Ronald Hugh Morrieson 2013

2013 FINALIST STORIES

Table of Contents Foreword – Mayor Ross Dunlop

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Judge’s General Comment – Karlo Mila

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Eirlys Hunter

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Secondary School Short Story Division 1st Place – Dawn Mills, Teachers Pet

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nd

Page 10

rd

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2 Place – William Andersen-Gardiner, Falling Behind the Fleet 3 Place – Ellen Hodder, Second-hand Smoke

Highly Commended Dawn Mills, Rock-a-bye baby

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Reuben Hall, In The Arms of Your Enemy

Page 19

Commended Jake Corrigan, My Day My Game

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Secondary School Poetry Division 1st Place – Sophie Andersen-Gardiner, but maybe I liked it when it hurt nd

2 Place – Sophie Andersen-Gardiner, 11pm Call rd

3 Place – Alyx Devlin, Untitled

Page 26 Page 28 Page 29

Very Highly Commended Sean McColl, As seen by me

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Ashley Johnson, Chemistry

Page 32

Dominique Harmer-Higgins, Beyond the Mountain

Page 34

Commended Louise Jansen, What has Love Become?

Page 35

Dawn Mills, Sanitized Heaven

Page 36

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Open Short Story/Drama Script Division 1st Place – Heather Sinclair, Shake a Leg

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nd

Page 40

rd

Page 44

2 Place – Marama Salsano, Hangi 3 Place – Paul Andersen-Gardiner, The Ballad of Scruff and Rat

Highly Commended Rolland McKellar, Holey Holly Hedge

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Commended Pip Harrison, The Good Thing

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Open Poetry Division 1st Place – Jessica Howatson, The Colour of a Poet’s Pen

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nd

Page 67

rd

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2 Place – Jessica Howatson, Forever in Darkness 3 Place – John Sargeant, The Fare

Very Highly Commended Rachael Kellogg, The Teller

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Rachael Kellogg, Another Day at the Office

Page 71

Merry Wallis, Guardians of Mount Taranaki

Page 72

Commended Rachael Kellogg, Emulation

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Rachael Kellogg, Rosella

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Robyn Ryan, Ladies of Leisure

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Special Mention Dave Lee, For Whare and TK

Page 79

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Foreword Ross Dunlop South Taranaki Mayor The Ronald Hugh Morrieson Literary Awards are well and truly part of the cultural calendar of South Taranaki. They have been going for 26 years and have given many aspiring writers a first step into publicly revealing their literary talent.

Like any 26 year old, there is much more to be experienced and a world to be explored. I am sure this year’s Awards will not disappoint.

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

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

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

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Judge’s General Comments Karlo Mila 2013 Secondary School Poetry I was impressed by the variety and quality of the entrants of the Open Poetry section but it is true to say that I was simply “wowed” by the Secondary School poetry. The first time I read the selection of poems, I was at the swimming pools while my sons were doing swimming practice. Even though I was in a public place, surrounded by strangers, I kept laughing out loud and sighing deeply as I read the words written by the teenagers of South Taranaki.

These young people are paying such close attention to what’s going on in their worlds and they are capturing it, so honestly, on the page. What was particularly powerful is that the young people of South Taranaki are writing about what they know, what they care about, and they are capturing the truth of it, the essence of it, in ways that often only poetry can.

The poems are about life, about love, about all that matters. It was hard to pick the winners and there is a long list of commended poems, because so many of them stuck and wouldn’t let me go. I read poems that haunted and hovered. I read poems that pulled and pushed.

I read poems that lingered longer than I expected. I read poems that almost bruised the skin with their energy and honesty. Some of these poems are still quite raw and could potentially do with some further editing, but I so enjoyed reading them (and would have delighted in editing them further with their authors) that I wanted to acknowledge them all and showcase them here regardless. Most of all these resonate as “true” rather than contrived or made-up. This is no small feat.

I think it’s important too, to know what’s on the mind of our young people, what they are going through and what they are thinking about. Therefore, congratulations to the next generation of fearless poets of South Taranaki. Now I understand why they say, “There must be something in the water”. I think we could also use another term that I have shamelessly stolen from the title of one of these poems - I definitely think that these young poets are able to see (and write clearly about) what lies “Beyond the Mountain”. Well done, it was a pleasure to judge this competition.

Open Poetry The open poetry section conjured up a very strong sense of place, of landscape, of experiences within South Taranaki. Many poems demonstrated a close connection to the land itself and the wildlife. For example, there were a number of odes to birds filled with elegant lines and careful observations. Some of the poems that have been selected, “Rosella” and “Another Day at the office” evoke a deep engagement with the South Taranaki landscape and all it has to offer. There was much ‘noticing’ of the mountain itself, and interactions with the maunga. One selected poem, “Guardians of Mt Taranaki” moves this into an almost mystical connection, the all-seeing mountain and the intergenerational role of the people of this place.

Like Paula Green in the previous year, I enjoyed the poems that told stories, of storms on the farm, of schools closing, of life changing in South Taranaki. I enjoyed the cacophony of passionate voices writing about community, about Kiwi identity, about the government, about lament for the wars, and about the everyday politics what is taught in schools. One 4

of the selected poems “Ladies of Leisure” is representative of these passionate, distinctive voices that constitute important parts of the South Taranaki community.

Lots of poems kept an eye on history, but also demonstrated a very keen awareness of the present and the preciousness of life. The two poems awarded second and third place evoke the wisdom found in elders, wise words that make us wonder about life and reflect on what is important. There were many heartfelt and touching poems about friends, relationships, family and feelings. Alongside the winning and commended poems, I chose to acknowledge a ‘wildcard’ poem for Special Mention, that drew me into the story of a family that stayed with me long after I’d read it.

I want to make mention of the wit in many of the poems. This is well demonstrated in the poem “The Teller”. There were many fresh, moving and lovely lines to be found in the poems submitted. Bold, memorable lines such as: “On this day I should send / greetings and best wishes / but instead I would grant you fire.” I would grant gratitude and thanks to all the poets who shared words in this competition, I enjoyed reading all of your writing and it was a privilege getting a glimpse into life in South Taranaki. Even those who missed out on being acknowledged here provided me with much reading pleasure. Thank you.

Even though the poem I’ve placed first doesn’t quite conjure up the South Taranaki landscape the way that many others do, it manages to convey a sense of writing poetry against all the odds, in all sorts of places and most especially in South Taranaki. The poem outlines the different sorts of poems that are written, delineating between red-pen, blue biro, black-penned, and pencil ‘poems’.

During this competition, I’ve read and judged the whole gamut! I would like to think that there is a wide range in the poems that I’ve selected as well. Passionate red-pen poems, effortless everyday blue-biro poems, confident black-penned poems and those written in spidery, self-conscious pencil – less sure of themselves - but so importantly making their way to page. I’ve enjoyed them all. It has been such a joy to teach, read and witness poetry coming out of South Taranaki. I would encourage all of the entrants to keep on writing poetry, as sometimes, as the winning poem alludes, sometimes it just has an uncanny ability to “fill the emptiness”.

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Eirlys Hunter 2013 Secondary School Short Story Division I was very impressed with both the quality and the variety of stories entered into this competition.

On the one hand there were perfect miniatures: insightful character portraits or descriptions of a particular place or moment in which nothing much happens. On the other hand there were dramatic tales of war, suicide, murder and mayhem. In between, there were a lot of funerals.

Sometimes there’s one story that shines out from the rest when judging writing competitions. Not this time. This time my ‘yes’ pile grew alongside my ‘no’ and ‘maybe’ piles as I read; I loved lots of them, and for different reasons. One made me remember my own youth with an event that could have come out of my own experience. Another moved me with its poignant descriptions. Another made me laugh out loud. Which to choose? And how much weight to put on accurate punctuation and spelling?

I’m attracted to confident story-telling voices when I read. I believe them. I want to listen to them, whether they’re yarning, telling a dramatic tale, or just relating an incident. In the end it’s possible to learn how to cut back passages that are over-written and an editor can help sort out spelling and punctuation. But a confident voice is much harder to acquire, and I want to congratulate and celebrate the young writers of South Taranaki because so many of them have distinctive, authentic voices. Like Ronald Hugh Morrieson, these writers know how to tell a story.

Open Short Story/Drama Script Division The Open Competition entries also covered a huge range of subject matter. There were common problems with the stories that went straight to the ‘no’ pile.

There were those by writers who, perhaps, believe that by withholding vital information like the ‘where’ ‘when’ ‘who’ ‘how’ or ‘why’ of a story they are being more literary. These stories often began with an outpouring of unfocussed emotion; I didn’t know whether I was reading about a missing husband, a dead grandmother, or the end of a love affair. The stories that were most successful were always high in specifics so that I knew where I was and whose story was being told.

I was moved by several descriptions of pain and anguish that gave me insight into the writer’s private suffering. But these were accounts; however well written, they weren’t stories. To make a story out of experience you still need to invent and shape events to provide a form, and discard any part that doesn’t add to the narrative. You need to fictionalise.

The best stories though were wonderful. They had distinctive voices, interesting characters that I cared about, and they also had something to say.

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Secondary School Division Short Stories First Place Teachers Pet

by Dawn Mills Opunake High School “Can I trust you?” Mike had asked.

Not, do you trust me? But can I trust you. I was standing with him at our school basketball courts at four in the morning, in ball freezing weather and he doubts me now?!“ Get on with it!” I hissed. “You better not have woken me up for nothin’.” He gave me a dark look then turned away.

“Wasn’t for nothing, Dave. Please, can I trust you?”

I looked up and caught his pleading eyes. It almost shocked me to see someone as in control as Mike needing reassurance. But he had changed so much lately, hanging with different crowds and shit. It’s that bloody new kids fault, that idiot Kane. Mike had always been so sensible, so put together. But when Kane showed up, man, he just went AWOL. I just couldn’t deal with him anymore, so I left and just hung out with my girl Jess and her friends. But when an old mate taps on your window asking you to help him, a mate you’ve known since diapers, there isn’t really much choice.

“Course you can trust me, Mike. Course you can.” I said awkwardly. He stared me down for a couple more seconds then he turned away.

“Good.” He whispered nodding to himself. “Good.”

Then he walked off towards the field. Typical Mike, lead and expect others to follow.

I stumbled over the lumpy Taranaki landscape after him, picturing a soft warm bed with Jess waiting for me. After trudging across the muddy field, we stopped beside the end goal posts.

“Mike, if you meant me help you practice for tomorrow’s game, I’m gonna-“ I stopped when I saw the outline of someone lying beside the post.

I looked up at Mike slowly. He stared back, confirming my fears.

“Who- who is… it.” I managed to spit out as I glanced at the bloody hand that had escaped from the sheet that the body was wrapped in. Mike looked away from me and murmured.

“Mrs Calderbank.” My eyes widened.

“You shot our teacher!” He shook his head, still looking at his feet.

“I stabbed her.” He whispered “seven times.”

My head spun, seven times.

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Now, no one liked Mrs Calderbank, she had this thing for watching us undereducated trying to read or spell long words. But stab her? I started to shake.

“Shit man! She was a cruel bitch and all, but...” I couldn’t finish. Mike handed me a spade like it was the knife that killed her and looked into my eyes.

“Please.” he whispered.

“Please” Mike had whispered to the guys kicking the snot out of him, his voice came out in a helpless whisper. I quickly jumped the fence that divied us and I shelted the poor kid with my body. He was as thin as sticks and he shook like a small, snott covered leaf. The guys who had been beating stopped and started mumbling to themselves about how my older brother would kill them if they hurt me. There was a tense momment of silence as I stood over Mike, and the guys decied which was worse. Beat up these kids and feel better about themselves but then get beaten up themselves, or walked away like nothing happed.

Smash and be smashed? They left quickly, the dust settleling in their wake. I held my little buddy while he cried, and I acted like he never shead a tear once when he pushed me away. We stayed there for awhile, talking about things that little mites do until it was time to go home. Little Mike had turned to me.

“Are we friends now?”

I grinned a gap toothed and youthful grin.

“Nah, not friends. You can be my best mate!”

My best mate. My bloody best mate, though he was hardly the small snotty kid he was back then. I nodded and he gave me a weak smile.

“Knew I could count on you, Dave.” He whispered softly. Then he turned and started to walk back towards the school. “I’m going to clean up her office...” he let that sentence float in the air as he walked away.

“Mike! Wait, I just need to know-“ “Why?” Mike interrupted as he slowed to a stop.

“Yes.” I said quietly.

“She hit you.” He said, and then he walked off.

I was horrified. Was I supposed to feel touched?

I looked at Mrs Calderbank’s body and shuddered. That woman is dead ‘cause I goofed off in class and she smacked me one. Hell, I deserved it!

But I couldn’t let Mike go to jail. Not Mike. So I grabbed the shovel, picked a nice spot in the bushes at the end of the field and I started to dig.

The hole had started to get pretty deep when I heard a quiet rustle in the bushes.

One thing about Mike is his loud breathing and heavy footsteps.

This was not Mike.

I bolted.

“Stop, police!” an angry voice called.

It would’ve been so easy for me to then run down the road then lose this guy in the winding streets to Jess’s house where I would lay low for a while, but I couldn’t just leave Mike, so I raced towards Mrs Calderbank’s office, my membership on the

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sprint team coming in handy. I could hear the policeman puffing and lagging behind.

I ran even faster, pain flowing in my veins. Bloody Mike! I burst into the office.

“Mike- cops- run!” I gasped and it was all I could get out.

Silence answered me, silence.

