ORIGINAL WORK

Admiration

I look straight at this person With a smooth and shiny face With brilliant, curly hair And muscles bulging all over the place. I then walk towards this person For my eyes made sight a stirrer And surprisingly enough it was me, From the reflection of a mirror.

Moli Faletolu, 5TD

Chess

Faces in a crowd, The pawn is seldom seen, But the face becomes a person And the pawn becomes a queen.

Anon.

Flight

What an exciting experience it is ... Flying so smoothly like a bird in the sky, Where time means nothing and dreams are forever, Soaring through the sky at terrific speeds ... Flight...

I. O’Neill, 30

Eruption

The night air is still, The clouds move on like nomads, Rumbling starts.... Animals run in all directions, Everyone freezes And the buildings begin to quiver. In the darkness the volcano yawns And sparks fall like confetti, People run from unstable homes Clutching precious possessions, Children scramble to their feet, The volcano is wide awake. Lava rolls out like tears Houses drowned on the ground, Sprawled out on the surface of the trembling earth Like rugs as the lava spills. No one knows where to go, Surrounded by living lava, There is no way out.

W.Taulelei 3SO

The Storm

The storm breaks, Waves churn and pound on the shore, white, with unleashed fury. Boiling foam violently strikes the shiny shingle, in a raging tempest. The wild wind rises, howls, whipping the sea to a frenzy. Wet, rushing rain, pours down in torrents, Pelting down out of the black, swollen clouds. Gradually the storm dies, like a wilting flower in the hot afternoon sun. The sea calms down, waves gently rippling the surface, The drifting rain ceases, The storm recedes into the distance.

S Clark, 5AN.

The Dictator S Facade

Their stance — statuesque, Their masks — grotesque, As they sit in leather-backed chairs. They wheel — the bards, They deal — the cards, Alone they dictate our fears. For years they've been there, Never stopping for repair, And they wouldn't consider any change. And the twisted cogs they turn, To the dictator's churn, So a parallel future remains. And Oh! they are told to go home, And Yes, a martyrdom falls,

Everyone overlooks the gnomes, And can't see the shrinking walls. The real victims lack a voice, So others represent them. Oh no! That wasn't our choice, Who is to blame then?

P. J. Mitchell, 4L

On A Cat Aging

He blinks upon the hearth-rug, And yawns in deep content, Accepting all the comforts, That Providence has sent. Louder he purrs and louder, In one glad hymn of praise For all the night's adventure, For quiet restful days. Life will go on forever, With all that cat can wish, Warmth and glad procession Of fish and milk and fish. Only — the thought disturbs him — He's noticed once or twice, That times are somehow breeding A nimbler race of mice.

N.J. Cottle 30

Spirit Of Anzac

The solitary soldier, His gun gripped tightly, His head hung low. Remembers.... The future threatens, "Kill or be killed". Family thoughts linger All for one, and bullets for all, The word of the sergeant gives hope to all, A cry from the trench, is it heaven or hell?

The mist of morning with the scent of death.

Brendan Lockhart 30

STREETS Streets Long

Winding Memories

Long gone Trodden Down Through grey, dimpled roads. Alley ways Dark Foreboding Beware! Take heed! For most who enter Seldom return.

Boulevards Yellow, brick roads

Paved with Gold from returns Of wealthy men Living off A Poor Man's Labour. Streets.

Sam Taulelei

THE BURIAL OF COFFEE

The gift of Prometheus Falls in Multitude, Smiting Midgard.

Oroborus

Stirs awake As silently

The shrill Gold, Glass Mountains

Whistle in The cold, Measured, Wind's teeth

Amongst the Mushroom Clouds. The icy Serpents

Slither

Down the Putrifying Rivers as Dark, Grey Hands clasp

Together, Like a Flower Withering On a Cold pyre, Confirming The issue. And the Dry Rains Smother with A fatal dust Killing, Solemnly Cremating, Creation. All is just, Silent, Perfect, A small Coat of trees.

"This is The B.C.C.", The empty Hollow voice

Chants religiously As megatonnes Are flowering All around The juicy Blue Orange, After the Long, hard Winter Of Spring. "Who dared Do this Diabolical deed?" You ask. Then I would Say — "the Hasbeans Did!" Afar In Numenor.

T. Banks, 7Z4

Tristan

I knew Tristan well. In fact our relationship was very complete except for the way we looked at life.

I first met him at the beginning of my secondary school days. I had occasionally seen him downtown in the past, but this was to be our first face-to-face encounter.

It was the night of the Wellington College third form dance. I had arrived late, so on my entry to the hall I could see that it was relatively full. While making my way up to the front I bumped into a few of my friends and I gave them a nod or said a quick hello.

A small group, with most of my friends, had soon formed and we all danced to the music. Two hours passed very quickly when Tristan joined our group. His facial expressions and well-cut, trendy hair-style showed me that he was a person of a kind and gentle nature. Over the next eighteen months I was proved to be right.

His dancing was very free that evening, yet he seemed to do it so effortlessly. I found out later that this was one of his strong points. I walked over to him and asked him why he was so good at dancing — he just said "I'm good at it. It comes naturally."

We danced and talked for the rest of the night until we had to leave. From then on we kept in close contact. We didn't do a lot together, but met on Friday nights downtown.

