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Table of Contents
Foreword – Mayor Ross Dunlop
Page 2
Judge‟s General Comment – Janice Marriott
Page 3
Secondary School Section
1st Place – Sophie Andersen-Gardiner, The Dancer
Page 5
2nd Place – Stefan Schultz, Innocence
Page 12
3rd Place – Danelle Walker, Finding You
Page 15
Open Division
1st Place – Max Chanti, The Beautiful Gardens of Anger
Page 21
2nd Place – Maureen Armstrong, The Last Time
Page 26
3rd Place – Emma Collins, The Taniwha
Page 29
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Foreword
Written by Ross Dunlop
South Taranaki Mayor
The Ronald Hugh Morrieson awards have gone from strength to strength.
These awards are a celebration of Ronald Hugh Morrieson. His link with Hawera and South
Taranaki is very strong. All of his life experiences happened here, he lived his whole life in
Hawera. His stories have a familiarity that Hawera people recognise.
This year the Lysaght-Watt Trust became the sponsor and their support made it possible to
hold weekend workshops, to which there has been an excellent response.
His novel Predicament was made into a movie in 2009, with a national and international
cast, and Hawera hosted the New Zealand Premiere.
So Morrieson‟s name has remained in the limelight over the years, and I‟m sure has helped
to spark an interest in writing. These awards offer encouragement to our budding writers
and recognition for their work.
Next year will mark 25 years since the awards began, and we are promised something
special to celebrate this milestone.
I congratulate all those who participate in these awards and a special thanks goes to all
those who have encouraged our young people to give it a go.
Congratulations
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Judge’s General Comments
Janice Marriott 2011
First may I say what an honour it is for me to judge these stories. All are rich in local colour
and show that creativity is blooming in South Taranaki. This is a wonderful competition
because it does so much to encourage local writing. In this way it guarantees that there will
be stories about Taranaki, and that Morrieson‟s legacy will continue. I am grateful to the
South Taranaki District Council and in particular to the library, and to Pamela Jones, in
particular, for organising the workshops that do encourage writers to enter the competition.
Having participated in these workshops, both for schools and the general public, I know the
enthusiasm engendered by the competition.
Secondary Division
Four stories stood out as being more complex, more finished, more thorough, full of more
possibilities than the others. But all the work entered in this division was of a high literary
standard. And all of it had important things to say. Absolutely all of these stories and poems
were worth reading. They shone with honesty and passion.
There‟s a lot of effort in these entries. I suspect that behind many of these stories are very
committed teachers. We are all grateful to them and I‟d like to thank them here. Most great
writers start out by being inspired by great teachers.
The topics were those reflecting the concerns and experiences of the teenage world. Topics
are often powerful ones – young love, the loss of innocence, grief. The writers are writing
about the important things in life, as they should. There are stories here about being
accepted by peers, not being accepted by peers, bullying, sex, drugs, music, including Lady
Gaga and karaoke, sport, parties and the frequent guilt afterwards – everything that
characterises a teen‟s life concerns. Teenage writing is an opportunity to communicate
directly how it feels to be in a teenage world. These stories show the importance of peer
relationships in particular. Interestingly, there is very little about relationships with parents.
Most of these stories capture a mood very well, but few actually tell a story. Few actually
achieve a change in the story so that the situation is different at the end from at the
beginning. Few show plot or character development.
It is important in a story that the writer manages to convince the reader of the situation they
have created. To do this a writer has to build the event, and the characters, as well as the
setting. And that means they need to know what they are writing about, care about it and use
precise detail to convey it. Detail is the key.
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A lot of the young writers understood this. They chose topics they were familiar with and
focussed in on just one incident. This resulted in small gems like Some Friends, Therapy,
Pulse Racing, Hilary Challenge, and topics as varied as a Lady Gaga concert, an
embarrassing incident in a Wellington swimming pool, karaoke, Rainbow‟s End, bullying,
the Christchurch earthquake, and sport such as surfing, bungy, and golf. These pieces are
excellent examples of precise detail, style, credibility – they just need a bit more background
and narrative and character to make them into satisfactory stories.
Most often the teen stories focussed on the one character, the narrator. It was rare that I
found two or more well-rounded characters. I noted that the sports stories are all about
sports played by individuals rather than teams. We need some accurate stories in NZ of
team dynamics and the drama of team interaction. They seem curiously rare in our sportsobsessed nation.
Open Section
I felt contributors here relished the opportunity to write about their local area. It was great to
see so much humour and satire. However, quite a lot of these stories were too „try hard‟,
using inappropriate words or too much description which stultified the plot and stopped the
story driving forward. Some were too gimmicky. Many writers went for surprise endings, eg
Sandy Shore and The Victim. But a story needs to be about more than just a surprise
ending. These stories would have been excellent with a little more complexity.
The writers submitting stories here need to realise that stories are usually NOT solely about
the narrator. They are about the connections between characters.
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Secondary Division
First Place
The Dancer
Written by Sophie Andersen-Gardiner
Opunake High School
Tania woke. It was dark. Her heartbeat soared and sweat coated her skin. Her heavy gasps
and the rustling of the sheets were the only sounds. She flung her right hand out, groping for
some kind of light – and winced as her knuckles collided with a hard edge. Biting her lip
against the pain, she sat up. The sheets slithered off her torso and pooled on her legs and
lap. She forced herself to breathe steadily. Daddy’s not here. The dark didn‟t always hide
monsters.
Now she could see the thin slices of faint light shining from behind the floor-length curtains.
Ghosts of shapes swam into view – there was the TV, there was the coffee table she‟d
whacked her hand on. Like someone slowly turning the sound up from mute, she could now
hear the faint roar of traffic and the shush of the sea.
Comforted by the normality, rubbing her knuckles, she pulled the covers over her with one
hand and was asleep in seconds.
The next time Tania opened her eyes, the light sneaking in was tinged with orange. Her
knuckles still ached. She shook the covers off, then she stood and walked towards the
curtains. Her uncle and his family wouldn‟t be awake for hours. Her feet sunk into the thick
butterscotch carpet. She slipped her bruised hand between the dark green curtains and
unlocked the French doors, then stepped outside.
The stone was cool under her feet as she padded to the wrought-iron railing and looked out
over the city. The empty motorway wove underneath her, following the curves of the shore.
The waves sighed as she crawled up and down the beach. All around her, the rising sun had
set the sky on fire.
Already she was itching to dance, craving a beat, any semblance of music. Her mother had
wanted to „increase her confidence‟ when she sent her to that first ballet class – and, to her
surprise, she‟d found she could move and not feel clumsy, that in the music there was a
place where it didn‟t matter what people thought, where the sickening secrets she‟d kept
locked inside her heart weren‟t important.
She stretched her arms above her head, felt her shoulders crack, then bent her knees,
snapped her right leg up and pirouetted, once, twice, just because she could. Landing with
her feet turned out, she spread out her arms and raised her face to the sky. The breeze
tugged at her brown curls. The colour was her mother‟s but the curls she‟d got from her
father – don’t think about Daddy.
Other things. Think about other things. Her recital was at one. The star of the show, and
she‟d be the only performer without any family watching. Maybe she shouldn‟t think about
that either.
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When she‟d first been sent to live with her uncle‟s family, Tania had worried they‟d find her
too much trouble, too much of a disruption to their wealthy fantasy life. Instead, she‟d slipped
straight underneath the pattern, making her own way, while they continued to weave their
own lives far above her.
Aunt Caroline did everything like a tornado. She charged straight in, picking up and
discarding everything and everyone who happened to get in her way, oblivious that they
were even there in the first place. Everyone stopped and turned to watch her as she passed
by, before she left, leaving behind a void of deadly calm. At seven-thirty-am she was less
intense than usual, but she still managed to make the entire kitchen revolve around her.
Uncle Darryl leant against the blue Formica, sipping his coffee, and watched with tender
amusement as she paced inside the lino-ed space, packing her handbag, smoothing Darryl‟s
tie, cramming a muesli bar into her mouth, pulling on a high-heeled black shoe.
“HoneyhaveyouseenBridgette… where‟s my KEYS, I put them on the frigging bench last
night… BRIDGETTE… godDAMNIT I have to leave at eight… oh, and I know my hair‟s a
mess and today‟s so important…”
Tania watched Darryl out of the corner of her eye. It still shocked her, how much he looked
like her mother. When she‟d first met him, she couldn‟t stop sneaking glances at him. The
stupid social worker had droned on and on and all she could think was that the tired, worried
look on his face was identical to the one her mother had worn for the last few weeks.