Oh crap. I looked up to see a cop sitting at the desk, pointing a gun at me.

“David Andrews, you’re under arrest for the murder of Michelle Calderbank.”

“No.” I whispered.”No!” He stared at me, uncaring. For him, it was just another day on the job, but it wasn’t just another day for me. Fourteen years in jail flashed across my brain. After that, nothing. No Jess, no money, no life. So running out of a room with a gun pointed at me didn’t seem like much of a risk. I leapt up and knocked a pink vase with cats on it into the cop’s face. Then I spun and ran down the hallway. I heard shouts behind me from more than one person and that made me run faster.

And that’s when I realised, all this was because of Mike. How else did the cops know where to wait for me! He framed me, Mike actually framed me. Anger spurred me on faster than I have ever ran before. Coach would’ve been proud, if I wasn’t running from the cops. My heart was on fire and my legs were screaming, so I decided it would be best find a place to hide then wait for the cops to leave. I dove behind the caretakers shed, which only had about a 60cm gap from the wall. I crouched low, waiting for footsteps.

Eventually I heard some, heavy and clumsy. Not like a cop’s at all. I snuck out from my hiding spot and jumped on Mike. Then I pulled him back behind the shed, his scream was muffled against my hand.

“Hello, Mike.” I whispered in his ear. “So I guess the question is- Can I trust you?”

Judge’s Comment This piece of writing has a terrific voice and is a real story. It has pace, energy and tension, and it manages that tricky business of showing emotion without slowing down the action.

Although what happens is melodramatic, the events aren’t gratuitous; they’re a consequence of who the characters are.

In just a few paragraphs we come to understand quite a lot about the relationship between Dave and Mike, which is shown both through excellent dialogue, and the clever use of flashback.

The story could have benefited from some copy editing to make the layout more readable and to fix spelling and punctuation, but in the end that’s something that an editor can fix up.

This is a worthy winner of the Ronald Hugh Morrieson award.

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Second Place Falling Behind the Fleet

by William Andersen-Gardiner Opunake High School The fleet makes its way up the winding North Taranaki river. Arms and water churn as the bows of brightly coloured kayaks powerfully cut through the murky water as if it was paper. The passengers are equally impressive, muscles straining as paddles drag through the surface of the water over and over, never faltering, the beautiful landscape of the Taranaki coastline setting a perfect scene for their journey.

And then, of course, there’s me.

Me, lagging miles behind everybody else, swearing under my breath as I stumble out of my beached kayak with all the grace of a three-legged elephant, push it off the shore and back into the water for the third time. I’ve never been good at any kind of physical activity, which is why I was hesitant to go on this camp in the first place, but neglecting to bring my permission form in until last minute meant it was either this, or the Twilight movies marathon camp. I was even considering the Twilight camp, but my friend Hone convinced me to come with him, because mountain biking and kayaking is fun and easy, apparently. And if Hone can do it, surely it can’t be bad.

Every paddle I attempt seems to send me further and further off course, until I either do a complete 180 and have to get out to turn myself around, or else my kayak embeds itself in the muddy shore and I have to get out to push it back into the water. Either way, I end up cold, wet and angry.

Almost a quarter of an hour later, I finally float up to the first checkpoint, colder, wetter and angrier then I have ever been before. Hone, who is waiting for me, is doing his best to not laugh as I stagger out of the kayak and collapse on the shore.

Three days of vampire romance movies had never seemed so appealing. As I die on the ground, teachers swoop in to examine my kayak, which is at this point attempting to run off down the river, perhaps trying to escape the humiliation of being commandeered by someone with as little kayaking talent as me. Mr Young stops it and picks up the paddle. After some consideration, he calls out to me, “This paddle’s busted!”

My neck snaps up. “You sure?” I call back.

“Positive.” Mr Young nods, and demonstrates, holding the two sides of the paddle and twisting them. They easily slide out of place.

“I don’t know how anyone could paddle with that,” I hear someone say.

I think about that. They don’t know how anyone could paddle with that… But I did! I paddled with that! A rush of relief comes over me. Feeling empowered, I clamber 10

back into my kayak and demand a proper paddle. A teacher hands me one. I twist it experimentally. It stays rigid. I carefully lower it into the water and begin to paddle.

As I paddle, my mind whirrs with possibilities. What if I turn out to be really good at kayaking? What if I’m better than Hone? What if…? My train of thought derails as I hear a thump and I realize I’m no longer moving. I peer over the side and see that I’ve embedded myself in the bank again and this time it’s nobody’s fault but my own. I’m up the creek without a faulty paddle.

Maybe kayaking isn’t for me. Next time, I’ll stick with the vampire movies.

Judge’s Comment This is a funny and deceptively simple account of a kayaking trip – from the point of view of the one who’s at the back of the pack. As someone who is often last in any physical endeavour I identified with the narrator’s experience, and particularly enjoyed their misplaced optimism that a different paddle might turn them into a brilliant kayaker.

This writer understands how to use punctuation and paragraphing to heighten both the drama and humour of the story; it’s a sophisticated piece of writing.

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Third Place Second-hand Smoke

by Ellen Hodder St Mary’s Diocesan School The frosty Stratford air hangs around my shoulders, biting my fingertips and clawing into my chest. Sleepy totaras obscure my face, yet I sink further into a cold, park bench. White wisps of winter breath illuminate the half-light; the sun has not yet begun its commute to the new day. I didn’t have to leave so early, but I would rather not be around when he wakes up. Bing-bong, bing-bong, bing-bong, bingbong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Silence. The oversize black and white clock announces the beginning to my first day at a new school; a new town; a new province; Taranaki.

Closer to Stratford Primary, the mud socks I was wearing have washed, leaving me to slosh unprotected through rapidly filling craters of rain. Further away a car pulls up outside the gates, red lights shimmering against the downpour; enhancing their glare. Freeze. I know those tail lights, their violent, screaming red. I can feel the sharp silver, dazzling my wrists. Exhaling a breath I wasn’t holding, a tall woman with dark and tumbling hair lovingly holds out an umbrella to another tall girl about my age. Hunched over, they huddle under the brim and scoot inside, my eyes racing after them. The rain trips and sneaks its way down the school’s large, clean windows; but the water has to barge its way through the cracks in my face, gouging deep valleys through thick layers of dirt.

A handle turns, a door opens and a slender, well dressed face looks down on me.

Unsmiling. A prying glare strips my clothing, taking in black feet, legs, arms, black eyes. My one item-filled New World bag sags limp as she allows me inside. Into the warmth and light. I stop shivering.

“You must be our new student, MJ?” “Yeah.”

“You look cold; would you like a milo or something?”

“Aw… yeh, yip please.”

“You know, school doesn’t start till nine. You don’t have to come so… early.”

Before I can think of an excuse, she has clip-clopped her way down the linoleum hallway.

I had eaten my noodles before playtime; during class, bit by bit from under my desk.

Now I wish I hadn’t. Something wakes, stirring in my stomach, gurgling, rumbling, tossing and rolling, gripping at my throat - seizing my mind in its addictive power.

Hunger. It passes but never leaves. Quietly stalking my every thought, hunting for imaginary edibles. I sit with my class rigid at our cold desks, flip flopping our way through booklets of the number of apples John has and grammar mistakes, b-a-n-an-a-n-a or b-a-n-a-n-a-s and all-of-the-aboves. A bell signifies the end. We can leave.

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…

In the screaming playground rush hour, like cars they race around. Honking their horns, indicating to turn then they continue, slowing for pedestrians and ducks.

Older boys police the traffic … stop here … no you can’t play there … yes, that is a piece of cat-NO, don’t eat it! ... I’m telling Mrs Doyle … ooh-mama-mama.

Some girls sit in a circle, sunning themselves in the attention of others. Pink lunch packs hide cakes, cookies, salted chips and corn beef sandwiches. ‘Who is that girl?’ their eyes whisper, spreading a rumour, a truth about MJ that she didn’t even know about herself.

“She’s rich. Moved here from Auckland,” Carla announces, eyebrows raised.

“Her mum is a lawyer and came down to sort out this drug thing at the dairy. I’ll bet my roll-ups on it.” Kayla smirks, a heavy stake.

“Apparently she live alone, coz her Daddy’s in jail- he was in the Mongrel Mob,” Lisa whispers.

They turn away. “That girl means trouble.” Bending their heads, Jamie delivers the final blow. “Just look at her, at those scars on her legs and face and arms. Where is her lunch? She probably stole someone else’s and now, she’s gonna steal mine!”

They never turn back.

She’s a thief before she even touched the silver. …

“MJ, could you come with me please?”

Her slender face, her stern voice, her footsteps clopping faster than I can follow.

Into the Principal’s office.

“Hello there, sit, sit.” The principal looks up from his desk.

“Now, that test you took a few days ago, did you find it hard?” He eyes me closely and I look away.

I must have failed, again.

“Ah nah, it was preddy easy.”

“Did you learn these things at your old school?”

“Um, no.”

“Well, you’ve done very well in the test then. We did want to speak to your parents first and we rang your home but no-one picked up. But, MJ we want to put you up a class - to Mrs Finn’s - is that ok? Could you tell your Mum for us?” He says this slowly, as if I can’t understand what they are telling me.

“Ok, I’ll talk to Dad.” I say this part slowly, because they don’t understand what I am telling them.

The other lady breaks in. “- It’s just that, we are so impressed with your achievement and…” her voice fades quickly, like her clip-clopping in the hallways.

I stand.

“Don’t forget to tell your Mum.” “I will tell my Dad.”

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Outside the door, I pause to catch my breath. Mumbles merge into monotone whispers behind the wood. “…a stanine nine score, for all three tests. That’s got to be amazing, this child is really something.”

“I wonder who she was sitting next to. It doesn’t seem possible…should we retest her?

“Maybe, but you do know that many a doctor came from a bad background.”

“Let’s just see how she goes.”

Today, it is my birthday. I know, because a tall woman with long dark curls that tumble down her face - we call her Mrs Finn - sang “Happy birthday dear MJ…” But this isn’t my birthday; it’s not called that at home; it’s not even a day I like to remember. It is the day that I killed my mum. I was only two hours old. There was nothing they could do.

It’s close to very late at night when I hear the clunk of a drunk-heavy hand slam down drink-sticky keys. Dad is back, though I never saw him leave. The smell of bourbon and smoke swamps the air, picking at the wall paper and smothering my mouth with a clammy hand. The wall between us hides me, till his heavy boot opens the door.

In the morning, I pull my sleeves down further than usual.

The sun plays hide and seek with the clouds as the road-rage in the playground continues, busy as usual. Her dark hair tickles the wind as she speaks softly to me, just like a mum. I turn my face away.

“MJ, how are you feeling? You have been hiding away all day.”

“It’s, it is nothing, Miss,” I tell her.

Turning her palm to my cheek and pulling my face around. She sees my swelling and florid blood-decorated eye.

“Oh! How did you do that?”

“I was playing… on the swings and fell off.”

Seemingly satisfied with my lie she pats my knee, tells me to look after myself.

Stands, smiles then walks away. I watch her go and sit, again alone.

After the three o’clock bell, I find Dad’s lighter. I can spark it just like he does. …

“Oi! Janesta, the’a girl, sitti’n ova dere. Is she smokin?”

“Haha, nah, she can’t be! She just a little white ten year old, she ain’t smoking Mary.”

“Pfft, whutevar, you was smoking way before her.”

“Aw nah, but I quit, Ha’ra High was good for me.”

“Hey, I think she that new girl at Statty Primary. One that Jamie was talkin about.”

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“Can’t be. Ev’ry one judge her, so don’ judge her just cause she smoking.” …

Night draws a curtain on the safety of the day, pulling the cords tight till morning.

Teetering on a high stool, my fingers stretch into the corners and crannies of the yellowing flower-printed cupboard. I hear the scuttle and scuffle behind a jar of pickled radish; feel a rush of tiny nails brush across my fingers; see the fat raisin that it left behind and the rotting onion that it didn’t eat. I wait. I eat. I wait. I wait.

Because waiting is all I can do. It’s cold. Our lights went off yesterday but I can see all other houses down our street, with their pockets safety in the winter dusk. Now I’ve eaten the last we had in the cupboard. Except the radishes.

When he finally arrives home too stumbly to unlock the house, I open the door to him. Dad stands still for a second, peers into my face, then collapses, breathing heavily on the floor. Something clogs in his airways and he gurgles. Rises and then sinks into a puddle, a vile, nauseating green puddle of liquid that started from somewhere in his wallet. Tears stung the back of my mouth and a ball rose in my throat, but I refused to let them seep into that puddle. With a towel, I wiped his mouth and wiped his face. Lifted his head from the reeking mess and took the bottle from his hand.

“I washed your face, your clothes and your hands. But you will never be clean.”

Judge’s Comment This is an ambitious story that shows us a day in the life of a neglected ten year old, which the writer has imagined with insight and empathy.

This is the work of a writer who is intoxicated by the possibilities of language and deserves full credit for experimenting with different voices to create an impressionistic picture. However the power of the story is diminished by over-writing, particularly at the beginning. There are too many adjectives, too many figures of speech; sometimes less is more.

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Highly Commended Rock-a-bye-Baby

by Dawn Mills Opunake High School Aaron Hicks was twenty-one and the lead singer in Taranaki’s world famous band ‘The Burning Hearts.’ He was the most fantastic guitar player in the world, even better than Slang from Knifes and Violets. He had an almost angelic voice, and it would be if it wasn’t for the demonic songs he sang.

