Short Story Competition12 Mahurangimatters January 13, 2016

Short Story Competition

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Mahurangi storytellers celebratedThe following three stories were judged the best in the Mahurangi Matters 2015 Short Story Competition. All entries can be read at localmatters.co.nzMahurangi Matters thanks the judges Lisa Outwin and Lorraine Orman, and Matakana Village Books for providing a book voucher for the runner-up. The winner of the open section received $400 while the winner of the teen section received $250.The competition will be held again this year, with entries opening mid-year.

A Question of BiasBy Bob Sharp

From behind her desk, the teacher smiled down at the studiously bowed heads of her five-year-old charges, fifteen would-be water colour Picassos, labouring over their masterpieces.When twenty-six-year-old Maggie MacTavish first arrived at Matakana Primary School five years earlier, she had, of necessity, worked hard at softening a broad Highland accent. And even now, although readily understood by her first-year students, they still considered that their teacher ‘talked funny’, and adored her all the more for it. Only when provoked to anger did that nice Miss MacTavish lapse into the Gaelic vernacular of her homeland. That she was not, on these rare occasions fully understood, was, in all probability, no bad thing.The close of another school day found Maggie, now retreated to her rented cottage, happily engrossed with watering, weeding and generally fussing over already immaculate flower beds. As she worked, the germ of an idea for the end of term class project first took root, rapidly grew

and finally blossomed.The following morning, fifteen pairs of eyes watched the teacher enter the classroom. “Good morning children.” “Good morning Miss MacTavish,” came the enthusiastic rejoinder.“I thought it might be fun,” Maggie began, “to hold our very own garden plant show, starting at home with a potted seedling. Then,” she continued, “on the last day before we break for

Open Section Winnerwith extremely sad expressions.Liz O’Neil, a noted author of children’s stories, sat busy at her keyboard when five-year-old Jeremy, just home from school, burst into the room. So excited was he when telling of the proposed school project, he almost forgot to hand his mum the teacher’s note. Liz read and quickly understood Miss MacTavish’s objectives, of getting the kids to take a day-by-day involvement with their chosen plant, and to observe how seedlings in particular, responded to some TLC. Then later would come the development of branches, leaves and ultimately flower heads to be marvelled at. In her note, the teacher expressed a hope that parents might provide a seedling, potting mix, some nutrients perhaps, and above all, a little guidance along the way. Liz put the note down, “What a wonderful idea,” she said, giving the boy a hug. Already no stranger to gardening, Jeremy loved helping his mum in the flower beds, and, as Liz confided to husband Bill, “From somewhere our boy’s inherited green fingers.” So now, with an impatient publisher’s deadline looming, she had no qualms in directing Jeremy to select a plant for himself. “Get one of those new seedlings you helped plant out, and you know where the

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the summer holidays, bring your plants in for judging, and later there will be prizes for the best cared for, healthiest ones. I’ll give you notes,” she added, “for your mums and dads so they can help you get started.” Next Maggie explained how and why plants responded to care and attention. On the blackboard such specimens were drawn with smiley flower head faces, while neglected ones were depicted

“

”

A few days passed before Liz, puzzled

at finding no missing seedling in the

recently planted border, questioned

Jeremy over his plant selection.

Short Story Competition 13MahurangimattersJanuary 13, 2016

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pots and potting mix are kept.” As an afterthought, she called after the rapidly retreating figure, “And don’t forget to change out of your school clothes first.” But Jeremy, by now out of earshot, already had the potting shed door opened. Just beyond the new plantings his mum had spoken of, in an as yet uncultivated area, Jeremy found his plant. Hemmed in by grass and weeds, its tiny veined and slightly hairy leaves of an attractive silvery green colour grew almost flat to the ground. With mounting excitement he first carefully lifted, then transferred to a pot the plant he felt certain would grow into a prize-winning one.A few days passed before Liz, puzzled at finding no missing seedling in the recently planted border, questioned Jeremy over his plant selection. But the boy, with barely contained glee, shook his head, “It’s going to be a surprise Mum, I’ll show it to you when it’s a bit bigger.” Liz had to wait two whole weeks before the youngster marched into her office, and, bursting with pride, revealed his potted treasure. Incredulous, Liz started to speak, stopped, swallowed twice, then smiled brightly, “Why, it’s lovely Jeremy, and I can see it’s been very well cared for.” Alone with Bill later she told him of their son’s choice of seedling. Once Bill had stopped laughing, he said, “You did right not to disappoint him, after all, as his teacher said, it’s the attention and care given the entry that matters first and foremost.”For Maggie’s classroom of youngsters,