He was quiet, always happy and full of laughs. He always seemed to have an abundance of girls around him. We used to sit in the middle of Manners Mall in a circle, and each had a turn at gossiping — Mass raving!

During both the August and Christmas holidays of '82 we both went our separate ways. We saw little of each other. Our relationship was not one of best friends but it was like an understanding brotherly-like relationship, without argument. We both shared a lot in common, but also had our differences. For instance, I am a great sports lover, but sport never really appealed to him very much. We did like having girl-friends and they played a large role in both our lives.

During the last week of the second term in '83, I bumped into Tristan going down the drive. We talked about the usual topics (girls and music) and that's when he asked me, for the first time, what my favourite musical group was, and I replied "The Thompson Twins." He smiled, gave me the thumbs up, and said "Bingo."

That was my last memory of Tristan.

Nick McGhie

A Short Story ... TAKING THE FIFTH

Cream coloured walls, stretching beyond perception; gentle light, illuminating passages interlocking within the maze. A trap door, leading onto a room with four exits, led away into a helplessly confused configuration of non-symmetrical tunnels with but four exits.

The technicians in charge of monitoring the maze never ventured within it themselves; that was a task to be undertaken by underlings and, eventually, the maze's victim, the guinea pig.

Although the name suggests a small, furry animal, the guinea pig was actually a seven foot tall mountain gorilla. The research centre had obtained the gorilla to be used in an experiment into the effects of total confusion on an inferior intelligence. That was the reason for the maze; it was the testing ground for the experiment. The researchers wanted to see if, after wandering around a while in the maze, the gorilla would overcome its fear and confusion and make it, by good luck or good planning, to one of the four exits.

The huge creature fell sprawling to the floor, and did not move until it was certain it was alone and its captors were not coming back for it. Then it rose and explored the surroundings, it had rudely been thrust into. At first it kept to the room it was in; avoiding the openings into the maze proper. At last, however, it approached one of the openings and tentatively stepped through. At once, one of the technicians monitoring it stabbed a finger down on a button, and steel shutters rattled down, trapping the animal in the maze. The abrupt, echoing sound made by this startled the gorilla and, momentarily panicking, it fled deeper into the maze.

Over the next few hours, the technicians and researchers watched as the gorilla passed from confusion to panic, and then to a terrified frenzy. It raced down featureless corridor after featureless corridor, crept into a corner and sank down, quivering slightly for long minutes. Finally it lay still.

The maze had been built with but four exits, but the gorilla had found a fifth.

G.S. Watts

Our cries of horror at the sight of their fall

To the power of the Beast within.

Death prepares to harvest his crop and feast

Upon babies charred by fire that has no flame. We are witness to the course of powers

Racing to face each other in the final embrace, Alarm! Awake!

Say those that see our darkened course. But we cannot tame those fearless few Who wield the staff that binds the spell That slays without redemption. So seek ye now with passionate haste

The secret lore,

So as to taste the true sweetness of life. Our time dwindles quickly, and the distant echo, Drums of war, Grows nearer...

B. Chan,7Z3

ARMAGEDDON debremethairn cebdelicailon frethelormanit i don't he said understand surely i said music is understood by all a blank stare, well then blank verse muros turok tebegezarloth cararnavarco kelredarg i whisper and he recoils i don't he said understand perhaps i said it is not to be understood so

The Race

We hear the distant echo Drums of war.

Thundering guns dwarfed by time

From battles four decades past.

Memories that tell the cost Of causes won and lost

With lives of countless number.

We hear those distant echoes

In the age

When puppets rule from stages decked With threats, perils and lies.

Hopes of peace fall blinded by glare

From heads of war

Raised high to aim

At targets that are just a name.

But puppets cannot hear with wooden ears if you cannot hear me comrade perhaps empathise? one would say dawn of credulity i see he said it is not to be understood memnogelmairnaderoth words i said are empty sounds though one tongue yields one heaven another yields one hell music however is understood by all there is not one word and it cannot be heard i he said understand at last i said impressed and strange i mused that he and I had not one word of the entire conversation understood but however we conversed o rthocormellairnthon nimroflinite celebdil

Simon Woodward

My School In South Africa

Scottburgh High School is 50 km south of Durban on the east coast of South Africa. It has about 350 pupils, and is co-educational, like most South African schools. Because we have separate development in South Africa, Scottburgh High is a whites only school. We have a school uniform like all other South African schools and the general discipline is much stricter than in New Zealand School starts at 8.00 a.m., with assemblies on Monday and Friday. We have 8 lessons a day each of 40 minutes. Our first break, of 20 minutes, is after the first three lessons, with the next break of 40 minutes after the following three lessons. School finishes at 2.30 p.m. with the day's announcements over the inter-com system.

Because we are situated in a rural area, most of the pupils come to school by bus. We therefore have to stay behind after school for two afternoons a week during winter and one during summer, the juniors and seniors being on alternative days. For summer sports (first and fourth terms), we have swimming, water polo and cricket. During the second term, the boys play rugby while the girls play netball or hockey, while in the third term we all take part in athletics. Tennis and squash are played throughout the year.

Every Wednesday we have an hour-long lesson called Civic Responsibilities. This, for the girls, entails listening to a speaker or doing a cultural activity. The boys all go onto the sports field and do cadets. Sometimes we do army techniques — camouflage and weaponry, or just practice our marching. This is to prepare us for our two years' compulsory army training. As you can see, Wellington College is quite different from Scottburgh High, but despite this, I enjoyed the change in school and country very much.