Aaron smiled bitterly and leaned back on the grimy alley wall, which was completely covered in words. Some were poetic and some were…not.

One particular poem caught Aaron’s eye.

Rock-a-bye baby.

He took a ragged puff of his ciggy and he pulled himself over to the poem. The bittersweet grin Aaron had on his face before was replaced by bitterly sour grimace.

A child left by an uncaring mother to swing helplessly in life. He was the Rock-a-bye baby, how poetically pathetic.

“Hey, Hicks? You’re up,” said one of the irritant stagehands. Aaron stared past the twerp towards the stage. People were chanting and cheering his name. Aaron shook his head and started walking away.

“Oi, come on, man!” the stagehand begged desperately. “You really need to get out there.” Aaron glanced back over his shoulder and he raised his fair eyebrows (this was an effect that was not lost on the stagehand, Jim.) “Oh do I?” Aaron sneered softly. He stepped closer to Jim and towered over him menacingly (another effect that Jim admired quietly.) “I don’t need the money, the band hate me for stealing their fame or, whatever. The fans only do what I tell them.” He threw his hands up in the air and stepped back. Jim let out a breath, wondering what he had started. “Well, I say, screw you! Write your own damn emotions!”

“What, are you having a break down or something? Are you depressed?” Jim shook with fear and the need to pee. Aaron looked up. Was he depressed? He didn’t know. The man giving others emotions didn’t know how to feel. How sad. He could hear the crowd getting restless.

“Come on, Dude!” pleaded Jim. Aaron snorted.

“You go out there, dude.” He shoved Jim onto stage to a roaring, and now confused crowd. “See for yourself!” Aaron shouted after him. Then Aaron turned and walked out of the alley. He didn’t stop till he reached the park. Then he sat underneath and old oak tree and he looked up at its quivering branches.

Now what? He thought to himself. He’d been rocking in the cradle for so long now, that he knew nothing else. He sat up and started to sing softly.

“Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree top When the wind blows, the cradle will rock When the bough breaks-“ And that was when the bough broke. Landing straight on Aaron’s head. Down came baby, cradle and all.

16

I should be in pain, thought Aaron when he came to. I should be in hospital, with my manager yelling in my ear about how I’ve ruined the bands schedule. But when he opened his eyes, he found himself in a busy office building. Now, most people would be wondering how they got there. But Aaron was thinking that all this would make an epic song, with a raging guitar solo. Someone coughed pointedly in front of him ripping him from his daydream. Aaron blinked. He was sitting in front of a desk that had a neat and pudgy man behind it. He was smiling at Aaron as if they were old friends.

“Aaron John Hicks. Born on the 1/1/91 to Richard Hicks and Margaret Rose, also known as Kandy.”

Hmm. Born to a stripper and a dick, thought Aaron. I was condemned from the start. The pudgy man chuckled slightly as if he had heard, then he continued.

“First tooth on the 11/1/91, your first song written on the 1/19/01.”

There was an awkward silence as the ugly man stared at Aaron and Aaron sat wondering how strong the last stuff he had taken was. Eventually Aaron broke it with the only thing he could think of.

“So?” he asked. Pudgyman sighed.

“All of these important dates in your life have the numbers 911 and 111. Common numbers for help.”

Aaron grinned.

“How about six six si-“ The man loudly cleared his throat interrupting Aaron.

“We don’t say that here.” He said sternly.

Aaron smirked and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet on the desk.

“So what’s all this got to do with me being here? Why don’t you just drop me off at The Cradle and I’ll think about not pressing charges for you kidnapping me.”

The pudgy man sighed again and he shook his balding head.

“Aaron, you can’t go back to your old life. You died.”

Aaron blinked slowly.

“Dead,” he whispered. “I’m dead.”

The man nodded.

“I’m sorry. But you do have a chance to get back to earth. It’s all do with the numbers.” The man said apologetically.

‘Back to earth?’ Aaron thought numbly. Am I in heaven? He was about to laugh but the man, who Aaron supposed was an angel, was looking at him so seriously that it stopped him in his tracks.

“So… You want me help people?” Aaron said slowly. Pudgy man smiled fondly at Aaron and nodded. “Anything specific?” Aaron asked.

“Change their lives for the better. Be a global guardian angel.” The man said, as he seemed to grow less pudgy by the second. Aaron choked and pulled his feet off the desk.

“Guardian angel? Dude, I’m a drug addict, alcoholic and a sex crazed rocker. That’s about as un-angelic as it gets.” Aaron ranted snidely. Then he stopped and blinked.

Pudgyman was no longer fat, balding and ugly, but golden and magnificent. He stood and walked over to a door that randomly appeared from nowhere.

“But Aaron, if a fat, balding, ugly and pudgy man can be angel, surely you can too.”

He said smiling and gesturing towards the door. Aaron ran his hands though his knotted blonde hair, still trying to get his head around the fact that he was dead.

And now the not-so-pudgy man wanted him to be an angel?

17

“Guardian angel. And my name is Gabriel, as you might have already guessed.” He beamed proudly.

Aaron paused.

“Why would I have guessed that?”

Gabriel ignored him, and pointed to the door impatiently. Aaron started to walk towards it, but then he stopped and looked up at Gabriel.

“So, I just save lives or something?”

“Yes!” Groaned Gabriel. He leaned towards Aaron.

“It’s better than staying here. New-comers get desk jobs.” He motioned towards the poor sods leaning over computer keyboards.

“No pay and no breaks,” Gabriel added. Aaron grinned and wrenched the door open.

“Gave me no choice,” he laughed, just as Gabriel pushed though.

“When Aaron opened his eyes, he expected to be in New Plymouths park, dozing under an old oak tree. But instead he found himself outside the Cradle auditorium in the middle of the day. He smiled, home sweet hellhole.

A poster in front of his face told him that it was 2015 and that he had been gone for exactly two years. He took a deep breath.

It’s true, I’m dead, he thought. But something on the poster caught his eye and pulled him out of despair. It said.

JIM AND THE BURNING HEARTS Back to where it all started for four nights only!

He stared at the poster trying to remember this ‘Jim’ who had replaced him so easily. Eventually, after staring at the poster for a long time, he remembered the annoying stagehand. He would have been angry, if it wasn’t for the fact that when he looked closer at the picture of Jim he saw a tired and sad young man. Just like how he used to look. Aaron guessed that must be his next job, saving Jim from himself. And if he broke up the ‘Hearts’ while he was at it that would be an added bonus.

Judge’s Comment This is another story with a great voice. It uses the familiar trope of a journey to heaven to learn a lesson, but the protagonist here is an unhappy rock star and there’s a clever twist at the end.

18

Highly Commended In The Arms of Your Enemy

by Reuben Hall Opunake High School My name is Jeremiah Kerman. Friends call me Jerry. One year ago today, I was the popular guy. I was the guy everyone wanted to hang with and the guy everyone wanted to be. Life was great. One year ago tomorrow, I was the guy no one wanted anything to do with. This is my story of how a girl I once hated, changed my life.

"Yo! Jerry! Catch!" I twist around and catch the rugby ball with one hand. I look around and find a tall, blonde haired, blue-eyed girl. Jess. The popular girl. My girlfriend.

"Jess, here." I call to her as I softly throw the ball to her, which she catches (after it bounces around in her hands a few times).

"Why did you give it to me? I don't want it."

I point at another girl. A girl that no one likes and that likes no one. She has pitch black hair with blue tips, she's a little shorter than Jess, she wears no makeup apart from black eyeliner, and she's constantly reading some dark, goth, fantasy book.

She has a special hatred for me, as I do her. Becca.

Jess knows exactly what I mean. She throws the ball at Becca and it actually hits her. When Jess throws a ball, there is a higher chance that it will go behind her then there is of it hitting her target. So this was a great accomplishment for Jess.

The ball hits Becca in the arm, making her book fall from her hands. It's an exceptionally wet day and the book finds an exceptionally deep puddle. It's soaked to the point where just trying to open the book would rip it.

Becca scrambles for the book. She grabs it, but pulls it up too fast and a few pages rip.

Black tears flow down her face and she lets go of the book, it falls back into the puddle and she runs off into the nearest building, presumably to cry in the toilets.

I turn around to face Jess, who already had a massive grin on her face, then she burst into laughter like a hyena laughing at it’s prey. As if I was her reflection, I burst into laughter too, then everyone joined in, because that's what they do.

They're all bloody sheep, but being their shepherd has it’s benefits, I can't deny that.

With first lunch over, it was fourth period and I had physics with Jess. And Becca. It was only a small class not many people took physics that year. Personally, I love it.

I didn't sit by Jess, like I never did in physics. I couldn't do well in anything if I was around people. So instead I sits at the back at a desk that's by itself.

19

Moments later Mr. Benson walks in and starts writing on the whiteboard. I immediately begin copying it down while everyone else sits and talks. This is why I'm ahead of everyone.

I finish the paragraph right as Becca walks in.

She doesn’t even look at me, but she glares at Jess like she’d killed Becca’s mother.

Jess just starts laughing again along with her friend Ella.

Becca sits down at the back in another lone desk like me.

Mr. Benson gets everyone's attention and tells us to get into pairs. I just stare at him as he looks around the room seeing if everyone has someone.

He looks straight at me and then back at Becca and I know what he's about to say.

No, no. Please no, I think to myself and he points to me and Becca.

"You two join up.” He says.

And there it is. I sigh heavily before locking eye contact with Becca.

"Fine.” I say.

I pick up my desk with one hand and my chair with the other. I carry them over and place my desk in front of her’s, then go back for my bag. Then I sit down. And she just stares at me.

"Hey.” I say without any excitement in my voice.

“Hi.” She replies.

I can't say I've ever actually heard her voice before. Surprisingly it's soft and innocent. And really kinda sweet. I expected her voice to be quite hard and bitter. I guess I was wrong.

Turning around facing the whiteboard, I put my hand up gesturing for the teacher to listen to me.

"Yeah?" he says asking what I want.

"Sir, do I really have to do all of this? I already know it all."

It's actually stuff I don't know, but I can learn it on my own if it means avoiding being

by Becca.

"Yes you do," he says. "You may know it, but Rebecca doesn't. She can't do it if she doesn't have a partner."

Damn, I think.

But she sees it on my face and run from the class.

I watch her run out before turning back to Mr. Benson and raising my hand again with a crooked smile on my face.

"Do I have to do it now?" joining sentence "... with black and blue, the slightest red, bright and true, the eye of the dead ..."

20

I look back up into the night sky, then back at my pad. I continue to write. "... My soft cocoon. Lit by the moon."

Twigs and needles crunch behind me, my heart pumps furiously like a piston in a v8. I spin and see a figure on the bench behind me. Before I can see who it is, I hear that sweet, innocent voice.

"Who are you?" it says.

"You know who I am. But why are you here? Just go." I say back and stand up, getting a proper look at Becca.

"I know your name, but I don't know who you are. I thought I did, but after that, I'm not so sure anymore.” she says.

"I'm the guy everyone likes and wants to be, but I'm also the guy that despises everyone."

Why did I tell her that?

"Look," I begin I'm not what I seem and I'm nothing like everyone else."

Shut up! I think to myself.

"Forget it. This is just where I go to write. And you still haven't said why you're here."

"I seen you sitting there.” She started. “I came over to yell at you or something, I don't know what I was gonna do. But I heard you talking, and I started listening.

Your poems are amazing. I've seen them in the school magazine. So I just sat and listened."

"For how long?" I ask wearily.

She looks at her watch.

"Ten minutes, maybe. I'm sorry …” She begins, but I interrupt.

"Don't, just go. Please."

"Okay.” She says and walks away.

I call out to her; “this is doesn't change anything!"

She just keeps walking in silence, but her shoulders fall a little.

I put my headphones on and press play on my IPod. The music is a warm embrace that slows my heart and puts weight on my eyelids.

I walk off, back into town.

My foot hits the hard, tar covered, street road. Wow, that was lower than I expected, I think.

I start to walk across the street when it starts to get lighter. A lot lighter. It takes too long to register in my mind.

I look to the side right before I'm hit by the momentum of hands on on my back, I’m pushed forward, hard. My headphones are in the air in front of me, there's an overwhelming screeching noise. I smell burning rubber and I hear the screaming of that no longer soft voice.

THUMP! 21

My hands are out in front of me when they hit the ground. Hard. I feel the bones in my left wrist twist and break.

Then black.

My eyes open painfully. My head hurts like I got hit by a brawny baseball bat. I put pressure on the ground beneath me and my arm crumples in agony.

I decide to roll over and stand up that way.

I look around and see a man hunched over someone, so I walk over to him and she’s just laying there. Eyes closed.

I drop to my knees. Of course it's her.

"Becca ..."

I move my hand to rest on her cheek, but my palms are skinned, so I turn my hand over and lay the back of my hand on her soft cheek.

"Please.."

She's lying on her side with her arms in front of her. Her eyes are closed. Her face lies still. I can't see her breathing and I feel my blood go cold.

I check her pulse, it’s strong but fading with every beat of her heart, while mine gets stronger. Water drips on her face like leaky tap and I realise i’m crying. She doesnt look in pain, but rather very peaceful. I turn her face and it’s covered in blood. My eyes flick closed and my hand clenches before a burst of pain hits me. It doesn’t stop and I start to feel nauseous. Everything starts to fade away and Becca’s face, half pure and half blood covered, is the last thing I see before nothing.

I wake to find myself a white room. A constant beep, beep, beep sound in my ear. I feel the soft bed beneath me and I have the boss of headaches pounding at the side of my head with every beat of my heart.

