Michael Watson
school: Newbury School, Palmerston North | | - Newslinks, 3rd Place, Personal Experience Writing Competition | | |
Untitled
The icy temperature froze my hand in seconds. Frosted grass turned a cruel white. Two classes lined up in silence, shivering to the bone.
“No cheating.”
Zach walked back sheepishly.
“Go!” Mrs Transom barked – voice like a gunshot.
A line of blue surged forward like soldiers at war. The grass snarled in agony as our feet crushed each glistening blade. Roaring in front of the multipurpose room, my legs were as heavy as glaciers as we came to the time reaper – the back field!
My feet lunged, each step coming slower. Panting as I skirted around the final corner. My feet strode, picking up pace as I passed someone on the edge of the steel-cold concrete. One song was etched in my mind – Evermore, “Running, right now, Runnin’…”
Dodging a tree, jumping a bush, shoe sliding as I slid around the net. Two laps to go.
The next lap came faster, but not fast enough. My lips seemed to be welded shut. My legs were quivering as I pushed my taut muscles. I just wanted to fall on the cruel, unforgiving ground and rest.
“Six minutes left. Dig in,” echoed across the frozen wasteland of the back field. “That’s my goal,” I thought. Before I knew it the finish line loomed ahead just lying in front of me. My body was on the verge of collapsing but I had made it.
I was both ecstatic and exhausted, tired and triumphant. A single, golden, glorious leaf drifted past me. One cynical thought invaded my mind – “Wrong reason to be running.” |
| Kayla Storey
school: Orini Combined School | | - i.Site, 3rd Place, Personal Experience Writing Competition | | |
You put your hand where?
“You put your hand where?” wailed Mum as we sat at the lunch table …
Vroom! Vroom! On a cold frosty morning in a paddock, the grass was as green as silver beet. Riding high and fast on a four wheeler with my Dad, out of the corner of my eye I saw a cow down and two feet sticking out – two brown feet. “Dad! Dad! Look! There’s a cow down!” We raced across the paddock as fast as lightning to see the cow that was lying motionless on the ground.
“Come on girl,” Dad whispered quietly as we tried to get the cow to stand up. She was as heavy as a dingy full of water. The cow was having difficulty calving so we herded her up the race to the cowshed.
“Fetch me some gloves – the LONG ones,” grumbled Dad. As I watched Dad put his hand inside the cow I mumbled under my breath, “What does it feel like? Can I try?”
“Go on – get some gloves,” replied dad happily. Gloved up to my shoulders I slowly reached inside. It was as hot as my warm, cosy bed. Suddenly I felt a hard thing … it was a foot! “Dad! Dad! I can feel a foot!”
“Well grab it!” he ordered. The slimy leg kept slipping from my grasp but finally I held it tight and PULLED! Splat!!! The slick, wet calf landed roughly on the ground. “Well done Kayla!” Dad said excitedly.
Mum looked at me cautiously over the top of her glasses as she reached for the plate of sandwiches. “Well I sure hope you washed your hands!” |
| Claire Steel
school: Broad Bay School, Dunedin | | - Newslinks, 2nd Place, Personal Experience Writing Competition | | |
Trickster
The sharp smell of dust and hot sun gave evidence to the drought, or the almost drought. It hadn’t rained for around two weeks now, and the trees were dry and brown for the want of water. The sky, a monotonous periwinkle blue, stretched out over the rolling hills and paddocks of Broad Bay. I was missing the grey clouds and overcast skies of the Dunedin I knew and loved. This heat was new. This heat was unbearable. This heat meant that it was summer.
I was perched on the edge of an old, dirt-coated tyre. The sun was sweltering on my pale skin, a gentle breeze lifting my hair off the back of my neck. I don’t cope well with blue skies and lots of sunlight, as I always seem to become sore and bright red with sunburn.
I was soon beginning to feel uncomfortable, so seeking the cool safety of a grove of trees, I forced my weary limbs to move in their general direction. It was then that I spotted an opportunity.