P. Burgess 7Z3 Rotary Exchange Student, 1983.

School Visit

The post-budget luncheon held by the Wellington Chamber of Commerce was a highly informative and social event. It was attended by Andrew Scott and myself, on behalf of Wellington College, and we both enjoyed the experience immensely. The occasion was well-planned, with the Majestic Cabaret filled to capacity. The luncheon was served to business and diplomatic representatives, with every last detail taken care of, even to the provision of "blue" table napkins.

The Prime Minister's address, introduced by the chairman of the Chamber, was the highlight of the luncheon. Mr Muldoon gave an amusing, yet informative, speech on the objectives of the budget which he had presented a week previously. Jokes mixed with a serious presentation of the economic objectives of his budget, expressed in simple layman's terms, made his speech appealing and held everyone's attention well.

In ending his address, Mr Muldoon announced, for the first time, that all government interest rates were to be reduced. As a result of this exclusive news release, the luncheon became front page news and a major item in the national media that evening.

A week later, a similar luncheon was held, to be addressed by the Leader of the Opposition. The college, represented by Stuart Macindoe and Andrew Campbell, heard Mr Lange attack the budget with as much vigour as Mr Muldoon had convinced us of the budget’s strengths. Again the Chamber of Commerce had the occasion wellorganised, with, this time, distinctive “red” napkins.

M. Gee 7Z1

of the seagull’s wing shape. Before long I had the wings completed. Early that night I went outside and searched the sky for any signs of the being. There, above me, I saw it, the same dark, gruesome beast. At once I gathered my two wings and sprinted up the cliff overlooking the beach

ROYAL TOUR ’83

The Royal Tour of Australia and New Zealand! What a glamorous spectacle it must have been watching the Royal “Superstars” meeting many people when on their walkabouts.

I feel it’s great for the Royal couple visiting the distant parts of the Commonwealth to see and meet people.

But there is no question about it. Princess Di stole the show with her charm and beauty. The scream of many voices. Flags waving in the air. The cheer of the crowd as the Rolls draws up. And even more screaming as they walk down the packed streets collecting flowers, words of greeting and thousands of hands waiting to be shaken. A noisy, exciting atmosphere brewing in the crowd in expectation of the Royal couple. The only experience which I can describe as similar is when Wellington College lined the drive of Government House. The weather was not the best, very cold, raining and just a gloomy morning for the couple’s departure.

There I was, with my socks up trying to keep as warm as I could, when I heard, “Three cheers for the Prince and Princess of Wales” being bellowed by one of the prefects. Then, in the next instant, the whole of Wellington College cheered their heads off. The Rolls came down in a whisk and the car, I feel, went a bit too fast. I just got a peek at the Princess behind the bullet proof window. But the whole experience was one in a million. I shall never forget Friday, 22nd April, 1983.

A. Wong She 30

I prepared to take off, when suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a cold frail hand clasped to my shoulder! I let out a terrified scream but little difference did that make. I lashed out with my fists and hit what felt very much like a skeleton. Quickly I freed myself and leapt from the cliff into a new world where time meant nothing and dreams were forever....

“This is the life,” I thought to myself. Circling round the cliff I could make out a large number of these creatures crawling along the cliff in the moonlight. I felt a loathing for them and didn’t like their presence. A flash of lightning streaked through the sky, followed by thunder and a strong south-wester. Before long, the strong gale force winds had swept me out to sea. There was little I could do in my struggle for survival but look for the beast and pray to God that it should help me. I was rapidly losing altitude, and within two minutes I knew I’d be a “gonna”. Then, out of pure luck, the winds changed, the rain stopped; and I found myself sailing, like a bird, through the sky, towards land. . . . Never again would I forget that experience and the arc-like creature as it vanished into the distance.

My First Flight

It was just after midnight, when I awoke from a very mysterious dream. I sat on my bed, recalling all that had happened, in total silence. A rather unearthly feeling came over me — accompanied by visions of a horrifying beast-like figure, whose eyes looked something like those of a cat. Its head was like a deer and had antlers of a black, grotesque shape and colour. A cold chill ran down my spine and then all disappeared ....

I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. All I thought about was that beastly figure. It seemed to look at me in a very familiar, yet strange sort of way, urging me to follow its path into the future, and appeared to be flying in the night sky. Somehow I knew I had to find a way of flying so I could find out....

Straight after breakfast I ran up to the shed and eagerly began planning out how I could go about making wings like those I had seen in my dream. Two layers of balsa wood suited well for it was very light. Later that day I decided to go down to the beach to study the structure

TO SLEEP

O sleep, in school thou art victorious, And as I sit amid my toils, Pale mists of Limbo swirl around me, And I am trapped in their sweet coils. What man can know, what story render, The opiate ecstasies I feel? When but a teacher's voice doth reach me, And sleep's sweet essence o'er me steals. 0 blessed sleep! 0 sacred slumber! Thy glorious crimson poppies bloom; The lotus' scent doth gently conquer, And dreams are wov'n on Morpheus' loom. And as the languid hour doth finish, As tardy day draws to a close, I shut my eyes in peaceful slumber, And rest for e'er in sweet repose.