I sit up and take everything in. I'm still trying to remember how I got here.

My hands are bandaged and my arm's in a cast. My arm also hurts a lot, but my headache makes me forget about it fast.

A man in a white coat walks in. I guess him to be a doctor.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like I fell off a house. What happened?

"You don't remember?" he asks concerningly.

"Not really" I try to sound like I know something.

"Well I'm not exactly sure what happened to you. The driver didn't say much about you. But the girl you were with-" "Becca!" I interrupt him. "Where is she? Is she okay?"

"Jeremy." he stops in a saddened voice.

A man slowly walks past the open door with his arm around a woman. There's tears in the man's eyes and the woman is a mess of tears and makeup.

"Rebecca .." he pauses. ".. She didn't make it."

22

I feel my heart skip a beat as hope becomes extinct. I fall to my back on the hospital bed and just stare at the roof. This shouldn’t have happened. Why did she waste her life on me?

“Tell her parents that it was my fault, please. Tell them I’ll be there for anything they need.” I tell the doctor, as a tear falls down my face On the first day back at school, everyone seems to avoid me. In the morning, I find Jess sitting in our usual spot.

“Jerry!” she screams happily, obviously excited to see me. She jumps up and hugs me tightly.

“Hey, Jess,” I say and hug her back as best I can with my broken arm.

“What happened? What happened to Goth Girl?” she asks with distaste in her voice.

“Shut up about her, aye?” I reply.

“Woah, fine. No need to get defensive about that stupid girl” “DON’T! Don’t talk about her!” I yell at her.

A guy, Kenny, comes up to me.

“Settle down, man,” he says.

I put my hand on the side of his head push it against the wall with more strength than I thought I had. He’s instantly knocked out.

“KENNY!” Jess screams in horror at what I’ve done.

“She was better than you! Than all of you!” I yell as I back away from Kenny who’s lying on the ground unconscious. I turn and quickly walk off .

I find the male toilets to get away from everything. I have tears in my eyes and I think of when Becca ran off after her book fell in the puddle.

Becca.. I’m sorry. I think to myself. You were better than them. You were better than me. Why did you do it?...

One year ago today, I was the popular guy. I was the guy everyone wanted to hang with and the guy everyone wanted to be. Life was great. One year ago tomorrow, I was the guy no one wanted anything to do with. This is my story of how a girl I once hated, changed my life.

Judge’s Comment This is a dramatic story in which the once popular narrator becomes the school outcast, but we like him a lot better in his new role. It shows the casual brutality of school relationships in which the narrator can declare he hates someone when apparently he’s never even heard her speak.

23

Commended My Day My Game

by Jake Corrigan Opunake High School The force hits me. It chucks me off my feet, The impact is horrible. The ground is hard as rock and as cold as ice. I feel fourteen pairs of eyes watching me. Damn! I lost it! The feeling of pain hits me. The feeling of disappointment hits me harder. I can’t let them down. It’s just the beginning. This whole thing is just the start. I feel the sweat roll down my cheek, Or maybe it was a tear? The smell of the mud is over powering, The taste is even worse. I stand. My legs are jelly. I try and run. It’s as if I’m a baby deer finding my feet for the first time. I hear the cheers. But they’re not for me. They are never for me. I need to show that I’m a real competitor. I may be one of the youngest in the team but I’m not letting them get to me. All I need is for someone to take a chance with me. To believe in me. Yes! I have a second chance. The boys have my back. As the ball comes floating straight to me, I see the future in my eyes. This is the moment I have been waiting months for.

We were ready to dominate. Opunake High School First IX. I was the little fish in this big pond. I can’t explain the feeling I had when I was asked to play for the First IX. I was only a Year 10 student. Just a baby compared to the rest of the team. I would be playing with and against Year 13s. That was scary. These boys had beards and receding hair lines already! And years of experience on me. But Griggsy had faith in me. I can’t explain how proud I was when I told my family. I now understand why they were a bit anxious about me playing. But I’m bigger than most of the older boys anyway.

This was the first game and I knew I had to win the respect of the other boys. I wouldn’t just be known as someone’s little brother. I wanted to be known as Jake Corrigan, the man at rugby, looked up to by everyone and feared by some. When I took the field and looked to my team mates, I felt so little. That wasn’t the time to drop it. I was scared but I couldn’t let the boys or the other team know it. I had to be cool, calm and collected.

I taste the metallic taste of blood. I swallow it hard. I make eye contact with one of the boys and he gives me a nod and I know everything is going to be okay. I take a deep breath. BANG!! The ball hits me like a bullet. I freeze. My mind goes blank, My eyesight goes all fuzzy. I can hear the boys yelling at me. But it is as if my legs are stuck in the ground. I see the fierce look from the opponent’s face. I cannot stand here any longer. I need to run. One step after another. Left, right, left, right. I see where I need to go and I push off the ground. I’m in the air. It’s as if I’m flying.

24

All my worries are gone. I feel free, I feel happy. This is the moment I have been waiting for. It’s mine.

Today is my day.

This is my game.

Judge’s Comment

This is a short and simple account of the beginning of a rugby match and the anxiety of a year ten student who is facing his first match in the first XV. It’s an honest description of a few minutes in which the narrator shares his fears. What lifts the story above the mundane is the inclusion of all the senses – the taste of mud and blood and the feeling of the cold ground, as well as the sounds and the sights of the match.

25

Secondary School Division Poetry First Place but maybe I liked it when it hurt

by Sophie Andersen-Gardiner Opunake High School You were sixteen, and I loved you dark skin, dark hair red lips.

My skin swelled with the thought of you long limbs, slim hips against mine.

You were fifteen, and I hated you stupid friends, stupid face. you infuriated me filled me with a heat I couldn’t explain.

I thought it was anger.

You were fourteen, and you fascinated me loud laugh, quiet steps.

When no one was looking you were sad, and sweet.

I happened to look, once.

I couldn’t look away.

You were thirteen, and I didn’t know you you were goal shoot, a blur in the corner of my wing attack eye.

I liked your center better.

26

We were seventeen, and I was getting over you getting to know you. It helped.

The real you wiped out the thought of you

and it hurt much less.

Judge’s Comment

This is just one of those love poems that makes you ache. The changing gears of feelings, the highs and lows are captured so insightfully in this poem. I was impressed with the clever play on netball positions: “wing attack eye” was one of my favourite descriptors. The longing is evoked so beautifully and the author is so good at capturing mood and feeling in words. We are taken on the journey and it resonates in ways that ache. Well done.

27

Second Place 11pm call

by Sophie Andersen-Gardiner Opunake High School I just want you to know that your daughter is upstairs crying she called me I convinced her not to cut that she has friends who love her and she won’t listen to them she might listen to you she’ll hate me but I just want you to know

Judge’s Comment This poem is so elegantly arranged and well organized that it strips what feels like a very complicated, chaotic, messy situation into the barest of bones. It captures the essence of many dynamics and thus it feels very potent. It is truly an example of the best words in the best order to evoke so much more than the words themselves. In fact, the words are very simple, but it is their careful and intuitive arrangement that leaves them reading in so powerfully. Well done. It’s hard not to be affected by this poem.

28

Third Place Untitled

by Alyx Devlin St Mary’s Diocesan School Like a we protect, from heartbreak, undesired attention, mistakes.

sisterhood,

Like a we have our rules, our leader.

cult,

Like a we have our patch.

Fiat Voluntas Tua, Thy will be done.

Emotions get in the way most times.

And it is, we don’t recognise ourselves, in each other.

gang,

We fight, sometimes.

But like all good sisters, forgive, I forget, and we truce.

We’re perfect, most times.

I mean look at loving , laughing, living.

whatever

you

call

us,

29

I want you to know, I think all perfect.

Because perfection is flawed, and I’m always

you’re right.

Judge’s Comment This poem is just fantastic. I love the bravado that it exudes. The tone is pitch perfect.

The poem manages to be raw, perceptive, vulnerable, funny, tough, and exceptionally smart all at once. The acute sense of awareness by the author and the poems ability to hold onto all of these contradictions makes it very successful. Well done.

30

Very Highly Commended As seen by me

by Sean McColl Hawera High School For my survival, For my revival, I would do anything for it, I have to have it, Anything to get it, With black hoodie up, Glass is broken, Alarms shatter the stillness of night, And with swiftness, The item is located, Stuffed in a black sack, Sirens wailing down the street, A stealthy sprint to safety, Is all that is required, To escape, The morning after, The money is gone, Into the bong, Spent on survival, On my revival, As seen by me.

Judge’s Comment This is one of the poems that haunts. It is a bold declaration, a risky articulation of a distinctive voice that is rarely heard in the public arena or found in written text. The tone of the poem is both explanatory and defiant: “as seen by me”. It is an ode to survival “as seen by me”. There is something bittersweet about this poem, something that you can’t quite put your finger on, and that makes it successful.

31

Very Highly Commended Chemistry

by Ashley Johnson Opunake High School There’s this boy in Chemistry He sits one desk away in any direction Every single time There's this boy in Chemistry who always sits by his friend as they complain about the work that is given There's this boy in Chemistry Who helps me when I ask But ignores me for the rest There's this boy in Chemistry And it's hard to believe his eyes For they tell you that he's struggling When he seems to be in control There's this boy in Chemistry Who I think is beautiful And it's hard for me to look away There's this boy in Chemistry Who listens to his metal music Ignoring the world There's this boy in Chemistry Who used to belong to me 32

And now I can't talk to him In case my heart betrays me There's this boy in Chemistry, Who sits one desk away from me Because he can't bear to sit with me anymore So he sits with his friend instead and he helps me when I ask because I know he still cares But his eyes tell me that I hurt him, so he pretends he's in control And I still think he's beautiful even when his music scares me because I love him too much to let him go But I can't tell him because there's a boy in Chemistry, who means the world to me But I made a mistake and broke it all.

Judge’s Comment The constant repetition of “There’s this boy in Chemistry” makes for a great poem. In between these lines the chemistry between the pair is articulated in a manner that reads as so familiar. For every teenager that has had their heart broken by their own hand, this poem will resonate.

33

Very Highly Commended Beyond the Mountain

by Dominique Harmer-Higgins Stratford High School I wake and see the peak of our maunga gleam bright, The sun shining off the snow is a most beautiful light, But what you see beyond the mountain and the snow gleaming light, Is true and reality, but it’s not a pretty sight, I walk around and see what is real, Whether it be children, pets or skate park steel, But it’s after all the normal things, and friendly faces that say “hi”, I see all the things I never want to, things that play tricks on my eyes, Children fighting in the street, then after falling scramble to their feet, Screaming parents saying “GET HOME NOW!”, and other language that’s most foul, I see and hear kids running up and down the street at night, Next thing is smashing glass and breaks out into a fight, Little kids hustling people for money outside the Four Square, Half the time they don’t even know why they’re hanging out there, No town is perfect but it’s true that when you stop seeing fantasy, you see reality, Reality comes into play when you look beyond the surface or in this case a mountain peak, Scratching the surface to see what is underneath isn’t really what you seek, The rating of suicides are up and this towns adding to the mix, We have a problem in this friendly town, And now it’s ours to fix.

Judge’s Comment This poem is carefully crafted to rhyme and challenge your mind. What I like about it, particularly, is that it shares what’s on the mind of a thoughtful observant young person in South Taranaki. We are shown what they see, what they notice, what they are compelled to pay attention to, whether they like it or not. We see what they cannot ignore. It has the passion and idealism of a young person coming to terms with life and the gap between the sanctioned version of what’s supposed to be going on and reality.

34

Commended What has Love Become?

by Louise Jansen Hawera High School I look around the room, My eyes zoom in, Closer, closer, closer The feud begins.

His expectation higher than hers, Her tearful eyes, This is all a blur, Now the challenge is set, Ready for her to conquer.

I look around the room, My heart beats faster, Boom, boom, boom The manipulation begins.

Her expression different to his, But as usual all he does is, Give, give, give From here the speculating takes its toll, It is Love taking the control, All you can hear is their’ weeping Souls.

What has the nation’s view of Love Become?

All you feel is people wanting to run.

Has a new era of Love begun?

Run people, Run, run, run Judge’s Comment This poem focuses in on a fight between two people. The use of repetition, rhythm and rhyme “boom, boom, boom” effectively builds the intensity as the stress increases for all involved as the argument escalates. Via the insightful poet we witness a familiar dysfunctional ritual that leaves you feeling as depressed as the poetic observer. The poet’s desperation and disillusionment at the end, “run, run, run” feels on target. I get a strong sense this would be a powerful performance piece.

35

Commended Sanitized Heaven

by Dawn Mills Opunake High School My mother stands on the windowsill She gazes at the sky With golden light upon her Like an angel about to fly I wonder if she thinks of us If she thinks of me?

She jumps like an angel The ground rushed up to meet Now we sit in this sanitized heaven Everything blindingly white I haven’t left her once I’m the angel by her side

Judge’s Comment This poem was another one that haunted. The ethereal mother and the responsible daughter, the not-quite-completely-spelled-out scenario that involves pain and tragedy of some kind, whereby: “the ground rushed up to meet”. I wanted to know the full story of this poem and as I’ve said earlier, I think that’s always a good sign. It means as a reader you are hooked and hungry for more. I chose poems that stayed with me and wouldn’t let me go. This was one of those poems.

36

Open Division Short Story/Drama Script First Place Shake a Leg

by Heather Sinclair ‘Shake a leg Tobes, got some fish ta catch.’

