We hope you enjoy this selection from our up-and-coming creative writers.

By Nathan Rivers (Junior Creative Writing Prize Winner)

Summer. Warm, welcoming rays of sun envelop me in a cosy blanket while the occasional breeze gently sways the leaves of the towering oak trees surrounding the park. Sparrows perched on stands like sports fans in a stadium chirp cheerfully in unison. Their bright, lively chants fill the air with an encouraging, uplifting song. There is an expansive field covered in a bright green carpet where dozens of energetic children tirelessly chase each other. Screaming. Squealing. Yelling. As I playfully roll around on the soft grass, I breathe in the pleasant scent of a freshly-mown lawn while an abundance of light feathers tickle my arms and legs. In a quaint little pond nearby, surrounded by smooth rocks, small schools of fish dart aimlessly in random directions under a sheet of glimmering glass. Humble frogs bask in the relaxing sunlight before retreating into the shallow water, alerted by a sudden finger pointing in their direction. Rows of squatting children stare endlessly and excitedly at the peculiar life in the pond. An ice-cream truck cruises by. They turn their heads like meerkats as they hear a joyous jingle that captures their attention. One by one, with smiling faces giddy with excitement, they line up and patiently wait for their sweet, delicious ice-cream.

As the clear, blue sky begins to turn a mellow orange, the oak trees start to cast long shadows over the park. My father heaves me away. I try to scramble out of his arms, desperate to stay just a little bit longer. He tells me we’ll be back another time. I reluctantly buckle my seatbelt and turn to look back at the park. The door swings shut. Slam.

Winter. With fond memories of what it once was, I slowly stroll through the abandoned grounds. The cold, dry air sucks the warmth out of my body and a chilling wind brushes past my face. Bare, withered trees stand solemnly, looking down at the casket of the lifeless park, illuminated by the soft glow of the full moon. Grey snow drifts down from the sky like cremated ashes being poured from a jar. Instead of lively sparrows, mournful magpies cry out in a sorrow echo, lamenting the now-forgotten past. The piercing green eyes of a black cat stares at me from afar and gives off a low purr before vanishing into the shadows. Scant spots of frosted grass litter the rough, uneven field and the peeling skin of a deflated football feebly flaps in the wind. In the place of the pond, once brimming with life, a craggy, dark patch surrounded by rugged rocks. An unpleasant stench of compost and earth emanates from it.

I can almost hear the young children running around, screaming, squealing, and yelling, the ice cream truck jingling, and the sparrows chirping. These memories will never be forgotten, so I decide to leave. I’ll be back another time.

A rusty tin can rattles past me as the wind howls with one final gust.

By Micah Ennion

We stood. We listened. We listened under the vibrant red gate that loomed over us, intricate carvings telling stories and legends of old. And on the sandy cliff Aunty Molly, the Kaikaranga, stood proudly in her Sunday red-band gumboots. She belted out her warm welcome. Her solemn chant echoing across the valleys behind her, cascading down across the ocean, “ka oro tana karanga ki nga taiororua, ka rere ki raro ki te moana.”

Aunty Molly's presence was like a comforting embrace that enveloped all of us. Her chant was not just a lumbering dirge, but a bridge that connected us closer to our culture. Aunty Molly’s wiry hair danced in the wind, her white locks matching the snowy mountain caps surrounding our marae. Her hair framed her wrinkles perfectly, revealing the lifetime of joy she had experienced and shared with others. They were kind wrinkles, with her kind eyes, sunken and shaded behind her bushy grey eyebrows.

And her moko kauae, so intricately carved into her face, was sculpted over the mountainous terrain of her wrinkly chin. The tā moko had a large mangopare, reflecting her strength and pride, with korus decorating the outside, and the pounamu toki. She wore her toki with great mana. It was out for everyone to see, hanging around her scratchy beige shawl, the square of hemp haphazardly draped over her shoulders. Her pickle-green possum wool-mix jumper kept her warm on the cold spring morning, the antarctic breeze blessing the beach with its frost, ka whakamānawa te hautonga i te takutai me tana hukapapa.