Darryl drained the last dregs of his coffee just as Bridgette walked in, swamped in blue
pyjamas and a grey hoodie. Caroline paused for a second to smooth imaginary blonde
strands off her forehead and tug on the hems of her grey skirt suit. Tania took a breath and
slid the navy and pink notice across the polished wood. Worth a try.
“Oh, Tania, your dancing thing. One thirty, right? Darling, you know how busy we are, we
might not be able to make it… we‟ll try, but you‟ll understand if we‟re not there, won‟t you?”
Tania tilted her spoon and watched the milk dribble back onto her cornflakes. Now you’re
sick of your charity case, she thought bitterly.
“Such a good girl. Bridgette, look after your cousin today, alright?”
Bridgette, head inside a cupboard, didn‟t answer.
“Right, well, we have to go… Darryl!” Darryl shot the girls a conspirator‟s look before
smoothing a strand of brown hair back and following his wife out the door.
At the click of the door, Bridgette slammed the cupboard closed, her hands still empty. Tania
took a mouthful of orange mush, listening to the click and beep as Bridgette picked up the
phone and wandered back down the hall. She‟d let them soak in the milk too long.
The smooth concrete of the roof was awkward to dance on, painful to land on and – at this
time of day – cold enough to make her toes curl, but it was the only space in the building
large enough to practice on. And up here, she could watch the world go by, all the crowds
and the smells and the noise, without having to be a part of it.
Tania took one step forward and swung her arms over her head then placed placed her
hands on the ground. She shifted all her weight to them as she flung her legs in the air.
Ignoring the dizzying rush of blood, she balanced there, looking past her elbows to the
square of blue sky.
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She‟d expected Bridgette to have left with one of her hundreds of friends by now, so she was
surprised when Bridgette clomped into her line of sight in black Lady GaGa-esque boots and
a lacy white dress that showed off the painful angles of her fleshless body, pale brown hair
piled above her over-large brown eyes and hollow cheeks.
“Everyone’s got other plans, it‟s like I don‟t exist…” She shivered. “God, it‟s cold up here. Is
this where you go every day? It‟s so boring. We should, like, watch a movie! Or, you know,
do something interesting…”
Tania smiled as she let her knees collapse and flipped forward to stand. Bridgette had
inherited her mother‟s gift for emphasis.
She bent her knees into the crouching position she started in, counting out the beats in her
head. One, two, three, gradually rise, then step to the side and turn, knees still bent, feet
brushing the ground, then step and leap, step forward and reach, fold back, arching her back
outwards…
She was moving like she‟d always dreamt of, feeling the strength in her legs and her arms
and her body as she spun and leapt and reached, pushing herself just because she could,
because she knew how beautiful it made her look, because she felt flooded with power.
Tania leapt, landing on the ball of her right foot, but she stumbled as she brought her left foot
down. Looking up she, realized Bridgette was barely a metre away. She brought her feet
together, wishing she had a fringe to hide behind.
“What happened to your hand?”
Tania glanced downwards. Smeared across her right knuckles was a blotchy blue bruise.
She shrugged and walked back a few steps to attempt the leap again.
“You‟re not into, like, self-harm are you? I mean, you have had a lot happen to you.”
Tania stumbled again. If Bridgette would just shut up, she could forget she was there and
keep going.
“I mean, I‟d understand, you know?” She paused, cocking her head to one side. Tania was
surprised the move didn‟t snap her skinny neck. “Do you hate him? Your dad. After what he
did to you… I‟d hate him.”
Tania didn‟t bother trying again. Her lungs seemed to have shrunk. She grasped her elbows
and pulled her arms into her stomach, trying to squash the sick feeling growing there. Don’t
think about Daddy.
“Are you ever going to talk to us? You‟ve been here a month. Do you think your mum - ”
“Give her a break, eh? I was watching that.”
Tania glanced to the left, towards the open door leading to the stairwell, caught a glimpse of
a blonde-haired boy with a lazy smile, and quickly looked away. The sick feeling immediately
got worse. Every inch of exposed skin crawled like it had a life of it‟s own.
“Um, what the hell? How long have you been standing there?”
“A few minutes. You‟re good.” He was talking to her. Tania tried to take a deep breath but
her throat had shrunk to the width of a pin.
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“Creep. She‟s not just good, she‟s a prodigy.”
“Can‟t she talk for herself?”
“She has social anxiety disorder. She doesn‟t want to talk to you.”
Tania would have gladly ripped Bridgette‟s face off.
“Anyway, are you a stalker or something? Watching us like a complete freak - ”
“I just came up here for a smoke. I‟ll go now.” His voice was calm. “By the way, if I‟m such a
creep, why are you giving me her medical history?” And he was gone.
Bridgette sniffed. “What a freak. Bet he‟s the cleaner or something. God, I‟m so cold.”
My mother was a cleaner. Spoilt brat. Tania managed to take a proper breath. Her arms
relaxed. Her stomach stopped churning. She turned and took another deep breath,
concentrating on the hissing sound as it left her mouth to block out Bridgette‟s babbling.
Then she ran forward four steps – one two three four leap.
As soon as she left the ground she knew she‟d got it right. For a moment, she flew. Then
she landed – one two – and turned her head to the side, just in time to see Bridgette
collapse, falling into herself and landing on the cold grey ground.
Tania screamed.
They asked her name, Bridgette‟s name, what happened, who should they call. But the
sense of urgency had drained away as soon as the ambulance had arrived, so she couldn‟t
do anything but bury her head in her knees and listening to the silent screams reverberating
around her head: Go away! Go away! Go away!
Eventually they‟d left her on the thin plastic seat in the hall, with nothing for company but the
colourless lino and the goosebumps trailing up her arms. Once she‟d read her way through
the pamphlets and Woman‟s Days they kept at the desk, there was nothing to do but slide
into sleep.
She opened her eyes to find someone had sat down beside her. Someone with blonde hair.
“God, I hate hospitals. They gave my sweatshirt back though.” He reached out to pull the
grey hoodie over his head, then dropped his arms and held it out. “Looks like you need it
more than me. You do realize you‟re not wearing shoes?”
Tania took it without looking at him. It was warm, though it completely swamped her.
The boy smiled his lazy smile. “Did I tell you my name? I‟m Ryan. I called home – turns out I
live opposite you. I know your name‟s Tania, and that‟s Bridgette. Your aunt and uncle
should be here soon. Do they always work on Saturdays?” Ryan stood and held out his
hand. “Smoke?”
Tania shook her head. Were they supposed to be best friends forever now?
“I know you can talk. I heard your screaming, remember? You saved her life, you know.
They said she had, um, heart problems caused by malnutrition caused by anorexia nervosa.
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But she‟ll be fine. I‟ll be back in ten, okay?” His shoes were almost silent. Halfway down the
corridor he called out, “Do you know we‟ve been here three hours?”
Tania almost laughed. He had a lot in common with Bridgette.
Out of nowhere, she felt a rush of pity for her spoilt, selfish cousin. It wasn‟t her fault she had
no idea how lucky she was.
When she next opened her eyes, Caroline was sitting next to her, blonde hair let loose to
swirl down her back, Darryl kneeling awkwardly beside her so she could sob into his
shoulder. Tania stood up, the hoodie falling halfway down her thighs. Darryl smiled and
shuffled sideways into the chair. “Thank you,” he said softly, past a wave of blonde hair. “For
everything.”
Tania shrugged as she heard soft footsteps trailing up the hall, bringing the distinct smell of
tobacco. There was a clock hanging above Caroline‟s head. Half past twelve.
Without thinking, she reached out and tapped Darryl‟s shoulder, then pointed upwards. He
frowned. “The time? Oh, your dancing thing.”
Caroline looked up. “Darling, I‟m sure you don‟t mean to be selfish,” she whispered, eyes
wide and shocked. “But our daughter almost died.” Tania ducked her head, hating the sight
of those large blue eyes, dripping tears down that smooth, poreless face.
“Carol, that‟s not fair,” Darryl murmured. “She‟s been preparing for this for months.”
“And she knows what happened to Bridgette,” Ryan said. Tania stiffened as a large tanned
hand landed on her right shoulder. “She IS the one who saved her life.”
Darryl frowned at that hand. “Who are you?”
“I‟m Ryan. My dad called you?”
“Oh.” Darryl kept glaring at that hand. “Richard‟s son. You called the ambulance. Thank
you.” It suddenly dawned on Tania how ridiculous the whole situation had become. If she
hadn‟t been in the middle of it she‟d probably find it hilarious.