Chilled dawn mirrors the lake’s steely water, that the mountain winds mould into pulsing chops and surges. It is hard to imagine any living creature surviving the discomfort of winter temperatures, below the surfaces’ veneer. It is the first time Dad and his mate Wes have brought me on one of their big boy trips, where fish dinners back at home are testament that trout are living below, until they bear them flapping and briefly resistant from the unseen depths to lie flaccid in the bottom of the boat.

‘Coming Dad,’ I reply as I leap into the boat with my fibreglass trawling rod. ’16 now Toby, time to show ya how to get on in life, no chicks, no woosses and no fags,’ followed by Dad’s barrel bodied laugh. It didn’t matter how often Dad repeated the same lines everyone laughed with Dad. His humour was oblivious to social nuances and he never tired of his own jokes. I had heard him crack up at the same refrain, no chicks, no woosses and no fags, countless times in the preceding week. People like his banter and bullshit, while setting the world to rights on any given day.

It isn’t too cold out on the lake, only my hands and arms are uncovered in purpose bought stop-at- the- elbow- to- keep- your- hands- free thermal camo gear. The same gear doubles as duck shooting and deer hunting kit. More trips to look forward to.

‘This is the life eh,’ remarked Dad. Wes and Dad crack up.

‘Crack n ale Kev,’ says Wes. My beer is wet and cold, a regular beer, I like beer, can see the value of beer on a trip like this, part of the experience, a dawn beer.

‘What you thinking about Tobes? That Jessie Fletcher who came to watch ya game last week, watch ya line boy, the big ones don’t give ya second chances.

Wes and Dad crack up.

‘Whoa, here we go,’ shouts Wes in fever pitch.

Wes’ rod dips and rises as he winds and releases the line. Skilfully tiring the trout until it broadsides next to the boat. As Dad scoops it up into the hand net it gives

37

one last flap, its spirit to battle- on rallies fleetingly and then splutters as its fate becomes overpowering. I look out across the lake.

‘Four pounds!’

Easy, maybe four and a half!’

‘Good condition, easy four.’

‘My turn next mate.’

‘Take a look at this beauty Tobes.’

Ya old man will show ya how it’s done next.’

Wes and Dad crack up.

‘Bit quiet Tobes, not gonna barf are ya.’

Wes and Dad crack up.

‘Beer o’clock I reckon.’

Had Jessie Fletcher come to watch my game last week? Jess was O.K. but a whole bunch of girls always came to watch the second fifteen. Rugby was O.K. too. That’s how Mum and Dad met. Dad’s team was playing mum’s High School. Mum was watching the boys from her school and Dad liked the look of her. Mum’s lips always curl upward, briefly, when Dad cracks up at this point in the telling. The telling always stops there. I guess mum liked the look of Dad too. I wrote a poem about rugby once. In year nine. They published it in the year book.

‘Do you remember that poem I wrote at school Dad?’ ‘Eh, you bin writing poems behind ma back? Soon cure ya of that.’

Dad and Wes crack up.

‘Na, the one I wrote about rugby.’

Yeah, that’s right, a while back when you was a kid. ‘Too early for another one Wes?’ ‘Never too early Kev.’ Replies Wes as he flips the lid of the chilly bin again.

‘Mrs Kesler says I should keep it up.’

‘Couldn’t keep it down at your age boy.’

Dad and Wes crack up.

Twang, the snap of rod, sharp in the muted air interrupts the laughing.

‘Got ya, you beauty, hook, line and sinker.’

Dad haggles a trout out of the water and into the boat. Is it beautiful I think as the silver and pink hues glisten in the dull light? Is it heroic? Is it tragic? Is it just a fish slapped on ice in the chilly bin?

‘It seems a shame to take it Dad, we can only eat one tonight, right?’

‘Growing fella like you will make short work of this one by yaself, I reckon.’

Wes and Dad crack up.

Opaque clouds sink down the hills and settle on the water, different shades of grey and grey.

The All Black selectors seem to be doing an alright job at the moment but the coach needs to tell them to keep the ball in hand, to draw in those cheating wallaby defenders next month or we’ll be up shit creek. Why don’t they make a toll road 38

when they build the Auckland Harbour tunnel, those squealing jafas think the rest of the country should pay for their roads.

In the distance, on the far side of the lake the line between water, land and sky has become blurred, it could be another dimension, a parallel universe, an obscure palace where character is less defined and who knows what could happen.

‘Yep this is the life, no chicks, no wooses and definitely no fags.’

My line jolts and I flick the rod, hooking the barb into the side of the trout’s mouth.

‘Easy does it, reel it in, stop, let it take the line, gently, gently, coaches Dad. ‘It’s well hooked, no choice but to come in eventually, keep playing it.’

‘It’s a good size Tobe,’ adds Wes. ‘Yeah, my arms are getting a bit tired.’

‘Don’t worry son, I’m stronger than you, let me finish the job , can’t let any get away can we boy?’

As Dad steps across the stern to my side, the boat dips. Wake from a passing boat tips us further and a stream of water cascades into the boat. Dad grabs for the side rail with one hand and me with the other, unbalanced. With a surprized grunt Dad topples overboard taking me, my rod and the trout on the end of the line with him.

I flinch as the icy water instantly soaks through the layers to burn my skin. I open my eyes and see the water is not grey but green. I dive below the surface, under the grey facade, into the beautiful luminescent green and further down dusky green and further down still dark mossy green into blackness. A streak of silver slices through the murk, a single orchestral chord in the water denoting the promise of things, unexplored in this new fluid world. I run out of breath, turn upwards, put my hand on the rail and haul myself aboard.

‘Idiots, the buggars nearly killed us,’ rages Dad. ‘Let’s head back and warm you guys up,’ says Wes opening the throttle.

Later, after a shower and a whiskey I ask, ‘What did you see down there dad?’

‘Water, lots of water,’ Tobe.

‘Only water, Dad?’ ‘Buckets and buckets of bloody cold water!’

Dad and Wes crack up.

I look through the window, out across the lake.

Judge’s Comment This is a skilfully told story with strong characterisation, great dialogue and an authentic voice. Sixteen-year old Toby is on a fishing trip, with Dad and Dad’s mate Wes. The men provide a cheerful chorus about the joys of beer and trout and ‘no chicks, no wooses and definitely no fags.’ We see that Toby is enjoying being out on the lake, in a completely different way to the adults. He observes the greys of the landscape and the blurred horizon where anything could happen. This is an atmospheric and subtle story in which what is not said is at least as important as what is.

39

Second Place Hangi

by Marama Salsano Frau Eckhardt winced as her left leg twitched and shook of its own accord. She felt no pain, as such, but the sight never ceased to amaze her: how electronic impulses still tumbled and swirled like busy beetles around the numbness of her body, and how she could sit and watch with almost scientific detachment as it occurred. She wondered if it was possible to disconnect other aspects from her brain so completely. Could her body be separated from life itself, yet continue to exist – in another reality perhaps? The thought was comforting, albeit a little unnerving, literally. She giggled. Lissi, you silly, you finally cracked a funny.

Outside, smoke umbrella-ed from the neighbour’s paddock towards her single row of delicates pinned to the washing line. They were up to no good, again.

She should ring the Council: a fire ban had been in place since September, though perhaps they had a permit this time. Instead, Frau Eckhardt thump-slid to the corner of the spare room and positioned her walking frame underneath the All Blacks posters and paper maché mask her son, Richard, had made. Such a long time ago.

Slowly, she eased into the electric recliner procured by her last occupational therapist. Lotto grants, apparently. The dewy-eyed OT had arrived in a furore, asked a myriad of questions, ticked a mountain of boxes and was gone. But he’d left the chair behind. And for this, if nothing else, she was grateful.

Next door, she watched two men poke shovels into a now-ferocious fire. Had she not seen this display on countless occasions, and observed how skilfully her neighbours could control such monstrous bonfires, she would have found it alarming. A young woman appeared briefly, tiptoeing around in strappy heels, a neon pink singlet and indecently short shorts. The two men, on the other hand, were appropriately clothed: faded T-shirts, Hurricanes rugby shorts and gumboots – the white, freezing-worker types which used to drive her Berndt crazy (“They’re work boots! One does not wear such boots into the town. It is vulgar and slovenly,” he’d say). The larger, muscular man was armed with a hose, and both held bottles of beer to their chests as if pledging liquid allegiance to some higher power. Above them, Frau Eckhardt watched the vowels and consonants of their conversation drift above the crackling fire and waft towards the brilliantly-blue-framed heights of Mount Egmont. Mount Taranaki. The Maunga. That’s what they called it, wasn’t it?

Maunga Taranaki. A whimsical sigh escaped her lips. The idea that a mountain could physically traipse across the countryside out of grief for a lost loved one, still amused her. Once upon a time, she might’ve done the same.

Morning light engulfed the room. For some reason this was the only room in the house with triple-glazed windows. Go figure, the real estate agent had said, 40

maybe they didn’t get around to doing the rest. Triple-glazed. Just like home. No, she corrected herself, this was home now. There was no one left in the old country, no one who remembered her at least. And anyway, this had been Richard’s room and little Lissi slept there when they visited. She warmed at the thought of her namesake. Although she only vaguely remembered their last visit, Frau Eckhardt did recall the last time her son rang (her ability to obscure selected memories while simultaneously remembering others with precision, fascinated her. She’d come to think of her brain as an ancient telephone exchange, jumbled with wires, except, in her case, some of those wires had been hurriedly unplugged and the operator, unceremoniously terminated). Richard was at his wits end over Lissi, something to do with tattoos and an inappropriate relationship. Lissi had always been full of beans, so they say.

She sighed. ‘Wits end.’ ‘Full of beans.’ English was such an odd language, full of peculiar phrases and rules which made no sense at all. Not that she remembered the last time she had dreamt in German. In fact, she wasn’t even sure what it meant to be German any longer. Perhaps there was a void somewhere, a safe haven for inbetweeners she had yet to discover. As she fully reclined in her chair, the hubbub from next door muffled into silence.

Shrieks startled her. “Ritchie?” she called, instinctively, hopefully, “That you?” Of course it wasn’t. She understood, she supposed. Didn’t the bible say to love your children and put family first? Or was that a commercial she’d seen recently? The other day she’d nearly called an 0800 number which had appeared on the television. ‘Jesus, I trust in you’ a man sang, rather badly, while the depiction of a tortured yet unperturbed Christ grew larger on the screen. The crooning voice was hypnotic and she’d suddenly felt an urge to talk to someone about her options.

She’d even dialled the number, but hung up before it could be answered.

Shovels thwacked in the paddock. The bonfire had vanished and the two men were bent over, flattening dirt with the backs of their shovels. The smooth mound of displaced earth indicated that wire baskets – probably filled with stuffed chicken, meats, puddings, sweet potatoes and cabbage – had already been positioned within the earth and were broiling slowly over scalding rocks. An echo resonated throughout her body. Was this her future, her fate, her lot in life? A displaced mound of foreign dirt and strangers gossiping over lifeless flesh which once held a consciousness named Lisbeth Kunigunde Eckhardt? Her breathing quickened and a dull throbbing developed at the base of her skull. She whirred herself upright and took to the shower.

Tepid water shot from the shower head, dimpling her skin and ting-tinging the emergency pendant around her neck. Getting the pressure and temperature just right was a complicated procedure, but today, lukewarm was all she could handle.

Perhaps a little cooler. It was, after all, twenty six degrees outside and counting.

Finally flicking the water off, she reached for the first of three towels she used during her cleansing process. Sandra – the woman Richard employed to clean, cook, wash clothes and assist with showering four times a week – continuously 41

commented on her towel usage. The woman’s incessant chatter often gave her migraines. During such visits, Frau Eckhardt would retire to the spare room and pretend to nap. She’d told Richard the woman was a waste of space and that dressing, in her condition, was still manageable (Step one: tuck one end of the bra under the left breast, leaving the eyelets exposed near the sternum. Step two: lean to the right and flick the rest of the bra to the back. Step three: reach behind and grasp the other end of the bra. Step four: bring the other end of the bra to the front of the body. Step five: lean forward to ensure the breasted-bra-eyelet-end remains in place. Step six: fasten the hooks to the eyelets. Step seven: slide the bra cups around to the front, slip the straps through the arms and secure in place).

Late afternoon sun shimmied along the wall. Even the embossed wallpaper appeared to dance and sway. Oom-pah-pah. Oom-pah-pah. Oom-pah-pah. She squinted. Next door, the two men guffawed as they sauntered down the gravel driveway. They casually stepped over the wire fence boundary and ambled towards the front of Frau Eckhardt’s house. Her breathing quickened. She’d tell them off for that, for trampling on her agapanthus, and she’d ask about their fire permit. Thuds resonated on the verandah. The doorbell chimed. Peeping out from Richard’s room, Frau Eckhardt watched as two silhouettes filled the coloured glass of her front door.

Voices slid under the tiny crack of the door and resounded along the polished floorboards towards her slippered feet “Ring again.”

“You ring.”

“Got my hands full. Ring again.”

“Just wait, man.”

This could go on forever. Frau Eckhardt thump-slid to the door and opened it a fraction. They stood there, the noisy, ill-mannered louts.

“Kia ora, whaea. Season’s best and all. Sorry ‘bout the smoke.”

She gazed down at the contents of the banana box between the man’s muscular hands: three tin-foiled plates of various sizes, two silver crackers, one bottle of Steinlager beer and one plastic bottle of crimson fizzy. The aroma of smoky chicken and rosemary infused vegetables was overwhelming. As wisps of steam escaped from tears in the foil, her finely formulated words, too, dissipated into the air.