A. Frusin 6Z4

BILLY

Billy to his parents was a well-behaved kid, But unknown to them, there was something he hid. Behind that shiny face and the innocent smile, Was the evil look, with a devilish style. One day they went to the grocery shop, And arrived at round about 10 o'clock. Billy took a trolley and drove it around, While his mother put in it whatever she found. An old man came with his trolley full And parked it right next to — you know who — He then turned away to face the shelf, And seeing the chance, Billy grinned through his mouth.

But first he made sure that his mum couldn't see And then pushed the man's trolley with joy and glee He then turned back and picked up a lime To make his mother think he was there all the time. Then came a crash with a boom and a bang, A trickle and a snickle and a ding with a clang So don't trust Billy, whatever you do. Because if you're near him, he'll do it to you.

Anon

DIAMANTE Individual Alone Empty Crying Shattering Dying Darkness Failure Light Hope Group Crowded Together

Conform Anon

HAIKU

Watching children play, Chasing, jumping, hop and laugh I just watch all day.

Moli Faletolu, 5TD

Power And Purpose

(A portion from the story that won the Senior Short Story award)

"... I saw only glimpses of her over the following days. She had been forced to become a member of the village, since she had no people now to carry back word of our mercy to. This is how the people of Visilghertron protect their warlike reputation.

Another had also escaped from the raid on Sermerayh. We found the freshly picked bones by the road a halfmile away, the day after she came to us. It was a man.

Now I rode back from a hunting foray. It is usually uncommon for a lone man to enter the forest, because of the particular denizens which dwell there, but as I alone in my village possess a horse, I go alone occasionally. I found him grazing in the blue hills to the northeast of the village, four summers past. He was badly injured from an attack by wolves, five of them, which he killed. He is a handsome, though small stallion, who is named Gyrdian, meaning "knife in the wind". He has killed many wolves, and his white shanks are more often bloody than not. Horses are known for their aggressiveness, which is how they remain alive, being edible beasts.

I left the road to find the woman standing amidst the wolves. Her eyes were closed and her face a pale white.

I wondered why she was examining the grey bloodmatted corpses, with their deadly toothed jaws, which look, to my eyes, ugly enough when alive.

She heard Gyrdian's ungentle step and lifted her head to meet my eyes. I stopped before her.

"You should be inside the palisade. There are Gibergs nearby." They are small but powerful ape-like creatures, who have crude societies and who occasionally ventured near villages, for food.

"The village" she said, her face vaguely sad "is not my home. I must go away. These are not my people."

"We accommodate you, protect you. Alone you would die." I retorted, angered by the little value she placed on our mercy. Sliding from Gyrdian's back, I knelt and picked up a small pebble, for no reason. When I stood to look at her, weighing the pebble thoughtfully, she abruptly changed. Her face, outlined by long locks of raven hair, was suddenly an image of serenity, and as our eyes again met, I felt a cold finger stroke my spine. Those black pupils held my eyes. Her ambiguous smile contained a confident feeling of strength which somehow contained my will. I could not think to act.

She spoke, in a low musical voice, clear as the black depths of her eyes, where a tiny spark now seemed to play.

"I am wasted here. Great forces struggle in the north. There I am needed. Gifts such as mine should not go unheeded. What about you? Your fighting skill would also be welcomed." Her folded hands were a small white bundle against her cloak. I was unable to wrench my eyes or mind away. Writhing inwardly, I suddenly heard a voice speak.

"Woman, this is no peasant that you seduce. Cease your coercion. This king's son is more than you, I or even he know. The time is not yet come for his hand to be played. Patience Berenla." As the voice started, a cord snapped and I staggered back, blinking, covering my eyes. Then springing forward, I swept my spear from its back scabbard and faced her. Her face was now devoid of threat to me. Simple wonder had taken over, her wide eyes and open mouth fighting to comprehend.

Berenla, Gyrdian had called her. The word meant "door" with ill connotations.

"Witch" I hissed, and crouching, tensed to impale the young body. Something white moved, and Gyrdian shouldered me aside heavily. I fell over a wolf corpse and dropped my spear.

"You will unlearn your hastiness." He said acidly.

"He speaks!" she whispered, astonished.

"Of course" I said, rubbing a bruised shoulder, and retrieved my spear, which I then sheathed. "He is, after all, a horse."

Suddenly she seemed tired, weary to her soul. Her head hung heavily and she slowly shook it from side to side. All sign of strength had vanished from those blacked eyes, which still beheld Gyrdian with disbelief. Even her jaw seemed limp, and sagged slightly.

"No." she murmured. "Not alone?" Gyrdian didn't answer. Regaining my composure, I said. "It seems apparent that I have much to learn about you." I glanced sideways at the stallion, whose attention was elsewhere. "This king's son," he had said. Was I to be a hero? I dreaded such a prospect. Martyrdom, horror, pain, those I could not face.

And what of the woman? Powers beyond my simple ken were at work. My comprehension or vocabulary could not encompass such a revelation, or begin to question it.

"Come," I said "We will retire to my house." She turned with a compliant nod and trudged back to the village. Catching Gyrdian's bridle, I followed. My house was one of the few stone buildings in the village. The king's son accorded some heritage of respect. I closed the low palisade which lies behind the house for Gyrdian, then went inside. The evening was darkening, as a strong wind swept down from the hills beneath the grey cloudwoven sky. Dusk was imminent and night approached.

