Poetry

1st Place - Charles Ross

Roto/Lake (Inspired by Karlo Mila)

A hollowed trace

left behind

after the retreat

of a slow sliding being

from another age,

remaining

like a scar

from a good memory

like proof of age,

and of a history

that has created a new vessel

now holding cold depths,

its flat top on calm days like a pastoral plain

glass-glossed surface

encompassing another plane,

physical, mental, or something else,

entirely

utterly endless underneath,

or whipped up to frenzy

coaxed by the wind

frothing peaks

pebbles turning at shore

so solidly freezing, breath stealing

a post-submersion gasp

trying to pull air

into frozen lungs:

proof of life.

[roto / lake]

2nd Place

Molly Wilson Gallagher

Autopsy

I wince.

I shudder.

I am repulsed by the sight.

But I can't seem to look away.

I NEED

To Stare

To Gawk

To Pinpoint every detail,

Tear it apart feature by feature like so many have tried before.

What is this THING?

It's all deformed.

Too small in some places.

And far too big in others.

It’s too wide, And too thin

at the Same time.

What happened to this THING?

There are lines scattered all over it

Like a prisoner tallying his days.

Brutal.

Some red

Some purple

Some beige

Some wounds open

Some wounds healed.

What attacked this THING?

It looks, melted, like someone left the candle burning for too long

Wax spilling over the edges in all the wrong places

It’s definitely

SOMETHING.

What could create such a beast

Such a creature.

No one would dare touch it

No one could ever go near it

No one should even have to see it

AND YET.

My eyes can't look away

My mind can’t pull away

And My body can't turn away

From the mirror.

3rd Place - Bella Gascoyne

Jane Doe

The Jane Doe tells you what she knows and she tells you that you will find it in the negative space/ liminal space/ wide open/ claustrophobic phobic/ space/ in the wide open paddock with Brazen Lambs/ dead lambs/ dead gone/ lost ghost lambs/ lamb hide/ lamb eye/ bloody eye/ bloody mary/ blood moon/ blue moon-

I want to be a Brazen Lamb

The Jane Doe tell you what she knows and she tells you that she doesn’t know Anything

but the

tick tick tick of the sandman's crystal hourglass

but the

drip drip dip of the perspiring fridge in the middle of the desert with the desserts built for Versaille

but the

Lost face/ lost name/ lost place/ lost soul like the lost ghost lamb/ dead gone/ dead lambs/ the dead rotting Brazen Lambs-

I want to be a Brazen Lamb

But the Jane Doe is a dead Doe/ dead gone/ lost ghost Doe/ draped in Doe hide with her long lost Doe eyes.

The Jane Doe tells you what she knows and she tells you that she is the Jane Doe with the Brazen Lamb soul with the blood shot/ dead gone/ wandering/ ghost Doe eyes and that she wants to be that Brazen Lamb but she doesn’t know Anything except for the tick tick tick and the drip drip drip with her lost face/ lost name/ lost place/ she tells you that she is her only mourner with her melancholy wail at a blue moon/ blood moon/ in the paddock with the Brazen Lambs she tells you that she is the Doe in your do - re - mi - fa - so - la - ti a lost note/ a lost sound/ the tree fell and no one heard the crash she is The jane doe-

I want to be a Brazen Lamb.

Highly Commended - Finlay McGilchrist

Have you Ever

Have you ever felt angry

For something you weren’t responsible for?

I’m sure you have,

As I’m sure we all have.

Why, though?

I’m not asking whether

You felt responsibility;

I’m assuming that.

Because humanity has long

Battled with guilt.

“Christ died for our sins,

So we are obliged

To commemorate Him

And His values”

How passive;

Who obliges us to?

Although he did say:

“The meek shall

Inherit the Earth”

I’m sure he’d be proud.

It doesn’t make us

Responsible, however;

We surrendered our responsibility

To something higher.

On one hand, we acknowledge

The limits of our wisdom,

And this self-awareness

Composes much of our humanity.