“I’m…okay…” she stammered.

42

The man leaned in and gently placed the banana box on top of her walking frame. Was she supposed to invite him in? His name was Tu, or something to that effect. Wasn’t it? She wanted to smile back at him, and ordered her mouth to do so.

Instead, Frau Eckhardt found herself nodding slowly but curtly and closing the door on the two men. A sharp slice of butternut squash poked out of the foil. Frau Eckhardt scooped a titbit of orange flesh onto her finger and placed it in her mouth.

It dissolved instantly, smoky and sweet. The taste lingered on her tongue as shadows disappeared from behind her front door and the sound of white gumboots slap-drag-slapping against concrete leisurely faded.

Judge’s Comment Hangi is a character study of a housebound, older German woman who is no longer German but not quite Kiwi either. Through the window she watches the neighbours who are putting down a hangi and the mound of earth is an uncomfortable reminder of her own mortality. Frau Eckhardt is an interesting character, an intelligent woman who observes the symptoms of her partly paralysed body with detachment but reacts emotionally to her isolation. The writing is sympathetic but nuanced, and the ending is satisfying.

43

Third Place The Ballad Of Scruff and Rat

by Paul Andersen-Gardiner Characters B4 Prof Skin

A Barman A Hotel Patron Another Patron

40 - 60 75 - 85 65 - 75

A bar in a South Taranaki country pub. B4 passes a full handle to PROF. B4 There you go Prof.

PROF Thanks! Jeez B4! You couldn’t fill it up could you?

B4 You want me to tip some out?

PROF Nah! It’s all good.

SKIN enters. B4 knows what Skin will have and pours his beer.

Well, well! Look what the wind blew in.

SKIN Gudday Prof!

PROF Skin! You been away?

SKIN Yeah! Been over Dannevirke visiting the grandkids.

PROF How are Pistol and his brood? What? Four kids i’n’ it?

SKIN Yeah! Nah, they’re good. Youngest is at school now.

44

PROF You don’t say! Cripes they grow up fast.

B4 There you go, Skin.

SKIN Thanks! Jeez B4! You couldn’t fill it up could ya!

PROF He’ll tip some out if you carry on like that.

SKIN Got one on the board thanks mate.

B4 Oh! Right!

B4 rubs number 103 off a whiteboard behind the bar.

SKIN Where’s Scruff? He’s usually here at twenty-to, on the dot.

PROF You won’t be seeing him today.

B4 I don’t know! He was in yesterday.

PROF Yeah? How was he?

B4 Not too bad. I asked him for a note ‘cause he was late. He said “Get stuffed. Giz a beer.” So he’s still the same.

PROF Nah! I was talking to the Colonel. He’s taking Scruff to the doctors since his car’s munted.

B4 He wouldn’t be allowed to drive anyway.

SKIN I’m in suspense over here.

PROF He ran up the back of end of Baldy at the Clifford Road intersection.

45

SKIN I thought that was his car at the garage. Didn’t look too bad!

PROF He was slowing down for the intersection so he wasn’t going fast. Baldy reckons he had a turn.

SKIN Yeah! Well! I’m not surprised. He must be in his eighties.

PROF Nah! He wouldn’t be eighty.

SKIN Yeah! He was at school with the old man. He was 75 when he carked it. That was ten years ago.

PROF Yeah, but your old man was held back so often he started shaving when he was in the primers.

SKIN So how are they?

PROF Baldy’s all right, he was on his tractor. They carted Scruff off to hospital in the ambulance. Baldy said he didn’t want to go. Kicked up a hell of a stink!

B4 They tried keeping him overnight but when his daughter turned up he insisted on going home with her.

SKIN Silly old bugger!

PROF Why’d’ ya want him?

SKIN Oh! Nah! Well Bubba, Pistol’s oldest, she’s doing a dairy farm thing at school. She wants to do tanker driving, seeing how Pistol had a lash at it in his younger days. I told her how Scruff had driven the first tanker for the factory here. Wants me to have a yarn with him, see if he’s got anything useful.

PROF He could tell her a story or two. Don’t know about useful though. How old is she?

SKIN Twelve, going on thirty! Smurf’s ten, Flo’s six and Peanut’s five.

46

B4 All girls!

SKIN Yeah! Nah, he’s missus reckons it’s punishment for a misspent youth. Now he has to keep blokes like him away from his daughters.

PROF You could write a book about Scruff and his battle with Rat Sukolski, especially when the tankers started.

B4 What’s this?

PROF You don’t know about the feud these two had?

B4 Nah! PROF How long you been living here?

B4 Twenty two years!

PROF Yeah! If you were a local you’d know.

B4 Well come on, spill the beans.

PROF Rat was farming up the James Road on Scruff’s tanker run. One day Scruff has cause to look inside Rat’s vat, and there’s three buckets sitting there.

B4 Why would Rat put buckets in his vat?

PROF Milk for his calves!

B4 Don’t get it.

PROF The driver would write down how much milk was in the vat by reading the sight glass. He empties the milk via the bottom of the vat and the buckets are still in there. Full! So Rat was getting paid for the milk he was feeding to his calves.

47

B4 The cunning old bugger!

SKIN It’s all bull dust anyway.

PROF Just telling Scruff’s story!

SKIN The one you want to believe.

B4 There must’ve been a heck of round up when Scruff told the factory?

PROF He didn’t.

B4 I thought it would be his job to say something.

PROF Didn’t need to! He just took the buckets out, did the reading and put them back.

SKIN There were a few others up to no good as well. You ask Scruff.

PROF We’re not talking about the others, we’re talking about Rat. B4 You used to farm up James Road. Wasn’t you was it Prof?

PROF Not me! I’m as honest as the day is long.

SKIN Bloody short days in winter!

PROF How much for a packet of chips B4?

B4 Two bucks!

PROF What! Bloody rip off!

48

B4 You want one?

PROF Yeah go on. Rob me blind!

B4 It must’ve come to a head eventually?

PROF Bloody oath! A few days later, Scruff gets back to the factory all bloodied and bruised. Rat had seen him doing the buckets; they ended up having a set to.

SKIN It wasn’t all Rat. I saw him at Farmers the next day. He’d copped a few as well.

PROF Must’ve been a heck of a ding dong! Spike reckons if he hadn’t turned up to separate them, they’d have killed each other. After that the factory told Rat if he was in the shed when the tanker came they wouldn’t pick up his milk.

B4 Spike?

PROF Rat’s son! Where is he now?

SKIN Last I heard he was with some big wig crowd in Paris.

PROF You drinking that or just looking at it? Come on! My round!

SKIN Cheers Prof!

PROF and SKIN finish drinking their beer. B4 takes the handles and fills them with more beer.

B4 I’d have thought that if Rat was up to no good, he’d be leaving himself open by making a fuss.

SKIN Exactly! He says someone else was doing the bucket trick and Scruff was trying to tar him with the same brush.

PROF What about the block under the legs then?

49

SKIN Nah! Nah! That was never proved.

PROF Scruff swears on his mother’s grave.

SKIN Scruff’s mother ran off with that pommy teacher when he was fifteen. He doesn’t even know where she’s buried.

PROF I wouldn’t have put it past Rat. SKIN All right! Who, apart from Scruff, actually saw it?

B4 Now I’m in suspense.

PROF Scruff discovered…

SKIN Claims!

PROF Discovered!

SKIN Claims!

PROF Scruff… told the factory… that Rat had blocks of wood under the back legs of his vat.

B4 That would tip the milk forward wouldn’t it?

PROF Yeah! And? B4 And give a higher reading on the sight glass.

PROF Very good! You’re not as stupid as you look.

50

SKIN Trout had a look and didn’t find a thing wrong.

PROF Trout was the factory manager. Used to live in your house!

B4 They have a punch up over this one as well?

PROF Nah! But she was pretty tense between them at the end of season shout, I tell you!

B4 So they never got on after that?

SKIN They never got on from the moment Rat hit town.

B4 Really?

PROF We’re not going there.

SKIN Yes we are. If you’re telling the man the story, give him all the details PROF There’s no point in dragging up the past.

SKIN You just did!

B4 Guys, if it’s going to…

SKIN You can trace all this trouble back to Sparrow.

B4 Sparrow? Rat’s wife!

SKIN That’s the one.

B4 I’ve met her heaps of times. She doesn’t seem like a trouble maker to me.

51

SKIN She’s not. Well! Not intentionally anyway.

B4 Sounds like another chapter for your book, Prof.

PROF One best left unwritten.

SKIN Scruff and Sparrow were an item for years. Everyone thought they’d end up getting married. But something happened and they broke up. Scruff was none too happy about it, I’ll tell you that for nothing.

B4 That something was Rat. SKIN Not exactly! He arrived on the scene after the split.

B4 From Poland?

SKIN Nah! He was a refugee. Came out as a kid during the war! Couldn’t go back because of the Ruskies. He wound up here, liked the look of the place, liked the look of Sparrow, the rest’s history. Sparrow was going out with someone else by then, so Rat cut in on both of them.

B4 Who? SKIN Don’t know! She was pretty quiet about that. It’s all academic now anyway.

PROF Big word for you, Skin!

B4 So Scruff never got over her then?

PROF Heaps of times, especially after Rat died! He reclaimed his visiting rights.

SKIN Bull dust. Scruff put that all behind him when he married Tips. He was devoted to her. Stayed faithful till the day she died. Still is!

B4 Something must’ve caused the row.

52

SKIN Yip! One word mate! Rat was paranoid. Something about being insecure because of his war experience, or something. But the long and short of it is, he thought Scruff was sniffing round Sparrow. Told me about things that were happening, like the phone ringing, whoever it was would hang up if he answered, but it never happened to Sparrow. And he was convinced Scruff was snooping round the place.

Fired his shotgun at him one night! Reckons he hit him in the leg, but I don’t know.

B4 Is there a happy ending?

SKIN How’d’ya mean?

B4 You know! Burying the hatchet, lifelong friends, that sort of thing!

SKIN Nah! The factory put Scruff on a different run. That settled that down. Scruff meet up with Tips, everyone got married, had kids, work, mortgages, you name it. I guess life just got in the way. Everyone got too busy or too old to care. Except Rat! He told anyone who’d listen, right up to the day he died, that Scruff was still after Sparrow.

Don’t think they ever said a civil word to each other. You’ve gone quiet over there mate. That’s not like you.

PROF It’s better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than open your mouth and remove all doubt.

B4 I was sitting behind Scruff at Rat’s funeral. He seemed quite upset.

SKIN He’d be trying to hide his laughter. He only went to make sure the bugger was dead.

PROF And the free booze.

The phone rings. B4 answers.

B4 It’s the pub!

PROF How’s Pistol finding Dannevirke?

53

B4 Oh, gudday!

SKIN Too many sheep shaggers for his liking.

B4 Is that right?

PROF Enjoying it?

B4 Good grief!

SKIN Yeah! Wants to put a manager on and move back here though.

B4 Just Prof and Skin... Yeah! I’ll tell them… Thanks mate!

B4 hangs up.

That was the Colonel. Went round to get Scruff and… ah… yeah… he passed away overnight.

SKIN Oh heck!

PROF Blow me down.

PROF raises his handle.

To Scruff!

SKIN/B4 To Scruff!

SKIN May he rest in peace! As long as Rat’s not waiting for him at the pearly gates with his shotgun.

PROF I better go!

SKIN It’s my shout.

54

PROF Put it on the board.

SKIN What’s the hurry?

PROF Someone’s got to tell Sparrow.

PROF exits. He has a limp. B4 and SKIN watch him leave. They look thoughtfully at each other. Neither speaks until Prof is gone.

B4 It’s half past. Snow’s late.

SKIN Hope he’s got a note.

END

Judge’s Comment This is a play set in a bar in a country pub. The characters know each other and their banter is ritualised and well honed. The Ballad of Scruff and Rat is a yarn told to the barman by the Prof, with many interruptions from Skin. The dialogue is excellent, the repartee amusing, and the story of skulduggery on the milk round is an authentically tall tale of rural life. The setting is static, there is no action in the play, but plenty of talk.

55

Highly Commended Holey Holly Hedge

by Rolland McKellar Countless times I headed through that holly hedge – the one separating my house and that of my best two friends. We all called it ‘holey holly hedge’ – because of the gap and hedge type, nothing spiritual at all. I was told my friends’ grandfather originally planted that hedge many years ago. Their father, his son, seemed devoted to it.

I spent hours on the worn sofa in the kitchen of my next door neighbours – the Leuthwaites. Many hearty meals were eaten at the formica table, beside the coal range, the ever-present clothes drying rack above, positioned by a pulley. My best friends – brothers - were called Brayden and Ralph. Ralph was in the same class and the same age – or six months younger to be exact. Brayden was three years older – too old for me my parents often said. There had even been half-hearted attempts to break us up, but we continued to spent time together – fishing, hiking, camping, exploring and getting up to mischief. Ralph and I did the same things, apart from the mischief. The Leuthwaites had a big family of ten kids – six girls and four boys.

The Leuthwaite parents were ill-matched. Mrs L – we always called her that was a small, plain speaking, kind woman in her 40s who always seemed to be on the go. With ten children there was always lots to do; washing, ironing, cooking, preserving, baking - and scolding. She did the entire garden too. She was a brilliant gardener. Ample food was grown for the table and she’d throw her surplus - huge potatoes, monstrous cauliflowers, massive carrots through the holey holly hedge – for our dinner table. We’d gather them up and take them to our mother. Mrs L rather reminded me of a clucky bantam – looking after her fluffy chicks.