Caroline turned her tragic blue eyes to Ryan. “You could take her-”
“Caroline, it‟s alright. I‟ll drive her,” Darryl sighed, gently prising her fingers from his back.
Tania grabbed the hem of the hoodie but Ryan‟s hand slid down to her wrist. “Keep it. I‟ll get
it back another day. That looks painful.” He turned and padded down the corridor. Tania
examined her knuckles – still blotched with blue, slowly darkening to purple. Darryl waited til
Ryan was out the door before he stood up.
“Tania?” he muttered. “You realise that boy likes you?”
Tania smiled.
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She kept her head down in the car, studying the shifting patterns of light dancing across her
lap. The motor made a barely audible hum as Darryl drove, deliberately avoiding the city
centre as much as possible. When they pulled up outside the familiar brick hall, the car park
unusually full, Tania reached for the handle, then turned to offer some sort of thanks, some
sort of consolation.
Darryl‟s face rested on the steering wheel as he attempted to choke back huge, heaving
sobs. Tania felt her eyes widen. She blinked and shook her head. She‟d never seen a man
cry before. Her dad had never – don’t think about Daddy.
Darryl attempted to smudge away his tears with a shaking hand. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It‟s
just – just everything.” He reached out a hand. Tania shrunk away, but he opened the
glovebox and pulled out a pink box. “This used to be your mother‟s favourite. I don‟t know if
she still wears it but… anyway, I want you to have it.”
Tania took the box in silence. Darryl frowned. “What happened to your hand?” When she
didn‟t move, he looked up through the windscreen, his clean-shaven face wiped of
expression. “She ran away from home twice. The first time she was twelve – it took us two
weeks to find her. They even mentioned her on the news. She‟d been sleeping under a tree,
if you can believe it. She was always a bit of a romantic – I doubt life on the street turned out
like she imagined it, but she still didn‟t come home. If we hadn‟t come looking for her I think
she‟d have stayed out there forever.
“Second time she was seventeen, when she went to live with your father. And look how that
turned out.”
Don’t think about Daddy.
He made an odd noise, like a coughing laugh. “But she never looked back then either. No
one knew what had happened to her until a month ago when CYPS called and… you know
the rest.
“Anyway. If she wanted to leave, she left. She didn‟t look back.”
Tania knew what he was trying to say, and she wanted to tell him it was alright, she‟d
worked it out on her own, she‟d never had any delusions about Mum coming back and
dancing off into the sunset with her. But maybe he was the one who needed to hear it.
Maybe he needed an excuse to say it out loud, to get it straight in his head. Or maybe she
should stop trying to work out what other people think.
Darryl grinned. “Time to get you off that couch. I‟ll get the spare room set up.”
She opened the door and stepped out, feeling happier than she had in years. Not the fierce,
wild joy that dancing gave her, but simply content.
Darryl leaned towards her. “Good luck! Wish I could watch, but, you know…”
Tania nodded, and moved to shut the door. “And I‟ll be having a word with that Ryan!” he
called, just before it thunked shut in his face.
She watched the sleek silver Mercedes drive away, tooting once, before she opened the box
and pulled out a pink glass bottle, identical to the bottles that had sat on her mother‟s
dressing table her entire life. She‟d go through hell to get it, never considered trying any
other perfume.
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Tania popped off the lid and sprayed a little on her wrist, most of it staining the overlarge
hoodie. Lifting her hands to her nose, she smiled as she breathed in the smell of her mother.
Judge’s Comment
The Dancer is a complex, moving story. This writer knows how to select the appropriate
moments in a story, and focus in on these and use them to tell the whole plot. The
narrative is told through character interactions. The scenes, waking on the couch, dancing
on the roof, breakfast, the hospital, in the car with her uncle – all these moments in the life
of Tania, progress backwards to suggestions about her father‟s previous behaviour to her,
and forwards, to her uncle‟s gratitude and his decision to prepare the spare room for her.
The story is about how Tania becomes a valued member of a new family, and gains a
boyfriend too. There is such depth of feeling, such subtlety. The dialogue in every scene
is spare, convincing, assured. I loved the breakfast scene, and, Ryan and Tania in the
waiting room, and the uncle with Tania in the car. And most important of all, the story is
thought-provoking – dealing with surviving abuse, self esteem, helping others, and being
a family.
The story is the outstanding winner of the Secondary Section.
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Second Place
Innocence
Written by Stefan Schultz
Hawera High School
The music was loud, the people even more so, and it was only ten. Various teenagers, all in
varying degrees of disrepair, with varying severities of acne, milled about by the door. One
was cradling a case of Woodstock under one arm, with someone who looked almost young
enough to be his daughter on the other. That was of course Dave, known to his friends as
DJ (mainly thanks to his almost unpronounceable foreign surname), someone widely
regarded as “the „skuxxest mutha‟ to have ever walked the town,” and not someone to mess
with. This elegant title naturally also earned him instant entrance to any party in the district,
which was, in this case, Jeremy Bartlet‟s sixteenth birthday.
As the crowd gradually made their way further inside, and the bumping baseline issuing from
the speakers grew progressively more distorted, so too did the party, which soon took on the
appearance of a deranged orgy. Pills were popped, bottles cracked, and punches thrown. Of
course at the head of this – DJ, with Jeremy desperately trying to reign in the revelry,
thinking of what his dad had said the night before…
“I‟m going to Auckland on business for a week, so I‟m trusting you with the house.” He had
said, his face the picture of discipline. “And I know it‟s your sixteenth on Wednesday, but NO
parties, not in my house!” The tone of voice that Mr Bartlet has used was one familiar to
Jeremy. It was the same one he had used when his ex-wife had left, and tried to take the
young Jeremy with her. He would never forget the look on her face, the distant, spaced out
expression of a drug addict. Her addiction had ruined his life. He later discovered that it had
ruined hers too, after she appeared on the news, having been involved in a deadly car crash.
Jeremy had spiralled into deep depression after that. His grades had slipped, his behaviour
even more so. But he was popular, and more importantly, cool. People wanted to hang out
with the new “drug kid”, and while most of them came from mostly unsavoury walks of life,
Jeremy didn‟t care, because for once, he felt accepted. And so, when he put out an open
invitation to his secret sixteenth party on his Facebook page, they came by the busload.
But Jeremy knew if his Dad found out, he was a dead man. “Hey, DJ!” he called out across
the room, after seeing him trying to scale the antique mantelpiece above the fire, “can you
not climb on that! If Dad finds out about this, I‟m screwed!”
DJ just smirked, and rolled his eyes. “Pussy.” He replied with a voice the very epitome of
disdain. “Hey everyone,” he called, “who wants to play a little game?”
The crowd silenced almost instantly.
“I call it – pass the happy pipe!”
And it was at that precise moment that Jeremy realised just how screwed he was. If his Dad
ever found out that he had done P at a party, especially in his own home, he would probably
actually throttle him. So Jeremy quietly walked up beside DJ, and whispered into his ear,
“Hey, can we not. Please.” He was actually pleading. DJ just looked at him, before jumping
down into the circle, and pulling out a lighter.
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“You don‟t have to do anything you‟re not ready for.” DJ laced every syllable with intense
sarcasm, and proceeded to light his pipe, dropping a block of P into it, and taking a long
drag, the passing it to Jeremy. He froze, and looked at it.
Now was his time, his chance to stand up for himself, to do what he knew was right, and
redeem himself. But then he looked at the crowd, and saw the faces of each and every
„guest‟, all willing him to just raise this little glass pipe to his lips, and take a breath.
He looked down again, and struck the lighter. He took a single, long drag, before passing it
on.
Then all of his problems just seemed to just evaporate.
“Alright – who wants to dance?” he yelled at the top of his voice, pushing play on his stereo,
spinning the volume up to max. DJ laughed, clearly amused by the reaction of an
inexperienced user. “Okay, now it‟s a party!”
It was after a couple of hours, though, with everybody buzzed right off the planet, that
Jeremy found his sixteenth birthday wish coming true. For months he had admired Jessica
Stanford from afar, but now, with them both being as high as kites, it was his chance. He had
walked over to her, kissed her firmly and passionately, and now they burst into his father‟s
room.
“Oh, Jeremy, you‟re so bad!” she moaned, in between fierce kisses, as they fell onto the
bed. She started ripping madly at his clothes, stripping him down, and he reciprocated, until
they were completely naked.
Then his ultimate birthday fantasy was realised.