Haere Mai

Haere Mai

Haere Mai

Aunty Molly’s words flew through the ancient landscape, and over the sacred sea.

And we took our first step onto the marae.

Storm by Marcus Ridge

The storm approaches tenderly, gently caressing my skin like a close friend. It brings forth a subtle shift in temperature: a coolness, a reassurance, but one that raises goosebumps and sends a shiver down my spine. As the gales grow, it becomes a forceful gust, tugging at my clothes and stroking my hair in its invisible grasp.

Storms bring forth arrays of textures and sensations. With the change in tempo, the pattering rain transforms into a torrential downpour. The drops grow larger and heavier, pelting against my skin with a force that stings, yet it is invigorating and overwhelming at the same time. I stand entranced, elevated by the storm’s fight and fury. Amidst the rain, the thunder roars like a primal beast. It is a deep, reverberating rumble, resonating through the air and vibrating within my chest. Each roar of thunder sends shockwaves through me, a visceral reminder of its might. The strength that threatens to engulf me carries the immense energy and passion within the storm, making me feel small but powerful in its presence.

The ground beneath my feet grows slick and muddy, saturated with water. I can feel the squelch of each step, the fading resistance when I sink into the softened ground. Then, there are the subtle touches that go unnoticed amidst the chaos: flicks of mud and the rhythmic wind. These small shimmering touches hint at the magic and wonder within the chaos.

In this storm, touch guides me through an exhilarating experience. It connects me to reality. It connects me to all biotic and abiotic things. It connects me to the raw power of nature, reminding me of my place within this vast and ever-changing world. Because of this, I embrace the storm, letting it sing symphonies and drama, surrendering to the journey that awaits, knowing that I am a mere part of something more.

The Stranger by Obaidullah Zaman

The putrid smell of incinerated corpses encapsulated the air. Although long ago, I stood there, shoulder to shoulder with my brothers. In front of us in the dimly lit and barren soil stood the figure of immense power and might. Lord Qu was a figure both imposing and grotesque. Clad in ebony armour which seemed to be formed in the very essence of the darkness he dwells in, he stood towering over our comparatively miniscule figures. His armour shimmered with an eerie and otherworldly sheen. Each of his limbs were unnaturally elongated, unlike any man or beast we had ever encountered. To us it seemed like the very fabric of the universe bowed to his will and contorted around his monstrous form.

His gauntlets gleamed with a malevolent amber red light coated in a layer of fresh blood. Each finger ended in a serrated and sharp point, a testament to his cruel nature. His armour was etched with an obscure pattern which no human could decipher. The symbols shifted and writhed as if they had life themselves.

A thin smell of smoke infused with the artificial fragrance of hair gel encapsulated the air. In that dark and dimly lit lounge, it was just him and myself. Rows with 8 chairs and columns with 6 chairs, meant that the room had 48 places which could be occupied during the rush hour. However, this late, only two seats were occupied, his and mine. The man smoked from his dark wooden tobacco pipe, despite the obvious warning signs reprimanding his actions. He had a coiffure which was combed over from left to right.

His attire was simple, yet it held an undeniable allure. A faded, well-worn tank top clung to his sculpted form, its once-vibrant hue now tamed by countless days under the unforgiving sun. The garment bared his arms, revealing a dichotomy of masculinity and artistry. His left arm was completely covered with indecipherable tattoos which looked as if they were pushing each other for the slightest bit of space.

As I watched, he raised a tarnished wooden pipe to his lips, the gentlest curl of smoke snaking from the bowl. The scent of sweet tobacco wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the park's foliage. The soft ember of his tobacco glowed like a distant star, casting an ethereal glow on his rugged features.

All of a sudden, he rose up from his chair in a hurry. At that very moment, I realised his freakishly tall height. Almost a foot taller than myself, you could debate that he was a giant. He slowly spun around towards me and our eyes met. From the fraction of a second before I lowered my gaze, I saw his deep vanta black pupils. They stared into my soul, I felt all the stories that had shaped his life. I felt all the battles he won and all the ones he lost.

Without any further notice, he started to advance towards me. Perhaps, he wanted to ask me about something. But no, he just trudged past without even paying the slightest bit of attention.