It hung there unmoving and free for the taking, its rough fibres waiting for my hands to close around them; a rope swing. Excitement flooded through me, giving me a new burst of energy. I clambered over rocks and crunched through golden brown grass, arms extended in expectation. I reached it out of breath, my forehead dewed with perspiration, tugging on it carefully to make sure it was secure. I folded my hands over the plaited strands with glee. With my arms locked to take my weight, I rose up onto my tiptoes. A running jump and I was in the air. The wind soared and played in my hair, I could feel the rush of the ground below me. The sound of leaves rustling and twigs snapping filled my ears. Adrenalin shot through my blood. My heart rate quickened. Everything was a blur of colour. The rope twisted under my fingers, chafing my palms.
Suddenly, something didn’t feel right, the rope began to lengthen, unwinding itself. Right before my fear-widened eyes the rope broke! There wasn’t a falling sensation, or a whirl of wind around me. Just a jerk, a jolt and a thud as I hit the ground. My energy was gone. I felt drained and tired, arms hanging lifelessly at my sides. In my clasped hands I saw a tuft of frayed rope protruding from my worn fingers. It was rotted to the core, invisible to see from the outside. The swing had tricked me. I had been fooled by a piece of rope! Shaking my head in disbelief, I tottered away from the sloping hill feeling dazed. Leaving the trickster broken and ragged behind me. |
| Stephanie Khoo
school: Parnell District School, Auckland | | - i.Site, 2nd Place, Personal Experience Writing Competition | | |
A Race to Remember
My name is called out to line up. My heart seems to pound against my chest. A mutter escapes from my lips and falls to the ground unheard.
The sun hits my back; there’s a musty smell that hangs in the air mingling with the aroma of the grass. We’re packed like papers scrunched up together into balls – waiting for the horn, shaking nervously.
Ready…Set…Go! My legs don’t even feel like they are part of me – it’s like I’m not controlling them. Passing not one contestant, not three, not six, but seven … I am coming first. All I can think of is winning! The short grass slipping endlessly beneath my feet, I was breathing heavily. The loud cheers blur my thoughts “Focus Stephanie” that’s what I keep whispering over and over again to myself.
Suddenly a shiver shot down my spine as my foot touches a root. I found myself falling, falling, falling. The whole world seemed to spin … but before I could finish what I felt, flat on the ground I sprawled. Someone passed me. Someone, somewhere in the crowd cried out “Suck it in and get up!’ I clambered up. As fast as my legs could carry me I raced to the finish. I couldn’t see anything but a line. I passed some blurry blobs. I wasn’t sure if they were other runners or not.
As I passed the line I felt a rush of excitement. I threw my arms into the air as I fell to the ground before I could hear what place I had come.
Luckily I had come first! Cheers, claps and high fives surrounded me. I let out a big sigh! |
| Emily MacLean
school: Bombay School, South Auckland | | - Newslinks, 1st Place, Personal Experience Writing Competition | | |
A Kidsummer Night’s Dream
I consciously prepared to banish the colossal, looming shadow that obstructed my path. Slowly I manoeuvred my hand towards the thick, cascading material that one associates with stage curtains. Gingerly I enclosed my fingers around a portion of velvet, while pondering my current situation in the wings of the George Hawkins Centre. I shrugged, realigning my shoulder, ready to draw back my arm like a professional archer and reveal myself to the audience. “Breathe! Just wait for the cue,” I consoled myself. “Puck, get here now!” Marc’s voice had never sounded so ominous.
A Kidsummer Night’s Dream journey had begun eight weeks previously. Fragments of the script from the famous Shakespearean play had been distributed to all of us desiring to play a role in the world renowned stage show. Lines were studied and a cacophony of conversing voices chimed as we nervously awaited the results of our trial. “Emily MacLean, you shall play the part of Puck.” Great! Puck was a magical and mischievous sprite that my twin sister and I would portray. The decision for this was because one could appear then take concealment behind an artificial canopy of a tree, whilst the other “magically” emerged from the opposite side of the stage. I felt fantastic rifling through the pages of my new script. My eyes randomly focused on a particular poetical passage of lines that filled half a page. The text adjacent to the verse spelt ‘Puck’. It was a very lengthy dialogue. My stomach lurched at the prospect of remembering and reciting more than just a few lines.
Rehearsals were the next milestone of our exploration into the world of Shakespeare. Over the first few weeks, practise consisted of running through lines whilst getting accustomed to cues and entrance locations. Amidst these there were also dances to be learnt. The choreographer arrived two weeks later. The warm up, to begin with, was rather intimidating, as Sascha was overly flexible, but she was a genuine person and an excellent teacher. The selected music, a dramatic fusion and, after an elaborate sequence had finally been perfected, the atmosphere was pulsating with radiant high energy.