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the last four weeks before the eagerly awaited plant show and summer holidays seemed to drag into an eternity. None more so than for Jeremy, who fed, fussed and fretted over his show exhibit while almost constantly pestering Liz with his concerns. “Does it need spraying for bugs Mum?” or, “There’s a black spot on one leaf,” and, “Shouldn’t it be growing faster?” One evening, now into the final week of the school term, the troubled boy reported the development of a strange, bulbous growth on the plant. “Why, it’s coming into flower, and just in time for the show,” Liz, with only slight hesitation reassured him.In the afternoon preceding the final big day, Miss MacTavish pointed to a newly erected trestle table. “In the morning put your entries on here,” she said while handing out cards with attaching strings. “Write your name on the label,” she added, “and tie it onto your plant ready for judging.”On the following morning, with their teacher unavoidably detained and not yet arrived, most of the entries were already displayed on the table when Jeremy entered carrying his exhibit. Another boy looked up, pointed and yelled, “Hey look, Jeremy’s grown a weed.” The others quickly crowded around, laughing and taking up the chant, “Jeremy’s grown a we-eed, Jeremy’s grown a we-eed.” The dumbstruck youngster, bewildered by the taunts, looked down at the flower topped plant in his hands. His lower lip trembled, and although determined not to cry, one escaped tear rolled down his cheek as the teacher walked

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in. She took in the situation immediately, a flush of anger colouring her cheeks. Although Maggie’s next words, spoken in her native tongue, were not understood by Jeremy’s tormentors, their meaning left no room for doubt. At her side, the boy still stood, lost in misery and humiliation as the teacher gently took the plant from his unresisting hands.Maggie MacTavish regarded the specimen with its attractive pincushion flower, unprepared for a sudden rush of nostalgia, of homesickness, that for a brief moment threatened to overwhelm her. She heard again the skirl of distant pipes carried on a cool Highland breeze, saw black cragged peaks soaring above their heather studded ramparts, before turning, just a touch misty eyed, to the boy. “Why, it’s a most beautiful flower, Jeremy,” she said, then casting an eye over the other entries added, “and the healthiest plant. I can see you’ve given it lots of love and care.”She reached into a drawer where lay three blue ribboned cards, each printed with the words, ‘winner, first equal’. Alongside were six red and six green adorned ones for second and third equal respectively. The prizes were there too, in the form of fifteen chocolate coated nut bars. Maggie selected a blue tasselled card, wrote on it, then, taking care to avoid some sharp needles, attached it to the proudly erect stem of Scotland’s national flower.Home from school, Jeremy’s excited, incoherent babble preceded the explosion into his mum’s office. Laughing, Liz hugged the boy, while noting the card tied to his plant. The blue attaching ribbons, with a simple eloquence, explained all. Looking closer, she saw that the printed card had been amended by hand from the original ‘winner, first equal’, to now read ‘Supreme Winner’.Recognising the likely sentimental link between Jeremy’s winning entry and the judge’s nationality, Liz gave a smile of quiet approval. That sweet young Maggie MacTavish should be forgiven a little harmless bias.

A Coastal WonderlandBy Bo Blazey

Sweat trickled down Pete’s forehead, momentarily caught in his dark eyebrows, then stung his brown eyes, forcing him to pull away from the telescopic sight and mop at them with the slightly grubby hanky that he kept tucked in his top pocket.Dammit! He had sworn he would never get himself back in this situation, but here he was and it was so bloody hot – more like Ghana than Takatu.He checked the scope again quickly, saw that all was well up at the roadblock, then leaned back against the manuka brush wall so he could have a drink and eat the rest of the sandwich that was in danger of being overrun by ants.It tasted good, earthy. Home-made cheese and pickle, and his own bread. It all took so much more time and effort, but these were the good things about their new isolation.

The maimai was getting way too hot to be comfortable now. They would have to open it out to get some air flowing in the summer months. The so-called experts had been wrong about so many things but they definitely got their global warming predictions right.Pete took another quick glance through the scope to check all was clear where they had blocked Takatu Road. Handy things those diggers when parked two abreast on a dirt road.He looked longingly at the bay where the cool, clear ocean mocked his sweating body. High tide and it completely filled the old flats where the road used to go, before the sea level rose a metre-and-a-half . . . and counting.

