Collection of Writings: Wellington Waterfront

Collection of Writings

Inspired by Wellington Waterfront

Ext(reme) Writers 2019 Raroa Normal Intermediate School

LONELY

Silence.

Blank visions clouded my head.

Colour draining from me, into the floor.

I could feel the walls caving in on me with tremendous force, a tsunami, ready to swallow me whole any second now….

No one could deny it.

I was alone.

A cold chill shivered down my spine at the thought of this.

The wind was whispering to the trees, while swaying side to side, back and forth.

They were talking about me -I just knew it- , mocking me and my every move.

Even the sun was avoiding me, as I was absorbed by the shadows, then spat out again.

A glowing pink petal gently dropped from the flower, drifting effortlessly down through the air, light as a feather, shrivelling into dust as soon as the very tip touched the ground.

I am merely a ghost, barely living, floating around in a field of sunflowers and thunder, darkened, damp, and alone.

Jessie Strong

The everlasting water escaping into the distance captures my gaze as the rain pelts it’s surface The vastness of the horizon bounded only by the line of the unsure sky above.

Beneath the surface on the mossy rocks something stirs Like the currents that hold tight to the sway of seaweed Beneath the surface Ropes Tangled intertwined sink below the surface

Up above Flat Smooth Calm Then with the flick of a finger Howling Crashling Rough

Scarlett Anderson

rust

anchorage lies in the wreck sunk deep into the depths the screams of the dead fade beneath the setting sun encased in bubbles that will never reach the surface

waves crash overhead forming a barrier unpassable turmoil surges forward raging toward their goddess the shining moon unaware that she is only a rock caged in endless space circling around a larger being chained in a hovering cage

unable to be free to be unique

Lara Haslam

Click. The faraway noise of high heels had stopped. It was almost time. Gianmarco carefully spied his tinted surroundings and ominously itched the black goatee that was pointed to the fog. Sliding his fingers into his hoodie pockets: he watched her very slightly. Her shimmering blond hair accentuated her Glassons Dress. He watched her buy that dress. He watched her buy those tall high heels. He watched her buy those golden bracelets, sealing her death by debt.

Click. She was leaning into a tree, closing her eyes and moving her jaw up and down. Gum. She only just had a piece at work, she probably couldn’t afford them soon. Strawberry flavoured, if he remembered correctly. He had waited and waited and waited and waited and watched, and he knew everything. He enjoyed blending in with the night too, but now was the time to move, not watch.

Click. He pushed himself silently from the rusty, shielded bench and slid behind a tree. Smoothly gliding between trees across the crusty ground as he had practised. He didn’t want to cause her pain, she just had to tell him everything. He wanted the information she had, nothing else.

By now Gianmarco was on the other side of the tree. Time was ticking.

Holly Familton

Development

The bleak, choppy water, in deep contrast to the artificial enterprises popping up expensively.

Starfish frollicking on mossy rocks in the shallows, unaware of the murk that lies beneath.

That is until a duet of large stingrays reveal themselves to the oblivious starfish, and proceed to force them up their throat.

I have never seen a penguin on the waterfront Yet there’s a sign plastered onto the ground saying just that-eh?

Haven’t seen one with my own eyes, even a squabbling runt So I think that ‘Slow for Penguins’ label is a bit batty Modernist statues lining up, teetering on the edge of the green harbour Simplistic sculptures, sitting with an adoring view of small but deep inlets Lively yet callous cafés unaware of the cruel gales, safe in their small, warm paradise Structural variety; all modern; all safe; all nice; but none the better The cold waterfront Almost what you’d call ‘deathly’ No. Just Wellington.

John Hyatt

A thick woollen blanket smothered the sky draining the world of its colour.

We trudged through the pools of water sloshing noisily, breaking the city’s thick silence.

The sound, loud and awkward.

We made haste hurrying along on a winter morning.

Caitlin De Klerk

Broken Glass A glint of emerald peeking through disturbed sand Scooped from its tomb by youthful hands.

The edges mulled away by enduring sighs Presented as a gift, to those who stood before the tide.