A bird was tweeting, and it was driving Jeremy Bartlet insane. Every little chirp drilled into his
head like searing hot needles. He opened his eyes a little, and immediately regretted it, as
the light, dim as it was at this early hour, blasted his eyes, and causing his head to feel like it
was verging on exploding. He tried to lean forward, attempting to see the time, but collapsed
as the effort proved far too much. Braving opening his eyes again, he found his retinas
saved by a cloud covering the sunrise. Outside the window, he watched the lights on the old
water tower wink out. It was morning, early, but morning nonetheless. And Jeremy was
experiencing a hangover like none other. He lay in bed, trying to remember why, but, the fog
of sleep and alcohol (the memory of drug use firmly repressed) refused to lift. He crawled out
of his bed, and staggered into the shower, which he ran, cold, until he woke up.
Walking out into the lounge, stark naked apart from a vomit stained towel covering his
modesty, he started to remember, based on the sight that greeted him. A sight best
described as a mess. The upholstery on the couch had been ripped open, the TV smashed.
The bookshelf was overturned, with a number of his dad‟s Dickens‟ having ended up in the
fire, reduced to little more than ash and fond memories. A mysterious blood stain marked
one of the curtains; an altogether more suspicious set of stains befouled the shag pile rug.
Apparently some of his „friends‟ had taken the name quite literally.
“Well,” he said, to no one in particular, “I am now officially a dead man.” He glanced at the
calendar on the floor, wallpaper hanging from its still attached mounting, and realised his
dad would be back tomorrow. Bending over, he picked it up, and tossed it in the trash. It was
nearly full. Looking out across the landfill formerly known as a lounge, he realised he was
going to have to find a lot more wheelie bins.
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The return of Mr Bartlet to his home turned out to not be the worst thing that happened to
Jeremy in the weeks that followed, He was grounded, and made to get a job, the pay from
which he had to use to replace and fix everything he and his party guests broke, but that was
nothing compared to what happened about two months later.
It had been raining, but had stopped for now, when Jeremy was carrying the rubbish bag out
to the bin on the kerb. Turning back toward the house, he heard a wet crunch, someone‟s
shoe moving the gravel in a puddle, and he saw his old crush, and first lover, Jessica
walking toward him. He lingered by the gate, to see what she wanted. But, as she drew
closer, he saw her eyes were red rimmed, and she was the picture of depression.
“Jessica! Hey, what‟s the matter?” Jeremy was now very concerned. Jessica looked up at
him, and with a determined expression, uttered the simple and brief sentence that marked
the end of adolescence and the entrance into adulthood for Jeremy Bartlet.
“I‟m pregnant.” She said, quietly, nervously. Jeremy just looked at her, and then pulled out
the most overused of questions used at a time like this.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I missed my period, so I did a test. It was positive.” She replied, solemnly.
“And you‟re sure it‟s mine?” Jeremy whispered, stunned into near speechlessness.
“You‟re the only person who I‟ve…, you know.” She spoke without emotion, just doling out
the necessary answers mechanically, as though her brain had deserted her body. Jeremy
pulled her into a tight embrace, and murmured into her ear. “I need to tell dad.” She nodded
slightly, and they both walked up the garden path, and disappeared into the house.
And so ended the childhood of one Jeremy Bartlet.
Judge’s Comment
Innocence is another story in which something happens: one out of control party, resulting
in one unwanted pregnancy. There‟s lots of credible detail about the party, which takes
the reader into the story and makes the reader believe in it. The male narrator is a great
character, laconic, witty, and regretful. Using this character‟s point of view was a great
way to explore the end of innocence and how easy it is for life to change massively and
suddenly, and how easy it is for life itself to be created.
14
Third Place
Finding You
Written by Danelle Walker
Hawera High School
“They say...” she said, with a frustrated look on her face, her fingers slipping. “...That if you
plait three pieces of grass together, then you‟ll always be able to find your way back to that
place.” Her voice hitched at the last part as she tried to control her tears. It took me a
moment to figure out what to say. After all what do you say to that?
“Well, we have three days to get you all of the grass plaits you could possibly need.” She
looked at me with her tear stained eyes.
“Really you‟d do that for me?” After all this time, I‟d never seen her so vulnerable. It was like
she didn‟t believe promises could be kept anymore.
“Of course, I‟d do anything for you. Well anything short of murder,” I said, trying to elicit a
laugh from her. She smiled sadly, just another promise I couldn‟t keep. I‟d have to prove that
if I was the only person she could trust then I would be the most trustworthy person in the
whole world. She just had to see it.
“So which places have you got so far?” She looked a little disbelieving as I began to live up
to my promise. “Come on Shell, I meant it when I said I would help.” She still didn‟t quite
believe me but she reached behind her and pulled out a book. She flipped it open and I saw
she only had one labelled „Home.’ The one she had been struggling with not long ago
“Looks like we have some work to do.” I stood up and pulled her to her feet. “Where do you
want to go first?”
“I...I don‟t know.”
“Well, where do you want to go back to? Just think small for now and we‟ll get to the others
later.” I pull my car keys out of my pocket. “I‟ll take you where ever you want to go,” I said,
twirling them around my finger.
“Are you allowed?” She asked, using her hand to wipe her eye dry. I grinned.
“Gorgeous, I have my full licence,” I said, with a goofy grin, still trying to make her laugh. I
gained a smile out of her and she reached back down to the ground picking up her book and
pens.
“Can we go to King Edward Park?”
“Darlin‟, I said anywhere.” I said with a southern drawl. This time I got a giggle in return.
“Where do you want the grass from?” I asked as she looked at the gates.
15
“I want the garden, you know the one across from the roses,” She looked at me from under
her eyelashes. “The one with the tree that we sat under the branches and talked.” She
sighed. “I don‟t want to leave my memories.” I took her by the hand and walked her in the
gate, I knew exactly which tree and garden she was talking about.
“That‟s why we‟re doing this.”
As we sat in the car she carefully labelled the plait she had just put in her book with ‘K.E.P –
The tree.’ I wondered how long she had practised plaiting those pieces of grass. I had tried it
myself but it was harder than she made it seem.
“Where to now my lady?” She laughed this time.
“How about Naumai Park?”
“Your wish is my command.” I bowed to her and managed to gain another laugh. We started
driving down High Street and it seemed to me that she was in a much better mood than
when I had found her sitting in her front yard this morning. Her eyes gazing at everything as
if it would all disappear if she were to even blink.
“Oh,” she suddenly exclaimed. “Can we stop at the water tower?” She asked as she turned
to me.
“As you wish,” I said, with a grin, quoting Wesley from the Princess Bride. I turned and
parked on Albion Street. She jumped out of the car and walked to the base of the tower. She
walked around it a couple of times, her keen eyes trying to find grass of a suitable length.
She quickly plaited them together when she found them and brought her plait to the car. She
sat down and flipped to a new page.
“Why is each one on a new page?” She smiled at me.
“You‟ll see.”
After driving around collecting different grass plaits we drove back to her house. She pulled
me into her room and pushed the book into my hands.
“Hold that,” she ordered, as she pulled open a draw and began pulling out various craft
items. She pulled open another and pulled out a photo album. She sat down cross legged
and motioned for me to do the same.
“So what are we doing now?” I asked, my curiosity peaking.
“Just wait a moment and you‟ll see,” she said, with a grin. Opening the book to the first page
she read the label. She chewed her lip for a moment before opening the photo album and
looking through it. She pulled out a picture of me leaning back against her house, my eyes
closed in the sunshine, flowers peeking in at the edge of the photo.
“Ahh, I see.” She smiled at me and stuck it underneath the grass plait. The next photo out of
the album was one of the both of us looking out from the drooping branches of the small tree
in the corner of the garden in King Edward Park. We were grinning at whoever was taking
the photo. For ‘The water tower’ she chose a picture of the two of us with the town behind
us. She‟s holding out the camera catching us forever in the moment.
16
“Now there‟s no way I can possibly forget these memories,” she said, as she chose the next
photo for the next plait.
The next day was much the same, but the day after her mood worsened greatly. Our time
was almost up and sitting in her empty room sticking in the last pictures she started to cry.
“Michelle, what‟s wrong?”
“I don‟t want to leave Zack.”
“Hey, you‟ll come back, that‟s why we‟ve made this book Shell. So you can always find your
way back.” I pulled her book towards me and found a photo of us at my birthday party. She
had that smile that I wished I could see one more time. I pulled a grass plait out of my pocket
and stuck it in the book beneath the photo. With her pen I neatly wrote ‘Zack‘s House.’ She
looked at me her eyes searching mine, as if she were trying to read my soul.