I struck alight a small oil lamp on the heavy jarwood table and then unbuckled my scabbard and laid it aside. The woman sat at the table, the whiteness of her arms contrasting the black hair of the head which lay upon them. I built the fire, and then dropped heavily into another chair. I heard Gyrdian moving about at the back. I realised then that I did not yet even know her name.

"Horses," I said, "speak only for their own ends. Their love is of ancient roots and far reaching beyond knowledge. They know more than they speak of. Although he may not be very intelligent, he knows what he knows, and what he knows is the truth." My voice had a crisp edge, partly fear of the unknown and partly urgency.

"Why did he name you Berenla if you be not a witch?" My fists clenched on the table top. I watched her and waited for an answer. Her head was still on her arms, but she was listening. Her rib cage filled with a deep breath of air and she lifted her head. I was received with a doubtful and faint smile.

"I am named Aelwyn." she said slowly. "My father was the thatcher of Sermerayn," — she winced, at the memories—"and my mother was a herb woman. I have no such trade. I worked in the fields. They, the people of the village, used to call me that, Berenla.

Many hated me, and all were suspicious. I did nothing wrong, no harm." Her eyes were moist, and directed unfocused at her hands. "All because I was different.

They could never accept my strangeness. Not even physical deformity. They hated me because of my spirit, invisible, my power." Her words were abruptly halted and I blinked to see the sudden defiance in the set of her face. She would not blame herself for the attitudes of her kinsfolk. Her attention turned to me.

"This strangeness, however, is not wholly impotent. Although I loath it for the reactions it provokes, still I have mastered it. I will go north from here, to a place where people will welcome me and not shun." Her bitterness went deep. "There is a great struggle, I have heard. The eldile lord Tarmaal resists the evil of Asgareth, demon of the red moon. I know not if this is all sooth, but I will go to aid Tarmaal if I may. The red moon has slain my people." She sniffed pitifully. In the moment of silence I found myself desiring her, and that desire was not born of lust. This emotion I had not before experienced. Aelwyn. Aelwyn. I laid the year-scarred fingers of my hand on the vibrant slimness of her wrist and met her gaze.

"You'll surely not venture alone, for you must know that you will die, unless you have means to resist attack.

And I think not that you will find one willing to accompany you. I do not wish one of your beauty to die.

Please do not go." My words and the sense in them must have comforted her, for she smiled ..."

It was five days after the blast had knocked her over that she reached the forest's edge. In that time she had seen but one sign of life. It was an experience she'd rather have forgotten. The small, warm, furry being had been repulsive — a filthy specimen of carbon-based life. Her reaction had been instinctive and instantaneous.

Two blood-red streams of slowly pulsing energy lanced out, burning suddenly into the creature's pelt. A cracking sound permeated the stillness of the forest, bursting forth from the abruptly altered structure of the small animal. Flakes of pure silicon peeled off the perfectly detailed statue, only seconds before, a warm fleshy mammal. She had shuddered, thrilled yet terrified at her first encounter with a life-form of her new home to which she had been exiled.

Back to the present: a stone wall, neatly fitted together without any mortar, confronted her. Beyond it lay a small hut; walls of stone and thatched with hay.

She approached, then paused — a sound had reached her silicon ears. There appeared around a corner a bipedal form, some six feet tall. It shouted, an incomprehensible series of guttural noises. She panicked, and once more the twin beams of light stabbed out. He halted in midflight, his horror etched forever on the stone of his face. A long sliver of metal dropped from his fingers, sharpened edges leading to a somewhat lethal-looking point. Lethal, that is, to other carbon-based life forms — her silicon metabolism was invulnerable to such means of attack. Indeed, she needed metal — for food.

The prospect of her first meal for days aroused her, and the black, snake-like tentacles on her head writhed in anticipation.

Medusa began her feast.

I. Gainsford, 6E4

A Short Story... VOICE FORM THE RENAISSANCE

— Or The Education of Elliott Reid — "What you must learn to do is find the right balance between co-operation and competition" said the keen orator, whose job title was headmaster.

"There is much to be gained from friendly functional scholarly relationships, but you must always remember that you are in competition. Never rely on another, and equally, never let another rely on you. The qualification which you are reading for this year will rank you as individuals among all other sixth formers in the country. So your effort must be, by its very definition, essentially individual, toward an individual goal."

Headmaster. "Master" presumably describes a person who has a considerable grasp of the roots and raw materials of a certain discipline and seeks to pass this knowledge on to someone with a lesser grasp.

"Headmaster" would therefore generally be assumed to be a description of a master who is at the head of a body of masters. A controller, a co-ordinator, an overseer of an active collection of masters.

"Competition has nothing to do with it." said Elliott's sister that night.

"He said that to gain accrediting in U.E. we have to be in the top 40% of the sixth form."

"Competition is a myth for God's sake, doesn't he realise that real competition is destruction?"

"I don't getcha." Elliott didn't really understand what his sister was getting at, but he liked it better than the speech he'd heard that morning. His sister always had something very fast and very contemptuous to say about headmasters. She had hated them ever since a particularly stupid one had bullied her to tears for painting a poster of Oscar the Grouch saying "Do Drop Litter". Elliott had gone to school that morning determined not to be bullied in any sense at all, actual or metaphorical. It was the first appearance of sixth formers for the year and consisted solely of a one hour pep talk from the aforementioned walking nerve core of school life. Elliott had confidence and dignity now that he could wear long pants and told himself over and over "This is just to scare us, this is just to psyche us up.