Short Story Competition14 Mahurangimatters January 13, 2016

Open Section Runner-upfrom previous page

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He and Rosie had moved up here to enjoy that ocean, the waves, the fishing . . . the freedom . . . but everything had changed so quickly.They had thought themselves so clever when the third, and final, financial crash hit and took all the services down with it. Their time spent fine-tuning the solar power set-up, their water system, the gardens, all seemed vindicated as people fled the city, trying to find somewhere with food, water and safety.His neighbour, Chris, had helped him build a big, piss-off gate and fence, and they had taken turns to patrol their land. That had been enough to see off the first wave of refugees from Auckland.The upside of that trouble was that it had forced the landowners at Takatu to get organised to defend themselves. Pete remembered the meeting where they had been asked by Chris to bring along any firearms they had. Rosie had gone without him because he had started to leak unwilling tears at the thought of having to pick up a rifle again. The others thought they had hit the jackpot, of course, when they found out he was an ex-army sniper. That was until Pete supplied some graphic detail about his kills in Ghana.Things had been getting back to some semblance of order after the Third Financial Crash but then the flu had arrived. It was as if God had been biding his time, waiting for humans to get a bit run down, and then hitting them with a bug they couldn’t fight. That was when things turned mean.The gate, the fence and the patrols worked OK at first, but then, in one night, three of the owners closer to the Omaha turnoff got burnt out and killed. Several gangs began terrorising the area and stealing anything they could lay hands on.

It was the day after those families were killed that Rosie told him she was pregnant. He had cried and

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cried, and had trouble stopping. He had cried because he was so happy that he was going to be a father and because he was overwhelmed with love for Rosie, and he had cried because of the shitty, shitty world his baby was going to be born into and his fear of not being able to protect his offspring.That was when he picked up a rifle again. He was going to defend his wife and child, or die trying. He showed the others how to make IEDs and they placed them up on Takatu Road, around about where Pete calculated aggressors might park up to check out the situation ahead. Then they built several hideouts, like the maimai Pete was sitting in now, with a clear line of sight to the road. After fortifying the old pa site above Omaha, they were as covered as they could be for the small community they were protecting.Glancing out across Christian Bay, the riffles and sparkles on the water showed Pete that the afternoon sea breeze was picking up. That was what he was meant to be doing – going windsurfing and fishing – not sweltering away in a bloody hot maimai, looking down the barrel of a damned rifle.‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’ he shouted at the musty confines of the hut. Pete hung his head, breathed deeply and watched the droplets of his sweat make patterns on the floor.The radio by his knee suddenly crackled and Sharon’s voice came through.

Short Story Competition 15MahurangimattersJanuary 13, 2016

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‘Incoming vehicle, blue sedan, four people by the look of it, no weapons that I can see.’

Pete wiped his hands and forearms carefully, and settled in behind the rifle’s scope. He saw the car come to a stop at the top of the hill, right alongside the IED. The occupants of the car got out and looked down the road at the diggers forming the roadblock. The driver was unarmed but the other three had rifles. There was a short discussion before they got back into the car and slowly drove down the road to stop about ten metres short of the roadblock.Pete picked up the radio. ‘Stay cool Chris. We’ve rehearsed this. You know what to do.’Through the scope, Pete watched the conversation take place between the visitors and Chris, who was out of sight to them, hidden behind the digger’s bucket that had been lowered down to road level. Chris was a good man and Pete knew he could rely on him to deliver the warning clearly and calmly. He now tightened his finger on the trigger and chose the red-head as his first target, in case they decided not to retire. To Pete’s great relief, the men got back into the car, turned around and drove back up the hill.

He picked up the radio again. ‘Nice work Chris. Report please Sharon.’‘They appear to be leaving . . . no! They’ve turned around at the old

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milking shed and they’re coming back slowly. Shit!’‘OK, stay calm everyone. Keep talking Sharon.’‘Slowly edging back up to the top of the hill. And stopped. They’ll just be able to see the diggers from there.’Pete replied, ‘Yeah, I can see them from here so they’re in range for me but possibly out of range of IED 1.’‘Bad news guys,’ squawked Sharon’s voice through the tinny speaker, ‘there’s a sort of van coming up the road with metal plates welded all over it. No idea how many occupants.’Pete could hear the panic creeping into her voice.‘It’s OK Sharon, they still have no idea that you and I are here or where the IEDs are so just keep talking us through it.’‘OK, sorry. Van getting closer. Pulling up behind the sedan now. Occupants of sedan getting out and talking to driver and passenger of the van. I think there’s other people in the back of the van.’Pete jumped in. ‘You’re doing great Sharon. Chris, stand by, and have the shotgun and pistol ready. Keep going Sharon.’‘The occupants of the sedan are going back to their car. Sitting . . . sitting . . . edging forward to the crest! Right next to IED 1 now! Should be in sight for Chris.’‘I can see them,’ Chris replied.Pete sighed. So, what he hoped had been finished forever must start again. He quickly mopped his hands again and thought about his beautiful, pregnant wife. A slight waft of salty breeze circled the hut and made him smile. A seagull’s cry, the deep blue sky and a syrupy sun – it was a beautiful day. He felt his heart calm to professional pace as he lowered his eye to the rifle’s scope. One finger caressed the trigger and his other hand held the radio close.‘OK guys, here’s how it’s going to happen.’