“I don‟t want to be the one to make you unhappy...” she whispered.
“Shell, just what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that if you meet someone and think you could be happy, just move on and forget
about me. If I return someday and you‟re still waiting, we‟ll know it was meant to be.” She
was now avoiding eye contact.
“Shell, I‟ll always wait for you.” I pulled another photo out of my pocket and stuck it in the
book. It was picture of us sitting for a photo but at the last minute I had turned to kiss her on
the cheek. The photo captured her with the surprised look on her face. I pulled another plait
out.
“I know it‟s not grass...” I said, as I stuck in a small plait of my hair. “But I want to think that
this way instead of finding your way back to a place; you‟ll find your way back to me.” Beside
it I simply drew a heart.
To my dearest Michelle
You are always on my mind, but I’m afraid that I may be forgetting the smallest little details
about you. Has it really been so long that I have begun to forget? I need to see you, perhaps
in our dreams. The only place it seems that we can be together when distance separates us
so. It hardly seems fair and I await the day when I may be reunited with my lady, the girl who
holds the strings to my marionette.
In the mean time I may be sated with just the slightest breath of your scent.
Your loving Zachary
As always, S.W.A.L.K – Sealed with a loving kiss.
To my loving Zachary
You really are such a dork aren’t you? Ahh but you are my dork, and I do miss you so much.
I hate to admit it but were it not for my photos, I may have forgotten all my sweetest
memories by now. They grow foggy except for those captured by the camera you once
teased me about carrying, but who’s laughing now. My trigger happy ways with the camera
have frozen so many moments in time so that I will never forget them.
As you so requested this letter carries my scent, just as they did in the past.
Your dearest Michelle
H.O.L.L.A.N.D – Hope our love lasts and never dies.
17
I‟m the first to admit I was never the greatest letter writer and that over the years we sent
them less often but never less than once a month, and he was always as sappy as the first
he sent, though he did sometimes drop the guise every so often to tell me what was
happening in my old town. I think that even over such a distance he was still trying to make
me laugh. I had never really gained the courage to tell him that I was beyond ever laughing
again. I had lost my book of memories at some point during move. It felt as if I had no hope
of finding my way back, or finding my way back to where I was with him.
I had been crying, again, we were moving back to the Naki and to Hawera, but it didn‟t seem
to me that I could ever find my ‘loving Zackary‘ waiting for me. I had lost our memories, I had
lost my piece of him. That was of course until mum found a box filled with things we had
never unpacked. She was always the curious one, and rather than just packing it to be taken
back with us she opened it up.
“Hey Michelle, I think I found that book of yours. What‟s with the grass?” I had leapt up and
ran to envelope her in a hug.
“It‟s nothing mum, just a silly little tale.” I could smile and laugh again. I carefully slid the
book into my shoulder bag with all the letters he had sent me over the years. It was easy to
get into the car now. Hope that everything could be okay was fluttering inside of me.
Never before has the phrase „So close and yet so far away‟ made so much sense to me. We
were nearly there and excitement was making me jittery. It had been so long, did we look the
same as when I had left? Would we recognise each other? I had re-read the letters
countless times during the trip, even though I had long ago memorised his words hungry for
more of them. I now finally opened the book that had been out of my hands for what seemed
like forever.
It started with ‘Home’ and the picture of him, my heart fluttered slightly, it wouldn‟t be long. I
continued to go through the book anxious to see if my memories were all still there.
It started with ‘Home’ which seemed like such a dream ago, but it ended with a heart, and
that was what was calling to me more.
I closed the book, hugging it to my chest. My eyes drifted to focus on the scenery and my
heart stilled. All I could see was Mt Egmont, Mt Taranaki. They were two names for the
same thing, and it meant something else entirely to me. It meant I was coming Home.
I had barely lasted five minutes before I was out the door. I couldn‟t wait a second longer.
“Michelle, be back before dark, or txt or call us to let us know you‟re okay.”
“Okay mum, see ya later!” My feet knew the way, I didn‟t even have to think about it. From
my garden to his house, it was the only thing I had ever honestly learnt off by heart.
I slowed down to a walk regaining my breath and hopefully calming my flushed cheeks. I
quietly walked around to his window and peaked in. There he was, lying on his bed letters
surrounding him, and one in his hands. My heart fluttered again.
Pulling out my phone I dialled his number, composing myself so that I wouldn‟t laugh and
give myself away.
“Hello?”
18
“Hiya Handsome!” He sat up suddenly.
“Michelle? Is that you? Why are you calling?”
“Whoa, slow down there. Yes it‟s me and yes it‟s me, and I‟m calling because it‟s been so
long since I heard your voice. I‟ve missed you.”
“Yeah I‟ve missed you too. My memories did your voice no justice. God I‟ve missed you.”
“Well, I‟ve got a surprise for you. You don‟t have to miss me much longer.” His head tilted to
the side.
“What do you mean?” I smothered a giggle.
“Look out the window you dork.” He turned around and pulled the curtains properly open.
“Surprise.” He blinked at me a couple of times.
“Shell I think I might be going a little bonkers, I can see you out the window.” He reached his
hand out as if to brush against my face. “Is it really you?” This time I did laugh.
“It‟s really me.” His face lit up in the goofy grin that I remembered. He shut his phone and put
it into his pocket before unlatching the window and climbing out of it. He pulled me into a
bone crunching hug.
“Michelle it really is you! You‟re back, you are back, right?” His grin fell as he thought about
me leaving again.
“Yes I‟m back, my parents have secured jobs and I don‟t have to move again.” He smiled at
me his happiness showing in his whole demeanour, he was taller than I remembered. I
opened my mouth to tell him so when he quickly ducked his head and stole a kiss.
“God I‟ve missed you Zack,” I murmured, mirroring his previous statement. He laughed and
hugged me again.
“It‟s really you, I can‟t believe it‟s really you!” His excitement was making him rock back and
forth on his feet. I laughed, despite the small changes, he was still the same person that I
knew and loved.
“You had better believe it, because I am here to stay.” He laughed and hugged me again,
burying his nose into my hair.
“I always knew that you would find your way home, that you would find your way back to
me.”
19
Judge’s Comment
„Finding You” is one that does make something happen.
It is a guileless love story which perfectly captures a mood of young love, and also tells a
story. It starts in the emotional centre of the story, with the narrator Zach showing his love
for Michelle by deciding to drive her to their significant places so she can plait grasses
from each one. This writer knows how to convey love without spelling it out documentary
style. The author embeds it in the two characters.
It‟s a story about leaving a loved one and a place you have shared with that loved one. It‟s
hard to write a love story, one of the most difficult things to do convincingly. This little
story achieves this. The narrative unrolls through incidents. There‟s plenty of interaction
rather than description, and convincing dialogue which shows the love between the two.
The actual structure of the story reflects this interaction, with both characters sharing the
narration, Zach first, then Michelle. The writer never overdoes the writing or tells us too
much. Skilfully the writer also broadens the plot and hints at the situation in Michelle‟s
family. The local references were enjoyed, especially the Water Tower.
There was a rushed feeling at the end. The reader needs to know how much time passes
before Michelle returns. That wasn‟t clear.
20
Open Division
First Place
The Beautiful Gardens of Anger
Written by Max Chanti
As Ian Hudson pruned the roses in his glass house, his mind wandered to the meeting he
would attend that evening and he nipped his index finger. He raised it to the light and stared,
as if he had never seen blood before, and thought of the mayor‟s voice. When she phoned
about this unscheduled meeting, it had a quality he didn‟t recognise. He felt threatened, as if
something may be taken away, and he watched the blood drip off the tip of his finger.
He showered, changed into the suit he bought on his last trip to Melbourne, and pinned a
freshly picked Ardoisee de Lyon to the notched lapel. He entered the Hawera Council
Chambers at his usual time of precisely 7:27pm.
His fellow councillors greeted him with the usual, “Evening, Huddie”. Although he never saw
himself as cuddly as the name suggests, he liked it that others did. He smiled and nodded in
reply. Poring himself a cup of tea, he took his seat, and gave the mayor a nod at precisely
7:30pm.
He held the saucer in one hand and was about to take a sip as Susan Green, serving her
third term as mayor, got straight to the point. “OK, boys, this is the guts. Rachael Miller
wants to buy the water tower.” Huddie lurched forward and spat out a mouthful of tea over
the table. No one seemed to notice. They sat agog, turning their heads to and fro like the
clowns that eat ping pong balls at the A&P Show.