They do this at the start of every year. It's really not going to be a grim determined fight for survival. He was quite right. He had heard it all before and would no doubt hear it all again. Every year it is the same, in fact, let every year equal the (n)th form!

"You're not in the (n—1 )th form now you know. In the (n)th form homework is to be in on time. In the (n—1 )th form you were used to pretty casual sorts of tests, but now you're in the (n)th form you'll find the competition much harder, and if your exam marks aren't up to scratch you won't be in the (n+1 )th form next year."

(And so it was, as throughout the sixth form year competition was constantly emphasised and discussed).

"Have you painted anything recently? I haven't seen anything for a while." Elliott's start in art came several years before with the "Star Wars" space craze. He had many imaginings and when one excited him a great deal he would struggle to paint it. Similarly with school work, occasionally when something appealed to his mind and excited him, he would put in a great effort, and be very proud of the result. But more and more he saw the fruits of his labours marked with grades and percentages and class rankings rather than with considered comments on the true value of the work.

Friends discussed number of pages written, number of hours worked, number of marks attained, rather than anything relevant to the work itself. Sincerity was quite unnecessary and almost never expected.

Political and economic thought had been a favourite cerebral activity for Elliott over previous years and had helped produce in him a sense of knowing his own mind on most issues. His leanings were to the ideology of communism and this gave him a cynical, mocking view of all forms of conservative and liberal capitalism.

He had now passed through his strong political phase but a residual distaste for "competition" remained.

This, coupled with the discouraging machinery of school life, produced a winding down of Elliott's interest in all kinds of work, and so in the sixth form he aimed to continue on his present course; U.E., Bursary,University, whatever job he happened to end up with, using the minimum effort to the maximum effect, towards the desired ends.

He gained the impression that the people who are best at what they do have finished their education, and know how to do their work, and find it easy. The right way to write an essay; the right way to study for an exam; the right way to compose a painting.

Whatever the subject, whatever the job to be done, Elliott sought the formula to do it sufficiently first time round, without the time-wasting processes of selection, experimentation, reflection and revision, burdening the mind.

"But wasn't that fun sometimes?" he thought.

"Irrelevant!" All the indications were that fun and constructive work are diametrically opposed.

"What you must learn to do is to make work something you cruise through with minimum effort, involvement and pain, so that you can get on with the search for happiness and fulfilment in other areas of your life."

Elliott and two friends sat in his living room at 3 a.m. and talked of school, and futures, and social issues, and music, and sex.

"Your work is what you do to put something back into the world from which you have taken. It isn't an unnatural interruption of your pleasure, imposed upon you by a cruel and insensitive world." stated a voice, a year away in the future, a refreshing world away in thought.

Elliott made his first minor appearance in the art world in that sixth form year. He entered some works for exhibition in a Gallery in which his father, who sculpted for relaxation, had exhibited over previous years. Through these occasions, Elliott had met David Richards, a painter, photographer and printer who was not very well known but managed to make quite a decent living from his art. He loved art, and music, and theatre, and literature and had a considerable grasp of art history.

"Yes, the pursuit of happiness is the first thing, but happiness not pleasure." He continued. "Work isn't meant to be easy. That's what makes it exciting. There is always a challenge to be met. Life would be deadly dull if things were constant, nothing changed, nothing new came along." Elliott replied with one of the concepts which his schooling had convinced him of so well.

"But isn't part of the whole idea to make things easier, to have such a knowledge of your work that you overcome challenges and problems, and new conditions?"

"You cannot have knowledge. Knowledge is here, now. All of your past experiences contribute to your knowing how to do something but that something cannot be foreseen. The knowledge and the action are always here, now.

"There is a time for working and a time for relaxing, and when you work, work, and when you relax, relax. The problems come when you are doing one and you know you should be doing the other. Energy is wasted and confusion and frustration develop."

"Why devote such great energy to competing when the rewards are so elusive? Even if you get to the top you have to slave away to make sure you don't slip down again."

"Don't compete! Only compete in so far as they may sometimes compare your work with somebody else's, but don't pre-occupy your mind with a desire to beat other people. You see, competition really has nothing to do with it. Co-operation is how the whole of human civilisation came about. If you were dropped naked into the wilderness you wouldn't survive for more than a few days. But as it is, you live in a vast and beautifully complex web of co-operation and you have at your disposal a vast array of food, clothing, shelter, transport, education, entertainment, culture, social life, and so on and so on. In your work you are not trying to beat people, you are trying to contribute to that web, to the collective effort. You do the work, in our case painting, you make that contribution, and then you are rewarded with money, or some other token of appreciation. That buyer has worked hard to earn that money and you must be worthy of the trust he places in you by making the purchase. Don't work for the tokens, or to get ahead of someone; work to make that contribution." David and Elliott talked many times, and Elliott began to feel less guilty when some aspect of an assignment sounded quite intriguing and proved conducive to in-depth attention.

"You have three hours to complete this examination paper. Your year's work has culminated in the fervent study of the last few days, or was it weeks, which has in turn culminated in this examination. You may be brilliant, you may know everything about the subject, all the answers, but if you fail to get them down on paper between the time I say, "commence" and the time I say "pens down", then you fail."