After four weeks loaded with dance practices and rehearsals, the scripts were confiscated. Soon it was time for a new evolution of humour as the costumes were revealed. “And this is for you.” Mrs Driller unearthed a dark green tunic and a soft brown hat, complete with a protruding and patterned feather. This show was going to be breathtakingly stunning with such outfits. My only concern was delivering my lines to Marc in his garment. I mean don’t get me wrong, it was very flattering with the enhancing, complementary colour scheme of green tunic and neon yellow tights. It was 99 per cent guaranteed to send me into fits of laughter every time I made eye contact. He looked ridiculous with his cumbersome, lofty feather hat. But, as they say, “the show must go on!”
The dress rehearsal at the George Hawkins Centre finally dawned with an exquisite cloudless day. Approximately 70 students beneath the tranquil blue sky jostled for prime positions on a stereotype school bus with around 20 seats. This restrained and restricted us to a luxury of three passengers per opulently cushioned chair. The journey was jeopardous, and once the hefty vehicle accelerated in unison with the roaring engine, noise blossomed from the back seat. Everyone was in harm’s way as a harmonious melody from the “BackSEAT Boys” took shape into an appalling remix of “99 Bottles”.
On arrival the buzz of excitement spread through the cosmetically decorated crowd. The enthusiasm was infectious. Soon coloured fabrics adorned the stage and our rehearsal commenced. After many forgotten lines, absent cast members, and props that didn’t appear on cue, the director approached slowly, walking purposefully towards us with his footsteps echoing portentously and nothing short of a full blown thunderstorm contorting his features. He crossed the expanse of the vast platform and scrutinised the cast, and then he spoke. “That was a complete disaster; the nicest thing I can say about your performance was that it was absolutely dreadful.” An eerie silence fell like a blanket on the cast at the most cankerous manner of the usually humorous M.R. Walley. “But from an optimistic point of view,” I speculated soundlessly, “a traumatic rehearsal always ensures a great show,” – or so everyone hoped, crossing their fingers for the tradition to withstand.
Backstage, all were encased in a nervous frame as they pondered the outcome of the prior rehearsal. All languid personalities or nonchalance that had once existed was now exiled. A melodious tune wafted like dappled sunlight to penetrate our ears. The key to which the prologue was composed tinkled away like bubbly laughter signalling the beginning of our first show. The song ended, readying us for our entrance into the first number. All was orchestrating sleekly, following through until my first scene prepared to spring, presenting itself with a hasty introduction that took me by surprise.
My senses abruptly vaporised, leaving me disorientated. I inhaled then strode through the curtain onto the stage, my mind brimming with spontaneous new found confidence. I bowed deeply, observing the intricate composition of the floor. I arose, my hat lurching simultaneously with the nerves in my stomach, threatening to plummet to the stage and disrupt the momentary quintessence. I began the excerpt that my eyes had first distinguished in the script. “I am the merry wanderer of the night, Puck by name, unseen by human sight.” After the first line escaped the imprisonment of my mouth, an emotion of paranormal calm enveloped me and that second I was indescribably energetic and rejuvenated. So for the remainder of the performance I just relaxed with adrenalin, hopefully conveying my exuberance to the expectant audience.
Following the performance, the parents’ and teachers’ faces bore notably perkier expressions as they praised and minutely critiqued the effect and success of the show. For the cast and chorus, who had all been dubious or indecisive with opinions on audience and productions in general, now chatted animatedly backstage – a bit like agitated sparrows. For me, the hard hours spent labouring to music and pouring over an eternity of script sentences, was now rewarded in the eyes, smiles and exclamations of the audience. Perhaps the most humorous component were the gasps of young children when my twin and I, dressed identically for obvious purposes, emerged from either side of the stage and proceeded to the front with rehearsed synchronisation. “There are two of them!” exasperated five year olds would voice. These and many other original jokes and remarks associated with twins radiated like wildfire in concurrence with our appearance.
A Kidsummer Night’s Dream was an unforgettable experience and many bouts of previously unknown talent were exposed through the production. It was such a glorious array and the definition of what Bombay School can produce. It established many unforgettable memories in which I was privileged to participate in. I will always cherish the bonds it created and its effect is forever embedded in my heart.
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