ExsanguinationBy Lauren Brebner-Fox

She had never listened like this before.Really listened.Listened to the sounds that had always passed her ears but never reached her mind.The sounds that would fill every moment of silence - if there was any.The sounds that once dominated but were now overruled.She had never listened like this before.Until now.Now she could hear the drip of water falling off leaves. Now she could hear the secret language of the birds as they fluttered and preened. Now she could hear the overhead branches dance in the wind and now she could hear her place in it. Hear her body scrambling to suck as much oxygen rich air as it could into her lungs and hear her breath rattle as it was pushed back out.Now.She could hear it.Now was deafening. 

Now was something she never listened to. The sounds just a background noise that grew fainter as the years went on. There was always something else, now was just boring. She never cared. Never wanted to hear it. She was always busy and there was always later. But part of her realised that now passed too quickly. That now seemed to never exist. That in her mind it was just future. By the time she realised now was there it was gone.Past.

It was only in these few moments she realised how many of the precious ‘nows’ she had wasted and how few she had left. She wished to be able

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Short Story Competition16 Mahurangimatters January 13, 2016

Teen Fiction Winnerfrom previous page to see, see the sounds, see the world

around her one last time. But when her oxygen deprived muscles finally pried her eyelids away, colours and shapes blurred together and everything started spinning causing a wave of dizziness to pass over her. She quickly closed her eyes focusing on her rapid heart beat, the one lasting sign she had that told her she was still here. Still alive. Even after the events of the night. Events she had never once in her life expected to happen to her.

The night had started fine.Familiar, safe, normal.She had left her friend’s place a little later than usual but the walk wasn’t far. She wasn’t worried. She didn’t even think she should be worried. She remembered a hand, cold and strong, latching onto her throat. She remembered trying to scream but there being no air. From then on it was confusion. A blur that she was too weak to make sense of and then she had woken up here. Her wrists slit, the effects of blood loss already taking its toll. The metallic smell of blood creeping up her nose. The scent of death lingering in the air.

She had never really thought about death.Death was a whisper that ruined the dreams of forever. Death was a unknown country – the only visitors silent and pale.Death was feared. Death was wanted. Death was everywhere.

She ignored death.Her eyes passing over its constant shadow, even when it took those who surrounded her. It was not something that worried her, nor was it something she had ever wanted. She was alive and that was that. However she knew enough to realise that it was going to arrive far sooner than she would of have thought. She could feel the

flow of her blood over her fingertips and hear it drip onto the fallen leaves beneath her. The drips acting like a morbid hourglass. Except this hourglass couldn’t be flipped over and restarted again. With each drip she felt herself getting dizzier and dizzier her mind swirling on the brink of unconsciousness.

She guessed in a movie or book this would be the time she would be rescued. Pulled back from the brink of death. Even though she longed and hoped to be saved, she knew it was unrealistic. She knew she should just accept her fate. End the pain. Let go. She strained to hear her surroundings one last time, to hear the comfort of life that seemed so effortless.

She drew in a ragged breath.Then let it out.She was Jemma Ashlyn.Now she was dead.

Epilogue

Teenager’s body found on river bankThe body of 17-year-old Jemma Ashlyn was found by a search and rescue team today after she was reported missing on Saturday morning at 2am, police say.Detective Wayne Brown says a post-mortem will be carried out on the body later this week. Until then police are unable to confirm how she died but suicide was a possibility. However after talking to Jemma’s family and friends they will investigate other causes of death. Jemma’s body was found on the tree covered bank of the Mahurangi river at low tide.Jemma was a student at Mahurangi College and will be missed by her family and friends. Jemma’s mother Diane Ashlyn posted on the Facebook remembrance page set up after Jemma’s death: “There is no word to describe what our family is going through right now”. But has refused to comment to media about her daughter’s death.