Susan added, “And she wants to demolish it and build a home in its place.”
This was too much. They talked at and over each other. But not Huddie. They always
thought his outer calm reflected his inner. In fact, his thoughts bounced around his skull like
ricocheting bullets and he was afraid to open his mouth in case one escaped. At least, he
was afraid to when he wasn‟t at home.
He put his head in his hands, closed his eyes, as if he was thinking deeply, but his mind
replayed the dream. He‟s standing on his deck in brilliant sunshine, admiring his manicured
rose gardens that stretch out before him. A passing shadow makes him look up and he sees
a darkness descending like a huge falling leaf. As it lands on his roses, it sucks the life out of
them, leaving them colourless, parched, and ugly, like brittle ghosts. He can feel the
darkness enter his soul and he cries, alone, afraid.
He opened his eyes with a start, rubbed them while he got a focus on the bright room.
Around the table, they were jabbering; “Why the water tower? Why Hawera? And who the
hell is she, anyway?”
21
Some knew, but Susan read the highlights she found on the net anyway: Rachael Helen
Miller is thirty five years old, at least one of her nine romance/thriller novels have remained
on the New York Times best seller list since the first was published thirteen years ago, she‟s
on the world‟s top ten rich list, one of the most famous, and Vanity Fair named her the
world‟s sexiest single woman for the last six years.
Huddie cleared his throat and the councillors fell silent. Whenever he spoke in council,
everybody listened with respect because he was the voice of reason. But they didn‟t know
he was sitting there in his darkness, dependant on his big-fish-in-a-small-pond status, and
afraid of losing it, especially to some American pop goddess half his age.
But when he opened his mouth, it came out as, “Ronald Hugh Morrieson‟s house was
demolished to make way for a fast food outlet and now we have a writer wanting to demolish
a cultural icon for her fast paced life style. Our heritage is not for sale. It‟s bullshit and I‟m not
having it!” This was the first time any of them had heard Huddie swear, or even display an ill
temperament, though his wife and children knew them well.
Susan soothed the moment; “I see you have strong feelings about this, Huddie. Well, you
can have your say next month. I‟m arranging a public forum at the Memorial Theatre. Miller
will be there in person, too. She‟ll tell us why she wants to live here.”
Everybody wanted to know that. The three hundred and thirty seven seats in the Hawera
Memorial Theatre walked out the door in less than fifteen minutes. But locals only.
Every room with a bed was booked. Every restaurant eaten bare. Baristas didn‟t sleep. Not
just in Hawera, but throughout Taranaki. Even Tom Cruise, when he made The Last
Samurai here, failed to generate this much hype.
Television crews and paparazzi from around the world besieged the Hawera Community
Centre. The car park and nearby streets were closed and crammed with trucks, lights,
satellite dishes, and personal assistants with clipboards, ear pieces, and stilettos.
Cameras broadcast the meeting to a large screen in the car park for the media and overflow
crowd, which numbered in the thousands.
The Prime Minister, whose pimps bullied the council to open proceedings, smiled at the
world and introduced the mayor. She didn‟t muck around.
"Hawera‟s mantra is „Alive with Opportunity‟. Listen to that noise out there. Opportunities
don‟t get any bigger.”
She said Hawera would need more accommodation, more transport, more restaurants, more
everything. And that meant more jobs, more money, more everything.
The PM introduced Ian Hudson. He continued his rant on what locals now called his „anti
Miller‟ campaign. He raved about sky rocketing rates, lost heritage, but by the time he got on
to the undesirables in town, the undesirables were mocking him by chanting, "fud-dy-hud-dyfuddy-dy-dud-dy".
Rachel Helen Miller strolled on stage with her trademark jet-black hair cascading over her
shoulders, topped with a pink cowgirl hat. She wore a red bush shirt and denim jeans. Her
alligator boots clomped across the boards. The PM managed a peck on the cheek while the
theatre clapped politely, as if they were greeting this month‟s guest speaker at Rotary.
Outside, they hollered and stamped and whistled and screamed and night became day with
a rolling eruption of camera flashes.
22
Miller raised her arms and brought them to heel. She spoke slowly, her Texas drawl teasing
out the end of each word, pegging itself to the beginning of the next, making her sentences
hang together like washing on a line.
She explained she wrote her first novel on the steps of the water tower when she was hitchhiking through as a backpacker. She returned and wrote the next three novels here, too,
disguised and rotating between motels around Taranaki. Then she got to the nub of it.
“I‟ll tell y‟all straight. The reason I wanna live and write in this here town is because I believe
the water tower is sittin‟ at the intersection of lay lines. My writin‟ is channeled by the innate
power of this precise geographical location.”
Huddie fell off his chair. No one noticed. In fact, you could have slapped every face with a
wet eel and they wouldn‟t have noticed. And no one cared. After all, this was Rachael Helen
Miller! In Hawera!
Huddie got to his feet and started fighting the whole world. He lobbed angry letters to the
editor, berated his friends and hounded the council. Media ridiculed to him as Fuddie
Huddie. He retreated to his roses, talking, preening, caressing.
Inevitably, the tower came down and Miller‟s „bach‟, as it came to be known, consumed the
entire block within Erin, High, Cameron, and Collins streets. Within six months of her moving
in, Hawera‟s visitor numbers jumped over twenty thousand percent. Whispers of names like
Shania, Julia, and Meryl passed every ones lips when Miller‟s fleet of black BMW‟s with
tinted windows slid into her walled compound.
But she drove around town in a twenty five year old Toyota Corolla and locals loved that. To
Huddie‟s chagrin, the entire vehicle was covered with a classy print of his favourite Renoir
painting, Roses in a Vase. Everyone knew it related to the climatic scene from her first book,
The Rose in the Tower, when Roger and Stephanie came to their twisted end.
He cringed every time he saw it and blamed Miller for everything that was wrong with his life.
It took him three years to see that, actually, she was OK and he didn‟t have to feel angry
about her. It was that summer that he heard the skylarks, smelled the salt in the air, and felt
the warmth of the sun again.
He cruised out to Ohawe Beach in his Mercedes Roadster and for the first time in ages, had
the top down. He sat on the cliff tops, breathed the sea air in deeply, and as he let out each
breath, he imagined all his grief and anger going with it. He wrote a brutally honest letter to
the editor of the South Taranaki Star; “I apologise to everyone for my anger and my
despicable behaviour. Rachel has put Hawera on the map and I am glad of it. Please forgive
me. Ian Hudson (Huddie).”
He went to deliver it in person, parked in High Street, and found himself outside the Lotto
shop. As he turned off the key, he looked at the shop intently, squinting. He wondered if it
was because the shop was owned by Susan or because of his own risk analysis
assessments that he had never bought a Lotto ticket.
As he entered, Susan said, “And about time”, and they both smiled at that. She could sense
he wasn‟t quite normal but couldn‟t put her finger on it. Huddie was feeling lightheaded from
his epiphany and said in a nostalgic voice; “You know, Susan, sometimes I miss seeing the
lights of the water tower.”
23
It punched Susan. Here‟s the guy who campaigned against Miller and now he‟s pretending
nothing‟s happened. Bugger that, she thought. She ripped the lotto tickets out of the
machine and slammed them down on the counter. Everybody in the shop raised their heads
and pricked their ears like cows do when they hear a dog bark. The commercial radio
station, playing Here Comes the Sun, suddenly seemed excessively loud.
Huddie tried to pick up his tickets and scurry away but Susan kept her hand on them, her
arm straight, as if she was stopping the counter from flying away. She leaned forward and
said, “Everybody, except you, knows we are better off because of Rach. If you still can‟t see
that, perhaps you should take your anger and look for another town!”
For a fleeting moment, as if he had dived into a pool, Huddie saw himself sitting on the cliff
tops, breathing the air in deeply, and all the noise and crush of the world had stopped. But
he quickly resurfaced and found himself marching out of the store without the tickets. At the
doorway, he waved the letter above his head in a clenched fist and shouted, “I‟ll show you!”
As he walked out, the store broke into titters of laughter and he heard someone say, “Way to
go, Sue!”
He retreats to the Roadster and plants boot. The dream returns and he can feel the
darkness filling him. His voice erupts with, “Damn Miller! Damn Rachael Helen fucking
Miller!” He shreds the letter and stares at the pieces on his lap. They look like the brittle
petals from his dreams.
When he looks up, the intersection is upon him. Once the swirl of darkness and light and the
sound of wrenching steel and exploding glass stops, the only sound is his breathing, fast and
heavy. His eyes dart here and there. He can see how the other driver‟s head sits at an
impossible angle to its body, jet-black hair cascading out the window, veins of red drowning
the roses.
