble telling the difference between dreaming and reality; silly, I know, because sometimes I think dreaming is all the reality we have. * I once dreamed I was floating in an endless pool, the clouds above hovering just within reach. When I looked down through the water, way down, I could see the world in stasis; a macrocosm preserved within a glass paperweight. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t dive deep enough to reach it. * The most weightless I’ve ever felt was when I ran and leapt off the edge of a terraced garden, expecting a small drop – there was a moment of breathless, swollen suspension, an impossible instant of flight, before the ground rose up beneath me. Is this a dream or a memory?

I couldn’t manage it again, no matter how many times I jumped. Anticipation is a gravitational concept. * When I dream, flying is not as hard as it should be. The trick is not to think directly; a peripheral idea is enough to dissolve gravity. After a moment I’m – absent, untethered, I’m detached, and the people below point and say: look, there goes the girl with her head in the clouds, what a pity it is she doesn’t know how to come down.

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h Ronald Hugh

Morrieson

Literary Awards 2020