Jessica Kinsella

The Kamehameha Tom stared out the window at the ocean. At the calm. At the peace.

At the fear, and at the Lie. It had been 6 years, but it still felt like days ago. Like only a few days ago the forces of the Eurasian Empire has come crawling out of those once serene waters. “Tommy,” a sweet voice came from behind him.

He winced and turned around, apprehensively. But the voice hadn't come from whom Tom expected. A girl stood before him. She had pale skin and blue eyes, with dark brown hair.

“Cassie,” he hissed.

His best friend laughed and said, “But Tooooom, you need to get back to work. We all have to!”

“It's my lunch hour.”

“We don’t get lunch hours, doofus!”

“Well, you’d be interested to know tha—” “TOM,” she said, sterner than usual.

He was about to inquire further when he noticed it. Out the window; the banners of the empire, appearing around the corner. This was an inspection.

“Gerd wants us all on our best behaviour, doing our best work, or we get the cupboard.”

“Going straight to the cupboard, geez; this must be important.”

“A matter of her job.”

“I see” “Less talk, Mr Swan, more action,” she said, perfectly mimicking Gerd’s sickly sweet (and incredibly fake) voice.

Tom obliged her, grabbing his broom and beginning to sweep. His position at the Kamehameha was on rotation; sometimes he was assigned better and more interesting jobs. Once, he even got to be a bartender (although, he lost that position as nobody took him seriously). But today was not one of those days. He’d had a disagreement with Gerd a couple of days ago, and therefore, he swept.

Nathan Stacey

Golden Crisp leaves falling gracefully from almost bare trees Lifting and falling in a hushed gentle breeze Slowly dropping to the soft, cushioned ground Whispering and rustling a soothing sound.

Landing in a warm, fiery glow, Coppers, golds, and rusted tones, Rising and falling in the cool, crisp air They descend and gather one by one

Scarlett Anderson

The stingrays floated, ever so gracefully, Gliding through the water, bewitching out eyes, With such elegance, the two danced with each other, Letting no one bother, As their romantic love bonds them together, Till time unwinds itself.

Daniel Soh

They say the ocean reflects of the colour of the sky, it is a sound fact and makes sense in my mind. But it sounds sad the more you think of it. It seems the ocean has been robbed of personality and independence. It is forced to be like the sky, a twin. We write of the colour the shades of blue. It's what defines the ocean. But it's simply fake and unrealistic.

So when I see it as person I feel sad. The ocean is mysterious because nobody knows of its real needs and wants. It takes on the sky's colour, it is a clone. It hurts to see this and I feel helpless. The ocean is big yet the sky is bigger, everyone wants to fly not come under, it's always second so no wonder it rages and smothers sailors ships. Claiming souls of the drowning. It sends waves of anger, a flare of distress. Oh how lonely it seems, how vulnerable, how plain, how normal! I weep with the clouds when I see this grand pool of water that fills up space and seems so empty inside.

How shameful. To be a hollow shell. I pray that one era it will feel as beautiful as it is with no need to adapt, as is the very nature of water.

Caitlin De Klerk

Plunging Underneath the placid, glass-like surface Looking up at the others Their faces wavering left to right With the slow movement of the water Watching You’re detached from humans In another world A different world Where clumps of seaweed are prized plants Where the gurgles of other people are words Where you can come to visit anytime Just slide on through the glassy surface into a world of your own Where anything is possible Where you can stay forever That’s what I believe until My lungs burn And my chest aches So my legs push off the sandy bottom And I shatter the layer of glass The so-called surface of the water I can breath again.

Orla O’Meara

Beneath the Surface

Deep blues engulfing those who dared to explore, A mousetrap for the curious.

The shrieks of the wind, piercing shattered glass.

Shadowing the cries of the vengeful drowned.

Oblivious to their resentful songs, The ominous silence, lures you closer.

The ripples of crimson mysterious and captivating, Your fingers touch the surface....

Seizing you with bitter talons of ice.

Dragging you down, the surface a memory.

Snatching away every last breath until...

You’re one of them.

Jessica Kinsella