Mr Leuthwaite was unusual. He worked in a chocolate factory in town. He’d disappear at 8am to catch the bus to town and be back just before 6pm to settle down and watch the news, while eating his supper. That is about all he did really.

He never seemed to help around the property, apart from the hedge. He was always at it, trimming it, watering it and spraying it to remove bugs. I think it had sentimental value because his father had planted it when he was a young man.

Once I visited around midday on a Sunday and heard someone clattering around on the roof – Mrs L was painting for hours in the hot sun, her brown hair streaked with paint, while her husband read the Sunday newspapers below, seated in the shade of the pear tree on his special deckchair, which only he was allowed to use.

Mr Leuthwaite – I always addressed him by his full name – had been to the Second World War and once showed me his various medals, with colourful attached ribbons. Locals said he’d been shell-shocked in North Africa, which supposedly explained some of his unusual mannerisms and rapid, rather indistinct speech. But he was friendly enough. I especially liked him when he brought home chocolate ‘seconds’ in a paper bag and insisted I have “just a couple more”.

After he had tea – expectations to be waited on hand and foot fulfilled - he headed off to the shed in the backyard. He called it his “office”. He’d be there for 56

most of the night. I don’t know what he did in there, but when he came back near bedtime, he seemed the worst for wear. He obviously had a good stock of alcohol in there. After prolonged time in the ‘office’, his speech was even more hurried and muddled than usual, his mannerisms stranger than earlier, being now accompanied by facial tics. I also noticed that the children fell silent when he entered the room.

Conversation button off. Occasionally, he’d pop out again for a while and the conversation would start up. Conversation button back on.

I never saw too much wrong. His behaviour was always above board when I visited. Except once. I was over at the Leuthwaites later than usual – we’d been involved in one of our torrid games of Monopoly, when I headed to the loo adjoined to the washhouse outside the backdoor, with a backward glared “Don’t touch my money” – I was busting. Mr Leuthwaite came in the front door having been out in the ‘office’ – he didn’t realise I was still around, I guess.

All was quiet – then I heard a commotion. Hurriedly finishing my call of nature, I pushed open the back door. What I saw horrified me. Mr Leuthwaite had Mrs Leuthwaite by her shoulder-length hair and was pulling her towards him, muttering angrily under his breath. The Monopoly game materials were strewn all over the floor.

What also shocked me was that the older children – including my two friends – continued to sit at the table as though nothing was happening, although Lucy, one spirited sister, who was several years younger than me, was certainly having a bit to say.

“Hey shut up”, hissed Brayden, adding “You’ll just make it worse for Mum – later”.

I closed the door, stunned and went back through the holey holly hedge, for a long think and a restless night.

A couple of days later, while playing tennis, I tried to question Ralph about what I’d seen. All I got was silence – then, as I persisted, “Look, I’d rather not talk about it”. He pointedly walked away, dropping his racquet – the game abandoned.

The next weekend, as Brayden and I hiked up the bush-clad hill towards the first hut, I got more satisfaction.

“What you saw, was nothing. Nothing! I’ve tried to stop it, but then the bastard waits till no one’s around and beats the crap out of her. It’s hard – but it’s better to say nothing. And do nothing. Better for Mum in the long run”. He paused and looked thoughtful, then continued. “Once I even ‘clocked’ him one, then headed out for a while. But when I returned she’d been carted off to hospital in a terrible shape – broken nose and wrist. In the house, blood everywhere, especially on the wallpaper in the main bedroom.” He caught my eye, “Do you see?” he demanded fiercely.

I never saw anything untoward again, but what I saw that evening remained with me. When I thought about it, I’d recalled that Mrs L often seemed to have marks around her face and neck – once even a black eye. When I asked her about the black eye she said brightly, “Oh I walked into the edge of an open door in the dark”.

Lisa overheard this and piped up, “Yeah right”.

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About ten years went by and most of the Leuthwaite brood had left home. Mrs Leuthwaite looked much the same and remained as busy as ever. Mr Leuthwaite continued his work–news-office-grog routine.

Occasionally, I’d drop by, during the day, and visit for a shot of memories and nostalgia. Once I called by after tea and had a cuppa with the remnants of the family. This consisted of the parents and Lisa, now a teenager – no one else lived there by now. Mrs L was being her super-charged, cheerful self and Mr Leuthwaite emerged from the office – red-nosed, speech more slurred than usual. He reeked heavily of alcohol. This time he paid no heed to me – did he even see me? - but headed straight for his wife and grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back and started to drag her backwards around the room. She kept on her feet, but only just.

Lisa was on her feet instantly and pounding her father’s back.

Horrified and outraged, I rose from the couch and bellowed, “How dare you attack your wife”. At this, he let go his wife’s arm – leaving her rubbing it vigorously - turned to me and garbled, rapid-fire something I couldn’t quite make out. But it turned out to be – as I discerned when I heard his daughter’s response, “What’s the use of a Thomas, what’s the use of a Thomas?” – referring to my surname.

Lucy’s riposte took me by surprise, “Better than a Leuthwaite any day”.

Time went by and Mr Leuthwaite retired. I’m told that Mrs L’s life became a real trial with her husband around all of the day, the bottle even more of an issue. But she battled on, as she only knew how to – busy, resolute and cheerful. When he died suddenly, I called by to offer my condolences. She looked sad. But there was something else; I’d never seen her looking so relieved or relaxed, although as busy as ever – preparing for the funeral at the local Presbyterian Church. She’d picked an array of flowers from her garden – dahlias mostly.

The funeral was well attended, yet he had few friends, if any. You’d have thought he was a celebrity. Mrs Leuthwaite didn’t speak, but her eldest son Brayden rose to say a few words. I was intrigued as to what he would say, knowing he had little time for his father. He was surprisingly positive, he referred to his father’s “brave war record fighting for the freedoms we all enjoy”, his many years’ service at the chocolate factory as a “good provider”. Nothing much about his role as a family man, this father of ten. Evidently he’d been a good runner once – that got a mention. Brayden read an extract about his father’s athletic prowess from an old newspaper, fragile and yellowed with age. Abruptly, he sat down.

The service over, I was in Brayden’s car as we headed to the cemetery where a graveside ceremony was held. After the coffin was lowered, all members of the large family – bar one – dropped in the customary few clods of earth or flowers.

Finally, there was a clink as Mrs L’s wedding ring bounced onto the coffin lid. Yet I noticed one member didn’t take part. I heard Brayden mutter, “Old man - later”.

We walked back down the steep hill to the car, Brayden, Lisa, Mrs Leuthwaite and me. Brayden sat for a long five minutes at the wheel, gazing ahead, saying nothing. Finally, he announced, “I’m just going back, won’t be long”.

But he was. After more than twenty minutes, I said, “I’ll see if Brayden’s ok - back soon”.

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I headed up the hill and, from the cover of some nearby Rhododendron bushes, watched unseen. Brayden was standing at the edge of the grave looking down, deep in thought by the look of it. Then he began fishing in his pocket – perhaps for an item of sentimental value, or a war medal most likely, to drop down. Yet all he came up with was a piece of the holly hedge. I’m not especially shockable, but I was about to be shocked. He spat on the hedge cutting and threw that into the grave. I listened, and could hear him speaking, quite audibly – angrily, “There Dad, that’s about all you deserve, for what you did, especially to Mum and Lisa”. Lisa?

Then he spat twice more into the grave and turned on heel to return to the car, his personal ceremony over.

Judge’s Comment This is a character study of a couple, from the point of view of the child who lived next door and is friends with their children. As the narrator grows older he/she realises that the neighbour is a violent alcoholic and that the kind and competent mother of the family is her husband’s victim. Nobody does anything to help her – her children say that interfering makes it worse – but the church is packed for his funeral when the disliked man dies. This is a powerful story that raises questions about whether we would have acted differently.

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Commended The Good Thing

by Pip Harrison He broke into an awkward run, as the blue station wagon slowed and pulled over on to the hard shoulder. He could feel his spare shoes thwacking his backpack with every step and the bag with his new bounty in it bounced against his leg.

‘Thanks, mate. I’m headed for Hawera, okay? Cheers.’ Shifting a doggy smelling rug, he piled his bags into the back seat. Then he climbed into the front and fumbled quickly for the seat belt. ‘Click. All done – sorry to hold you up.’

‘No worries, mate. Company keeps me awake. You traveling around, are you?’

‘Nah. I’ve just been checking things out in New Plymouth. Thought I might bunk on a friend’s floor but it turned out he’d moved.’

‘A wasted journey then – shame.’

‘Oh well. It put me in the right place for something else that happened.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. A bit before you picked me up this chap in an old-as car stopped. He was just going to Stratford but it turned out he was dropping some stuff off at the op shop and he gave me first dibs! Only turned out he had a really good sleeping bag in there! It’s got a patch on it says you can use it on Everest! And he gave me a towel to wipe the puddle splash off me too. And now you’re taking me back to Hawera – it’s a good day this one.’

‘You got a place there then?’

‘Nah, not my own place but the good thing is I know my way around.’

‘High Street okay then?’

‘Yup, that would be cool. You up and down this road a lot then?’

‘Now and then. I had to go to New Plymouth for business.’ The man automatically pulled a card out of his top pocket and handed it across.

‘Michael Mason. Car parts. Cool. I’m John. Though I get TG a lot,’ said John, balancing the card on the dashboard.

Michael laughed. ‘John started with a J last time I looked.’

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‘It’s short for TGTI. And that’s short for ‘the good thing is’, which they reckon I say a lot.’

‘A bit of a Polyanna, are you?’

‘Who’s she?’

‘She was in a story – always saw the bright side.’

‘Well, I guess – don’t tell anyone though. I think I prefer TG!’ ………………………

‘TGTI? What’s that?’ asked the new kid scathingly. ‘Like TGIF? Thank God I’m an Idiot?’

Better at insults than spelling then, thought TG. Is that what I am though? Well, better an idiot than bitter and throwing your weight around like this Tif. What sort of name was that anyway?

‘What about Tif? What’s that short for?’ he asked amiably enough.

‘None of your f-ing business,’ said Tif fiercely, greasy blond rat’s tail swinging, as he turned away.

TG exchanged a glance with Kev, who’d been at the squat with Tif, when he’d arrived. It sounded as if there was something painful in the name – probably a family thing. Perhaps some child’s attempt at something – Steve maybe. Little brother? Son? Nah, he didn’t look old enough for it to be a son. Could have been the boy himself before someone had hurt him and he’d grown this prickly exterior.

TG had a vision of a small, fair child, starfish hands out, saying, ‘Tif do it. Tif do it for myself.’

‘Never mind, boy,’ John said.

Tif whipped round to face him. ‘Back off, idiot!’ he snarled and he stomped off outside.

‘No good up in New Plymouth then?’ asked Kev, fingers stroking his straggly grey beard the way they did.

‘Nah. He’d moved on. So it’s back to the old place,’ said TG, throwing himself down beside Kev on the old couch they’d dragged in. The hole in the armrest felt familiar beneath his hand. ‘Reckon we can risk a fire tonight?’

‘Better not. Cops were cruising last night. You can have some of this to keep you warm, if you like.’ Kev waved a bottle in the air.

‘No thanks – I’ve got a new sleeping bag that’ll do the job.’

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‘You never do, do you? Why don’t you get a place somewhere? It’s the grog gets me turfed out.’

‘It always turns out there’s rules. I’m not much of a one for rules, Kev.’ ‘And there was me thinking you were into the ten commandments and all that.’

‘Ah well – Don’t kill each other. Don’t tell lies. That stuff, that’s just how to get along together. No, it’s the be-in-by-10-and-don’t-bring-your-friends-home that gets me. Stand-in-a-line-and-don’t-speak-till-you’re-told – that does my head in.’

‘Army were you?’

‘For a bit. We didn’t get on, the army and me.’

‘That young Tif – I came in and found him already here,’ said Kev apologetically.

‘Don’t know how he found the place. Might’ve followed me earlier, I guess. He’s put his stuff where you were under the workbench. You want me to help you move it?’

John sighed. The draught blowing under the tiltadoor was getting colder by the minute – the end of the workbench was the only shelter from it. And there was no prospect of a hot drink or food unless he walked down for chips. The dark would be coming soon too. And that toe rag of a boy would no doubt have more to say. Still.

He shook his head.

‘Nah. I ‘ll go on the pallets along the wall here – let’s not have a fuss. I saw some cardboard behind the shops – that’ll help. The good thing is,’ (he saw Kev grin) ‘I’ve got this new sleeping bag.’

He pulled his old bag from the pack and spread it out on the pallets. Next he shook his blanket out and put that down. Then, with a smile, he tugged the cover off the new sleeping bag and laid the sleeper on top of the blanket. He smoothed it with an appreciative hand and then pulled the loose edge of the blanket over the top.

Kev whistled. ‘That’ll make a difference. If I had one of those I might not need this,’ he said, as he took a swig from his bottle.

John’s face fell. He wasn’t used to having something someone else wanted. It felt bad. ‘You want to swap?’ he asked.

Kev laughed and shook his grey head. ‘You know me,’ he said. ‘Full of bullshit.

Wouldn’t give the grog up even if I did have it. You enjoy it.’

‘Right then,’ TG said, cheering up. ‘I’ll just grab that cardboard.’

He headed off out the back door and down the street. The good thing was he found the supermarket had tossed out the last of their bread and some apples that didn’t have much wrong with them too. He struggled back with the cardboard and the 62

food. He called Kev and they sat outside, eating in the yellow shine of the street lights, coats pulled close round them and beanies pulled down over their ears.