Elliott and his colleagues sat in nervous anticipation at the impersonal rows of desks. Elliott looked up to see David walk through the door and turn to the students, then to the examiner.

"This is a test of exam skills, not of English. You should be exploring beauty, and ideas, and great figures in history, and the true nature of language. This is numbers and cramming and memory and percentages and strategy and nerve and memory. Look . . . look beyond your 'A's and 'B's and passes and failures." He pointed to the window. Elliott looked and saw that outside was the architecture and activity of the home of Pope Gregory X. He looked up and saw that they were sitting beneath the dome of the Roman Parthenon.

"Michaelangelo and Raphael admired and emulated the wonders of this place for many years, they never sat only exams ..."

Elliott awoke from his dream and thought "I suppose he's just like a voice from the Renaissance."

R. Spencer

A Short Story ... EXILE

There — ahead. A blue-white ball partially masking the dazzling flare of the star behind it. The controls bucked once more, forcing yet another battle for supremacy. At last she dominated, adjusting her craft's trajectory to meet the planet's atmosphere at a slimmer angle. The normally smooth descent became a nightmare, the battered, broken body of the ship twisting and groaning, begging the freedom to fly apart. White fleece flew at the view-screen, moisture condensing and evaporating in moments.

Then she was free, gazing down upon a green carpet of leafy boughs waving gently in the wind. As she passed overhead they whipped violently, then stirred softly once more. At last there appeared a clearing. The ship slid unevenly down, landing with a jolt that momentarily induced unconsciousness as it threw her savagely at the safety straps. Then she was punching the release control, rushing to the hatch. The emergency activator blew it outwards and she jumped, falling heavily to the earth

She ran, desperate to escape, hurling herself around trees, over the forest floor. She was perhaps two kilometres away when it blew. The blue haze, crawling and licking along the exposed parts of the ship flared, erupted in a pillar of hell. The craft exploded and the sky rained down the metallic remains, super-heated by the sudden release of pent-up energy. The destruction was complete; the banishment final.

A Short Story ... ONLY THE BEST

Miss Harwood smiled as she delicately picked up and dusted the small Dresden china ornament. As she gently turned the figure in her loving hands, he eyes caressed the rest of her "treasures" — the Dresden figures, the Wedgewood plates, the delicate oriental porcelain, the early English furniture and her three treasured Persian rugs. In the centre of the room stood her most prized possession, a beautiful octagonal flame walnut veneer table. She prided herself on the fact that she had always set the highest standards for herself. Slowly, but steadily, over the years, she had built up her little kingdom and many a time she had gone without items of necessity to add another "treasure" to her collection.

After completing the daily polishing and cleaning of the already immaculate interior of her house, she moved into the equally immaculate garden. As she edged her narrow frame through the confined area, she flicked imaginary specks of dust from the leaves of the rose bushes. As she snipped several long-stemmed roses she felt the presence of someone moving behind her.

"Gidday, how are ya?" — a loud voice bellowed behind her.

Miss Harwood turned around to see a large man with a red face whom she recognised as the new owner of the house next door.

"Nice place you got here," he said, cocking back his head, jutting out his already bloated stomach and squashing a small shrub all in the same action.

"Yes quite," said Miss Harwood, cringing, but quickly hiding her displeasure. Although she often felt like informing people of her disapproval, her high standards denied her the pleasure.

"You must come around for afternoon tea some time," she said, watching the removal people shifting furniture into the house in the background.

"Right ho, I'll just fetch the missus," he said.

As he turned away and shouted at his wife somewhere deep within the house, Miss Harwood felt the polite smile on her face slip away and felt a terrible sinking feeling in her stomach. She struggled vainly to regain her composure as she said brightly "I'll go and put the kettle on", and then cringed again as the new neighbour slapped her on the back.

"Good on yer, sport!" he said.

As she set the delicate china cups and saucers on the tea wagon Miss Harwood found that she was banging the "treasures" down in a temper. Never before had they been treated so harshly. As she turned away to place the lace doilies on the walnut table, there came a loud banging on the front door, heavy footsteps in the hall and the door burst open, to expose the large, red and sweaty presences of her new neighbours. Miss Harwood forced herself to put on a warm and welcoming smile. She glued her lips back as she gritted her teeth.

"Do take a seat".

"Great," said the fat man, tossing a large bunch of keys onto the table. Miss Harwood put out a hand to stop them, but it was too late. Several distinct scratches spread from one end of the table to the other.

In anguish, Miss Harwood turned around in time to see the man's wife, the larger of the two, plop herself onto the dainty English chair, on which Miss Harwood never dared to sit. The chair's protesting creaks and groans shattered the air around her.

"I'll just get the tea," said Miss Harwood, nervously leaving the room.

Carrying the teapot to the table, she saw two small children viciously swinging the pendulum of her sacred grandfather clock while their cat sharpened its claws on her embroidered cushions.

She carefully handed a cup of tea to the woman who self-consciously scraped her high heel shoes up and down the chair leg, taking off some of the varnish.

"You know what you need to round this place off, Miss Harwood?" said the man, stuffing his mouth full of sugar cubes, "a television set. That's what you need ..."

The man's voice droned on.

". . . Our future lies in television. Soon there'll be no radios, telephones, etc. Everything will be done by television. Now you take my new television. 36 inch screen, remote control, ten channels and a built in videorecorder."

The man flicked the ash from his cigarette through the air and onto Miss Harwood's tapestry fire-screen.