Judge’s Comment
This tongue in cheek, Morrieson-style story is about issues facing small towns. It creates
memorable characters, in particular and the people used to living in small towns and
being powerful in them. It‟s about heritage losing out when faced with overseas money,
about what happens when colourful strangers come to town loaded with more money than
the town‟s ever seen before.
It‟s about the frustration of Huddie, the councillor, set in his ways, with his roses and his
routine and the respect that is always due to him and which he‟s grown to expect. This is
all to be turned upside down when the female mayor of Hawera announces that an
internationally -famous romance writer with very deep pockets, wants to buy the water
tower and come to live here.
The story asks: how much is such heritage worth? But the story is about more than that.
It‟s about Huddie‟s change of heart when the town blossoms, along with his roses, as
tourists and businesses follow the celebrity millionaire to the town. It‟s about how Huddie
realises, after three years, that the celebrity is an asset to the town. The story is about his
moment of changing his mind, and what happens quickly after that.
24
Judge’s Comment Continued
The tone is perfectly judged rollicking satire. There‟s no over-writing, which can often
occur in these sort of tales. “Every room with a bed was booked. Every restaurant eaten
bare.” Huddie‟s character is well developed. Hawera is brought to life, a small town with a
big water tower and a 337 seat theatre. The street names are mentioned, RHM‟s house
demolition is there. Characters are compared to cows. There are references to Tom
Cruise and Shania Twaine.
The romantic novelist‟s most famous romance was set in the water tower itself, and she
drives around town in a Toyota painted with a print of a Renoir painting. She‟s chosen
Hawera because of what she calls the intersection of ley lines here.
The passage of time could have been better managed. Three years later, is a bit rushed.
It needs a paragraph to allow the writing to change gear. When Huddie writes the letter
admitting that his opposition to the celebrity was wrong, more could have been made of
this crucial moment. And the change to the present tense in the final two paragraphs is
unfortunate. But the galloping chain of events after the letter is a great build up to a
surprise tragic ending.
I‟m delighted this is the winner of the Open Section. It so perfectly reflects the point of
view of Ronald Hugh Morrieson, a man who never left his home town of Hawera.
25
Second Place
The Last Time
Written by Maureen Armstrong
I run as fast as I can with my surfboard, down the familiar track, across the beach and into
the water, wade out past the first line of breakers, then drop onto my board and start
paddling further out.
„The last time! The last time!‟ The refrain rolls through my mind in time to my paddling. How
can it be? Why has this happened? I should have been able to bring my children down here
to „our‟ beach, if and when I ever have them. Out behind the breakers I sit up on my board
and watch and wait for the right wave to ride. It doesn‟t take long to come and I give myself
up to the familiar exhilaration as I rise to my feet and catch the surge. For the next half hour
or so I don‟t think about anything except the next wave and how best to ride it, but then the
wind gets up and the waves get really choppy and short and it‟s not fun any more. I ride in to
the shore, pick up my board and walk up to my special spot in the dunes. It‟s a little hollow,
sheltered from the wind, but allowing a view from Cape Egmont to my left to Paritutu in New
Plymouth to my right. I have always loved this view with the spread of the restless ocean
between, sweeping away to the horizon on the way to Australia. The last time! Tomorrow is
rushing towards me at the speed of light and I don‟t want it to come. The tears start to fall
again as I cast my mind back to when this started……..
I remember so clearly the day the bombshell struck. My younger brother, Jamie, and I got off
the school bus from Okato, where we both attended Coastal School, and walked down our
side road from the Surf Highway, heading towards the farm on the coast that our family had
owned for three generations. As we came through the garden gate we could hear the
machines at the milking shed and I thought „I‟ll go and help Dad as soon as I get changed.‟
“Hi, Mum, we‟re home!” I called as we opened the back door. There was no reply. The
kitchen was empty. This was odd. Mum was always there when we got home, preparing
dinner, or making afternoon tea for us. “Mum!” I called again. Then Jamie spotted the note
on the bench, propped up beside the kettle.
“It‟s from Mum, Sal,” he commented as he opened the note. He went quiet as he read the
note, a funny kind of quiet, and I reached out for it.
“Dad!” he exclaimed. “Dad‟s sick!” I felt a chill run down my spine as I read, too. Dad had
collapsed this afternoon, and Mum had gone to Base Hospital with him in the Rescue
Chopper. I felt complete disbelief as I read. Dad couldn‟t be ill! He was fit and full of energy.
He was healthy, large as life. It must be a mistake! Jamie and I both sat down as the shock
struck us. The words of the scrawled note danced in front of my eyes and I had to blink a few
times to read the rest. Instructions from Mum to feed the chooks and the cats, pack some pjs
and clothes for tomorrow, lock the house up, and go across to our nearest neighbors, Mr.
and Mrs. Walters. We were to stay there and Mum would phone as soon as she had some
news. In a daze we followed instructions, and walked across to the Walters‟ house, noting on
the way that it was Mr. Walters milking our cows.
Mum phoned while we were having dinner that evening and talked with Mrs. Walters for
some time before asking for us.
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“Dad is very ill, Sal,” she told me, in a voice I hardly recognized. “He‟s had a major heart
attack, and it‟s about as bad as it can be. They transferred him straight up here to Waikato
Hospital. He‟s had x-rays and tests and everything and we are waiting for the results. I can‟t
tell you any more than that. I‟ll phone again in the morning. You two go to school as usual –
there‟s no point in you hanging about. Help Mrs. Walters in the house, wont you, and try not
to be a nuisance to her. I love you both. I‟ll come home as soon as I can leave Dad.”
For the next three days we lived in a weird sort of vacuum. We went through the motions of
going to school and coming back, but I couldn‟t think of a thing that happened in school
during the day. It felt strange, going home to feed the animals and collect the mail, when
there was no one there. Mum phoned every day but there was no real news. Dad was
hanging in there, hooked up to all sorts of monitors and stuff, like you see on Shortland
Street, but he hadn‟t woken up, and Mum told us it was „touch and go‟ if he would. She
refused to let us come up to see him when Mrs. Walters took Mum some clothes and things.
Mum said it would be too upsetting for us to see him like that, so we stayed back and tried to
be helpful to Mrs. Walters and tried to keep each other‟s spirits up. It was hard. It was so
scary to think that our big, strong hard-working Dad was lying in hospital. We didn‟t dare
think about him not coming out.
When we got home on the third day, Mum was there. She looked really old, her eyes sunken
and shadowed, her hair lank and with new strands of gray. She had lost weight, too. After
the hugs and tears and exclamations, she told us Dad had woken up in the morning, and the
doctors felt that he had turned the corner at last, but it was going to be a few days before we
could be sure he was going to get better.
“He will, though, wont he, Mum? Get better?” I asked. Mum sighed and shook her head a
little.
“Not really better, Sal. Dad is going to be an invalid for the rest of his life. It‟s a miracle he
survived, and he will have to be really careful always. We will have to make some changes,
but I don‟t want to think about that until we get him home.” I glanced at Jamie and knew he
was feeling the same chill at these words. Changes! It sounded ominous. I tried to think of
what sorts of changes they might be, and then I decided I would be like Mum and not think
about them till Dad was home.
For the next month we muddled along as best we could without Dad. Jamie and I started
helping Mr. Walters with the milking every day so he could get home to milk his own cows.
Then Federated Farmers sent a man to stay in the old outside room and take over running
the farm. Finally, the day came when Dad was to come home. We ran all the way down our
road that day and raced inside, coming to a sudden halt in the kitchen doorway. Dad sat in
the old easy chair in the corner of the big kitchen, where he always sat when he was having
a break. But it wasn‟t Dad as we knew him. His face was gray and drawn; his hair, that had
been a rich springing chestnut brown, was dull and faded; his shoulders, always so broad
and strong, were stooped and sharp. Shock kept us still for a moment, and then we went
forward, carefully because he looked so frail and we were afraid of breaking him, and
hugged him awkwardly, before bursting into tears. He put his thin arms around our shoulders
and Mum came and hugged us, too, and we all wept together as the pent-up emotions of the
past month swept over us. Dad was home! But, oh, what a different home-coming to what I
had imagined.