They heard the back door slam and footsteps round the garage.

‘I’m turning in now,’ said TG, as Kev lit up. ‘It’s been a long day. Good though.’

Inside he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. There was a smell of beer and car grease and unwashed clothes. Must get some things washed himself soon. He could see a shape under the workbench – Tif was already asleep then. He manhandled the cardboard across to his sleeping roll and pushed it underneath.

He propped what had been the bottom of the box up against his backpack to block the draught and went to scramble into the sleeping bag. What the ..? Where was the thick bounce of Everest quality quilting? He heard a rustle from the workbench.

Oh - there. He thought of the sinewy body of the younger man - plenty of muscle there. Kev would help but he was already three sheets – might not be able to see very straight. And there was all that aggression in Tif. He thought again of the child’s hands reaching out. Tif had done it for himself indeed.

TG sighed. He took off his trainers and climbed into the old sleeper. Leave it till tomorrow. Maybe he could do something then. He clutched his blanket round his neck. The good thing was he still had that. Taranaki had looked great today with all the snow on it. It looked different from the north, the Lizard snaking up the side and the Pouakai ranges making a sort of tail for the mountain. And that surf at Opunake on the way up to New Plymouth - that had been worth turning off for – all white and pounding in - a sight worth seeing. Saturday tomorrow – he might go down and watch the sport. He could look around for another place too. Maybe he’d find something with a wooden floor. He shuffled the cardboard up the wall a bit and pushed against it. He felt it give a little under his hip. Thank God for cardboard, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

Under the workbench Tif lay with tense muscles looking forward to the scrap to come. That idiot would be across any second to try to get his bag back. Fat chance he’d give it up though. Didn’t that TG know, that in the real world bad things happened? You’d have thought he’d have got it by now. Well, this might show him.

Gradually he realised that TG’s breathing had evened out, his snuffles had settled to the sounds of sleep. What the hell? He was just going to let him take it? He really was an idiot, a good sleeping bag like this one.

He tried to settle himself but the anger and the adrenaline churned around in his stomach, across his shoulders, in his whirling head. He propped himself up on one elbow and drank again from his beer bottle. Eventually, he struggled up with a curse and fumbled his way outside to pee.

When Tif got back, he found the old joker squatting down beside his bed roll, fingering the sleeping bag.

‘Hey,’ he said, swear words tearing their jagged way through his sentences. ’Get off! That’s mine.’

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‘You know, Tif,’ said Kev ponderously, slurring his words a little, ’there are things you can take and things you can’t. And things you’ll wish you hadn’t, if you manage it.’

‘You threatening me? ‘Cause I can take you any day with one hand behind my back’ Tif hissed.

‘No, no. Just sharing a thought,’ said Kev, as he rose to unsteady feet. ‘The good thing is you’ll feel better if you give up being a bully. Oh hell, he’s got me doing it now!’ and he tottered over to the couch and pulled his blanket around him.

No, the good thing, thought Tif, is that I’m warm and I know the score. He lay there, struggling to translate warmth into relaxed muscles and a mind calm enough for sleep, while a duet of snores rumbled through the night.

Judge’s Comment A cheerful story from the point of view of a down-and-out who sees the bright side in everything. I enjoyed hearing the voices of people who don’t usually get heard.

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Open Division Poetry First Place The Colour Of A Poet’s Pen

by Jessica Howatson

Red pen is for selfish, angry poems that follow no rules.

Raw poems from broken souls.

Red like an editor's ink, they know they are already wrong.

Blue pen is for everyday poems, kiss-me-quick poems, hurry-along poems.

Poems that appear inside reports on structural integrity that nobody expected.

Black pen is for defiant, determined poems.

Set-in-stone poems, to be changed little and never erased.

Poems that know who they are.

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Pencil is for shy poems, coaxed onto the page, ready to run away at the slightest criticism.

Unsure poems, self conscious, afraid to marr the whiteness and fill the emptiness.

Judge’s Comment It’s just impossible not to smile as you read this poem. It is very clever. One of my favourite lines is: “Red like an editor’s ink / they know / they are already wrong.” Everyone has encountered black-penned, “Poems that know who they are”. I also particularly love the idea of poems appearing like surprises, inside engineering reports about structural integrity. This is the reality of poetry fitting into everyday life, where perhaps, it is least expected. This poem celebrates something that ties it to all the others – the creation of poetry in South Taranaki.

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Second Place Forever In Darkness

by Jessica Howatson The windows, devoid of curtains, hung themselves instead.

Outside, the night breathes deep exhales- whispering winter's chill.

The clock is gone, the passing hours no longer marked - or marredby the faces of my childhood.

We are out of time, and timeless.

Judge’s Comment This poem is the kind that just takes your breath away. This poem does not feel contrived, nor does it need to use all sorts of superlatives and tricky decorative words. It simply it what is, and it is more than enough. As you read it, it feels like one of the poems that you must’ve read before – there’s that sense of memory about it – such well-chosen words. And yet it’s fresh, even though the words are very plain and simple they tie together in a way that can make you gasp. The last line: “We are out of time, and timeless” is simply superb.

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Third Place The Fare

by John Sargeant Once I was asked, who I missed the most Life’s journey almost done My Dad, my Son, or friends now gone It was me, at twenty one How brave I was and how I fought For things that I believed The vigour of my youth now gone The flower turned to seed Now I’m’ old and times moved on I wonder why I grieve For me that’s gone – as I’m still here So now I do believe The lines I have are lines of love Cracked skin and silver hair The me that was, made me that’s now I’m proud, I’ve paid the fare.

Judge’s Comment This poem - made up of very simple words and rhyme - flows so perfectly with such lovely rhythm that it is hard to fault. It is difficult not to have admiration for the thoughtful poet who penned these words and the wisdom that is carried so lightly in this fine rhyme. I know that rhyming poems are supposed to be out of fashion in the poetry world, but this poem just stayed with me and rang so true, as if it carried the essence of its author. You can’t ask for more than that.

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Very Highly Commended The Teller

by Rachael Kellogg

Do not expect me to leave you a ledger with classical pillars of figures neatly bound top-down, numerals in penciled script stacked for your balancing act, the 2 4 1s smudgeless along red-lined margins.

Do not expect me to cut a check as blank as ignorance, your signature as bearer definitively affixed amidst codes printed rigidly, sequestered to alienate my name, gripped to the slip with the fish hook strokes of a ballpoint.

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Do not expect me to smile behind bullet-proof glass, a masque of pleasantry between us, my hand outstretched to accept whatever currency your thrift store pants will offer in a constitutionless institution, all barren-walled except for the assurance of third-party insurance wriggled into your pocket.

Access, at last, is denied.

The account is settled.

This bank is closed.

Judge’s Comment There is something about this poem, with its clever lines that makes you want to know the full story. You can guess that it is the ending of a relationship, and there is a sense of who the “teller” is, and what kind of relationship it was. The “fish hook strokes / of a ballpoint” is an especially lovely line. The “third party insurance / wriggled into your pocket” is another clever quip. It is a well-crafted poem that makes me want to read more and more poems written by the same author.

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Very Highly Commended Another Day at the Office

by Rachael Kellogg Big sky tractors sweep over the rugged greens to furrow rounded mounds of aching browns, just warming up to the precious diesel music of a newly sunburned Saturday.

Judge’s Comment A delightful wee poem that makes economical use of descriptive language that surprises and impresses. The “rounded mounds / of aching browns” is really lovely sound-play.

The alliteration is excellent and the descriptions are fresh. It conjures up place and space and feels like a perfect bite of South Taranaki.

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Very Highly Commended Guardians of Mount Taranaki

by Merry Wallis

I have seen forests grow and die Towns dot around me taking its place.

I have seen people’s hardship and sorrow Become other people’s happiness and joy.

I have seen the determination of a seed striving for life Growing in persistent towns, brave and alone, trying to survive Feeling the light and life of the town’s vibe felt through wood and stone As people do; my people.

I have seen more than a lifetime of war and peace I have seen lives anew and life taken away I have seen tears both of pain and elation.

Yet I stand here rigid, waiting, watching Like a guardian looking out to orange and pink horizons Through the grey blustering windswept clouds I look to the future with hope As people do; my people.

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Feeling town’s life force vibrate through the ground around Communities thrive, unrelenting.

The future of them dependant on children, Feeding them, educating them, These to be creators of tomorrow, They too are protectors, as I am to them Guardians, as I am.

They are the future; they are the conservation of MY future They too see orange and pink horizons Through the grey blustering windswept clouds Looking to the future with hope As people do; my people.

Judge’s Comment There is just something about this poem that captures something greater, some kind of spirit, some sense of the collective hopes, the echoes of the ideas and thoughts of the mountain itself. Poetry-wise, it feels a little unfashionable in its majesty and grandness, but it pulls me in as a reader, and it makes me want to believe in something bigger than myself. I think that’s the sign of a fine poem, one that captures your imagination and pushes you on your way to sense something larger. In the right context, this poem could be so powerful and galvanizing of community responsibility for stewardship of the mountain land.

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Commended Emulation

by Rachael Kellogg Observe the moth.

By day, she is the silent leaf, forgotten for dead and tucked away in the corner of your back porch.

But by night she is the wide-eyed goddess adorned in velvet cloaks, embracing the world with far-reaching wings in all its fleeting, moonlit loveliness.

Judge’s Comment This is a very simple poem, but it so very beautifully captures the transformation of the moth in its dull, dusty, day-coat, morphing into something luminous and mascara-clad at night. Each time I re-read it, I smiled and enjoyed this well-worded, perfectly crafted piece of poetry.

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Commended Rosella

by Rachael Kellogg

small is this hour, when light filters into hushed spaces and grays the hay rolled out like red carpets across terrain birthing mud thick enough to skate on at this small hour that has left a sharp night of hardened frost. the cows don’t seem to mind rising as slowly as valley clouds, blacks and whites and browns seeping sepia tones to float along the fog at this small hour that wears silence as a sacred rite. but then – what’s this? a flash a rocket shot of red and yellow! somewhere a castanet is heard, joined by another and another until a riot of tempestuous beats bursts the world at its seams!

Rosella appears dancing the flamenco as if she really was from Seville, wildly flourishing prismatic petticoats with a ribaldry to shame the dawn, and the hour is no longer small.

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mud still thickens under hay still stretching forth beneath mechanical jaws of cows; they still carry on as if every day brings such joyful turbulence to their stomachs. yet now, fog dissipates and trees steam, and now earth again becomes lucid in the exuberance of Rosella’s feat – bleeding her cadence-filled being into this hour, calling forth a new day.

Judge’s Comment After I read this poem I googled Rosella to see what it looked like and to listen to its bird sounds. I think that’s always the sign of a good poem - that you wish to know more. This poem lures you in. The lyric of the first two lines: “small is this hour / when light filters into hushed spaces” just makes me want to sigh, it is so lovely. The images of sepia tones and the silence of the small hour are exquisitely evoked in the poem. I particularly like the sense of the trees steaming, and the dull, mechanical, cow-chewing background that the colourful intruder interrupts. This poem evokes a strong sense of place, it shows us, very powerfully, what the poet is paying attention to, and it takes us there, to the poets sense of wonder which is created out of an ordinary, everyday, early morning.

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Commended Ladies of Leisure

by Robyn Ryan

Five days a week we do work And then two more at home.

Ladies of leisure we are not.

Those with partners moan a lot About the jobs that go undone.

We may groan out loud, we know, But we work on to get them done.

Ladies of leisure we are not.

We struggle on one wage alone To pay the mortgage and bills when due.

Maxed-out cards are not for us, We save to pay our way.

Ladies of leisure we are not.

We team up to get jobs done And help each other out.

Outside offers rarely show And that just pisses us off!

Ladies of leisure we are not.

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When we tire and get on edge We’re told “Take it easy, have a break”.

But are they going to: weed my garden, Mow the lawn, cook my meals, Do the dishes, laundry and vacuum too?

Ladies of leisure we are not.

And if we found someone to share our lives How much busier we would be.

LADIES OF LEISURE - WE WILL NEVER BE!

Judge’s Comment This was just so feisty and had such a strong sense of voice that each time I read it, I smiled. I love the attitude that comes through, I know I would enjoy seeing it performed.

It has a great sense of rhythm and rhyme. I can almost imagine each verse being read by a different woman, with all joining in with the last line “Ladies of leisure we are not.” How can you fail to be moved by a poem that keeps it so real? I wanted to include this poem in the Commended section as it feels like an important voice in the South Taranaki landscape and the voice is pure and true to itself.

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Special Mention For Whare and TK

by Dave Lee

As one you started Then two became Once parted Never more the same Lives lived in camera Shining stars both New hope for future Line of Orongomai One faltered Joy lost, path too hard For most to know Now gone to peace One stays to mark the way Harder now than most know Home of both hearts Souls together stay Fifty years together This day the first As one from two hearts One heart hurts for two You know you know We know you know The way ahead Heavier now less clear

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Whanau gather Generations old and new In love together embrace Joy and sadness too Youthful hand within Uncles hand cuts through Regenerates renews Father’s spirit flows too Clearer now less heavy Time softens pain Two hearts as one To become again

Judge’s Comment I had to include this poem because it wouldn’t let me go. There was something about this story (of twins I presume) that was very compelling. Even though perhaps it is not perfect poem (I had to read it many times), it captures something perfectly and that ‘something’ is precious. I think that makes it worthy of mention – and on the receiving end of a ‘wildcard’ prize.

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