The ash then fell on the Persian carpet where the man's large foot rubbed it well in.

"Don't wanna have a fire/' he said, grinning.

"No," said Miss Harwood.

"Tommy, tell the men to take the T.V. set in next," yelled the man. "Sorry Miss Harwood, but I gotta go watch the rugby league."

Sick with horror and pain, Miss Harwood followed the red-skinned family to the door, still keeping a polite smile on her face.

"Daddy, daddy, I cut my finger." A small figure raced towards them.

"Tommy, look out!" screamed his father.

Crash! The shattering of the glass screen vibrated through the neighbourhood.

Their masterpiece broken, all the family began yelling at once.

Miss Harwood closed the door quietly behind her. A wry smile of satisfaction spread across her face.

Martin Fowke

But who cares, not me or you! So the tramp will live on in this way But who will care, no one ...

B. J. Lockhart, 30

Funny Language

English is a funny language

And I'll prove it to you why: I thought a singular word was dies

But singular word is die. A whole bunch of house are houses, and a whole group of mouse are mice

But why can't a bunch of mouse be mouses

Unwanted

The unwanted tramp, Travels the streets all alone: Longing for just a meal or two, But who cares, not me or you! A menace most people would say A loathing disgust, a disgrace to the race, But who cares, not me or you! Their only need, a bed for the night And the three basic necessities of life:

And a whole group of houses, hice. Some words are spelled funny

When pronounced the right way. Like "sword" has a "w"

And a knife with a "k" English, thank goodness

Is a language I need not know

For the words are so confusing

It will be hard to handle so.

Anon

FLETCHER CHALLENGE A.G.M.

Robert Forgan and I, as part of our economics interests, attended the Annual General Meeting of Fletcher Challenge Limited in the Michael Fowler Centre. There were about 1500 shareholders present.

Some had an extensive knowledge of the company's activities and accounts while others, like ourselves, knew little about the company before the meeting.

As expected, the meeting was formal (but relaxed).

Votes were taken to approve the accounts, directors' and auditors' reports and dividends, and to elect directors. Questions from shareholders to the chairman, Mr Ron Trotter, varied in topics from conservation to Crown Zellerbach (Fletcher Challenge's latest acquisition) and industrial relations. Mr Trotter answered every question comprehensively but sometimes specialised knowledge was needed to understand his replies fully.

Fletcher Challenge is New Zealand's largest company, and the A.G.M. showed how complicated running a multi-national firm is. The A.G.M. gave us more insight into the problems and benefits of a large company.

Murray Wu 6Z11

Extract from an essay entitled "Money Supply" submitted to the 1983 Kelliher Economics Foundation annual essay competition by M. Gee, 7Z1.

An increase in money supply can occur by the government controlling the interest rate; this control is called rate control. The other way to increase the money supply is by the control of money, i.e. the Reserve Bank regulates the rate of growth of its own assets and thereby its own liabilities which provide society with basic currency (M1). This control is referred to as base control.

New Zealand, from 1971 to 1979 used the former — the use of interest rates to control inflation. The result was, of course, not successful and inflation rose continuously during those years. The reason could be attributed to several factors; political considerations, the collapse of the fixed exchange rate system, and the formation of the OPEC cartel leading to deterioration in terms of trade.

But no matter what the reason for not working was, the question of what would work was more important.

By studying countries like Switzerland and Germany, where inflation was successfully controlled, the government obtained the answer. By using the rate control to curb inflation, the government did not take into account the vital role of liquidity (M1) in the financial marketplace. By using the base control to adjust inflation the liquidity or reserves are controlled and thus inflation is mastered.

Of course there are other ways to beat inflation, like New Zealand's current price-wage freeze, but this method is not monetarist policy, rather more an administered inflation policy, which does not incorporate the money supply. We have seen that the money supply is an important economic tool. The use of it in the economy determines many economic factors like the amount of credit. This therefore implies that the control of the money supply is of vital importance to the government.

The great monetarist, Professor Milton Friedman, and other economists proposed that the Reserve Bank ratio should be increased to 100% in order to prevent unjustified expansion or contraction in the money supply by money creating institutions....

Masada

When we were in Jerusalem, we were told a lot about Masada. It is where many people climb to see the sunrise, where the Israeli soldiers take their oath of allegiance and where the Roman army fought the Jews nearly 2000 years ago. We decided to go and see Masada and so one day we hired a car and drove off into the desert. The desert looked just the same as the Desert Road near Mount Ruapehu, but it was much hotter. As we came nearer to Masada we began to go down hill. We were now below sea level. As we kept on going down my ears popped. At the bottom was a lake which is called the Dead Sea. The water has lots of minerals in it and you cannot sink because of all the minerals. The water is also oily because of the minerals.

The Dead Sea and all round there is the lowest point on earth, and it was very hot. We came to the foot of the Masada plateau and I then realised how hot it was.

We decided it was far too hot to walk up so we went up in the cable car. Up the top was cooler and we walked around looking at the ruins of the city. Under the city was a huge cave where water was stored and it was capable of holding enough water for the city for months. I could just imagine what it would be like up there looking down on 30,000 Romans. We saw the baths with heating systems under the floor, which was all built by King Herod, and also the drainage system.

The recent television programme on Masada brought back happy memories of that visit for me.

M. J. Lenart 30