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Within a week, after meetings and consultations with farm advisors and lawyers and Dad‟s
brother, Uncle Geoff, who lived in Opunake, we came home to find a „Farm for Sale‟ sign on
the corner of the main road, and another on the house gate. It was really happening. Mum
had warned us the day before that it probably would, but that didn‟t make it any easier when
we were faced with the reality. It took three months, during which we all watched Dad like
hawks to make sure we didn‟t miss any warning signs that he might collapse again, but the
farm eventually sold, and we faced the news that we were going to move up to Hamilton to
live, so Dad could be close to Waikato Hospital where he needed to be if he should have
another attack. Dad had grown stronger, and graduated from a wheelchair, to two sticks to
one stick, but he still walked very slowly, and couldn‟t go too far. He had gained a bit of
weight, but still looked like an old man. It was hard.
So now, I gaze at „my‟ view for the last time. Tomorrow we move and it‟s a scary thought, but
we‟ve had lots of scary times lately. I suppose we‟ll get through this one, too. There is a
movement to my right and I see Dad, walking slowly with his stick down to the water‟s edge.
He stands there, shoulders stooped, gazing at this view for the last time. He loves it as much
as I do. It was Dad who taught me to surf and to love the sea, and now he is saying good
bye just as I have been doing. I realize that his shoulders are shaking – Dad is crying! It‟s
just another shock to cope with, but suddenly I understand that this is even harder for him.
This has been his home all his life. His father was born here. Why haven‟t I understood how
hard this must be for him? After all, I‟m nearly fifteen! I‟ve been so busy feeling sorry for
myself, having to leave my home and my friends and go to a strange city. I stand and walk
down to join Dad, putting my arm around his waist. He gives a big sob and puts his arm
across my shoulders, and we stand there, tears sliding down our cheeks, grieving together.
Judge’s Comment
The Last Time is a moving story, with the events bracketed by the character surfing. This
writer knows how to put emotion on the page.
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Third Place
The Taniwha
Written by Emma Collins
The ute slewed down the dry gravel road, kicking up stones and clouds of dust on the
corners. In the cuttings the ferns were powdered with dirty grey flour. The summer had been
unusually hot and dry. A constant warm easterly wind blew and the valley baked in the heat.
With every sweeping turn, grey plumes of dust followed the sliding ute and a vacuum of
sound was left behind the violent noise of its passing. Ahead the sun was beginning to sink
behind the navy blue mountain and the shadows were growing longer. Mount Taranaki
looked like a painted back drop, surreal in the cloudless sky.
The driver was in a hurry, chopping down gears then slowing right down as he entered a
deep cutting at the bottom of a hill. It was like going into a fern lined tunnel with only
glimpses of the sky above, the dust boiling in his wake. On the other side was a bridge, a
long solid stretch of concrete and on its left buttress was the sign “Caution! One Lane
Bridge”
Through its railed sides a dark stream could be seen in the shadowed depths. The man in
the ute pulled over to the right into a small flat area carved out of the side of the cutting
overlooking the dark ribbon of water. There was just enough room to get off the road. The
tyres crunched to a halt and he killed the ignition. A cloud of gritty grey powder drifted past
behind him for awhile and he sat and waited until it settled again.
Doug popped the seat belt and turned the headlights off. He climbed out of the cab and
stood straight and stretched. Then he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, a
prelude to action. Tall and solid, his wavy dark hair was unfashionably long and unkempt. A
blue shadow was on his long jaw and under his thick eyes brows, his expression was grim.
He stalked to the back of his ute and then out into the middle of the road, listening. The was
something rather furtive about the way he moved, as he quickly came back to the green ute
and looked around again.
As he flicked the corner of the cover back and dropped the tailgate a waft of corruption
brushed passed him. Doug grimaced at the smell. He then reached into the fetid gloom
under the cover and grasped a leg, pulling the body to the edge of the tailgate. Before he
committed himself further, he paused for a moment. Doug thought "There is no good way of
doing this".
Not wanting to hold her against him, he gave the leg a quick, strong tug that sent her
thudding to the dry gravel. She fell in an ungainly heap. Death in all its forms was never
pretty in Doug's experience and hers hadn‟t been an easy death, she had struggled and
prolonged the inevitable. Leaning down he grasped the leg again and began to drag her
body onto the concrete bridge. The loose gravel made it easier and with a rasping crunching
sound, he towed her towards the middle. The inevitable cloud of dust rose behind and
settled on them, her open eyes soon clouded over. Down below in the gloom, the water
whispered darkly and a cool breeze wafted around. Despite the grip of a long drought there
was still water working its way to the sea from the swamp that gave the area its name,
Pukuwai meaning “Water belly” to the ancient Maoris.
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The bridge had been re-built in 1932 according to the plaque cemented into the buttress on
the far side, and it had withstood innumerable floods, earthquakes and incautious drivers.
Many a local had left some of their paintwork on the bridge's solid sides. On the other side of
the bridge, under the caution sign, was also a home made sign that read "Waipuketia
Bridge. Beware of the Taniwha!” which implied that the people on this side of the bridge
didn‟t need to be warned.
The only sound was the rasping noise of the gravel and Doug‟s deep breathing, the effort
raising a sweat to which the dust promptly stuck. Slithering to a stop about the middle of the
bridge, Doug dropped the leg he had been towing and turned to face downstream. Peering
into the shadowy depths below, he could see the ghostly shapes of dead trees, washed
down by the rain from the high hill country and polished smooth as they tangled in the rocks.
The Waipuketia was technically a large stream still, not becoming a river until it merged with
the Keroa around the bend out of sight. Several valleys over to the north it joined forces with
the mighty Waitara River and wound its way to the Tasman Sea. As it flowed through a deep
cutting in the papa clay, the stream was forced between the concrete uprights of the bridge
and had worn out a deep dark hole on the other side. To the unwary it would look like a good
swimming hole, if somewhat tricky to climb down to. Its eastern edge was bordered by drift
wood and rocks, a small crescent shaped beach sloped up steeply from the water and on
the far side the bank rose in a wall of ferns and scrub for 20 ft.
Doug looked down at the body at his feet. Damn, she was big. He couldn‟t think of a way of
getting her over the side without having to pick her up and hold her to his chest. She was
beginning to really smell bad.
Taking a big breath, both mentally and physically, he quickly bent down and grabbed her
legs. Bracing himself, he heaved her up with the aid of his knee and twisted in the same
movement so that she was draped over the drop off. Rosemary, her name was Rosemary.
Funny how it came to him. Completing the movement, he heaved and leaned forward so he
could watch the paleness of her body dropping down into the twilight gloom below and
splash into the inky dark water. Doug felt a whisper from the past. This place had always
creeped him out, even as a grown man he wouldn‟t climb down to the water below on a
dare. A mixture of excited horror washed over him as he strained his eyes to watch the pale
shape drifting sluggishly out into the middle of the pond as the current caught it. Despite the
heat of the late afternoon, the hairs raised on his forearms and the back of his neck. There
was something primeval about the dark pool .He leaned out over the cooling concrete edge,
solid against his belly, his feet leaving the ground.
Rosemary began to twitch, her still form taking on a macabre semblance of waking up from a
deep sleep. The thought of going into that water alive really made him shudder. The water
around her began to dance as sinuous shadows, darker than the dark water, broke the
surface tension.
And there was the Taniwha! The other eels fleeing as the water roiled and surged and the
body of Rosemary was plucked under the water, a glimpse of oily dark coils around her as
thick as a fence post. A mottled silver and grey nightmare from the depths of time. Man that
was one big eel! He could still just see the outline of the body, growing indistinct as it was
pulled down, down under the tangled roots. While there was still something to see, he
continued to watch. Then Doug leaned back and put his feet on the ground. He wiped his
forehead on his upper arm and sniffed his hands. Yuck. In the direction of the setting sun,
Doug could see lights in the distance; someone was coming down the road. He had to get
cracking. Almost 8 o‟clock, if he got a move on he would still be in time.
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Doug peeled off his shirt and walked quickly back to the ute. He threw the reeking garment
onto the back, slammed the tailgate shut and unlaced the canopy; it really needed a good air
out. He sniffed his hands and arms again. Damn, he‟d have to have a good scrub before he
went in. Luckily he had a spare shirt in the cab of the ute, where he was heading there were
certain standards, and a bare chest after dark just didn‟t cut it. Even out here, in the Eastern
Taranaki hill country there was an unwritten dress code. His mum could wash the stinking
shirt for him in the morning. It was her bloody pet sheep that had strangled herself in the
fence. Rosemary had eaten her last rose.
Judge’s Comment
The Taniwha has a surprise ending but has created enough of a picture of relationships
and events before that so the ending isn‟t the only thing happening in the story. The
opening of this story is very well crafted.
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