On the other, how do we know

We can’t be masters

Of our own fates?

Can’t we fight it?

-

Have you ever fought

For something that mattered to you?

I’m not sure

Whether you have.

I’m sure you have

Plenty of things

That - in hindsight -

You would have fought for.

Why not fight for everything?

Well then we’d be extinct

We might as well not have fought

Nor existed at all.

No matter how enlightened

We think we are.

Why not accept one’s fate?

Well then at best

We’d still be in the stone ages

Or entirely extinct

No matter how resourceful

We allow ourselves to be.

“I think,

Therefore I am”

How do we know

That’s really true?

Do we want to fight

For our axioms to be true?

Or just say

“Yeah, that sounds about right”?

How do we know

Fate isn’t our own making?

How do we know

If anything is true at all?

Why is humanity hellbent

On testing its limits?

Why does humanity have

An insatiable appetite for this?

If there is a god,

Would they approve?

Conversely, why is humanity

Complacent in its position?

Why does humanity have

Not the motivation for justice?

If there is a god,

Would they approve?

What is the point of asking these questions?

I don’t mean from me to you;

Why is it important to us

That we are pensive on this matter?

This is our humanity speaking.

But not necessarily humanity

As a whole.

But is it possible?

How can one speak

On behalf of all?

Is this what it feels like

To be insane?

-

So tell me:

Have you ever felt responsible?

What for?

Highly Commended - Payton McMahon

The difference between sisterhood and brotherhood.

I find it fascinating the difference between

Sisterhood and brotherhood

Brotherhood is automatic respect

Whilst sisterhood is automatic safety

Brotherhood is a show of power

Sisterhood is a sharing of it

Brotherhood is the clasping of hands

Sisterhood is the holding of them

Brotherhood is “boys will be boys”

And “not all men…”

While sisterhood is 97%

Sisterhood is survival.

In a room full of women, a woman feels at peace

In a room full of men, a woman feels a fear like no other

Brotherhood tears down women

And sisterhood survives brotherhood

Creative Prose

1st Place - Jimmy Muir

“Humans can’t live in the present, like animals do. Humans are always thinking about the future or the past. So it’s a veil of tears, man. I don’t know anything that’s going to benefit me now, except love. I just need an overwhelming amount of love. And a nap. Mostly a nap”

Townes Van Zandt

The gum trees swayed in the muggy afternoon breeze. There was a storm a comin’. Ereclease Jovesun’s blood dribbled down his dress shirt. The thick, dark liquid stained the embroidered magnolia flowers, just above his heart. There was a storm a comin’. He reached up to his busted nose with his busted fingers and grunted lightly through his busted lips, at the realisation that he was leaking quite profusely. There was a storm a comin’. Joseph heaved across from him, eyes wide with a locomotive-like fury. He was a big lad. Broad and muscular, the favourite of his parents at the age of twenty-three.

His face was a hot poker red, not uncommon for a Carlyon. The powerful family had a history of violence in this part of the country, tormenting townsfolk and police alike from high up on their Pig-Eye Hill, a grand manor looking down onto the town of Warracknabeal. Joseph was their youngest, boastful and proud of his inherited foundation of guts and marrow.

Ereclease’s pony lay in the dying sun to the side of the dirt road. The flies already circled the lengthy gash on her throat. The blood dribbled down our protagonist’s forearm as Joseph charged, aiming his shoulder at Ereclease’s ribcage. Stepping out of the way instinctively, Ereclease moved closer to the fenced off sheep paddocks to one side of the path. Joseph’s associates, who could only be called lackeys, formed a semicircle around our hero.

You ain’t getting out of this, farmhand,

a lackey informed him. Or something along those lines. Ereclease couldn’t hear him through the burning buzz of rage in his ears. The loss had finally hit him. Shadrach had been his family's pony for twenty years, and Ereclease was but a boy when they had picked up the miniature yearling. He could feel this fury boiling deep in his throat.

What’s that, you cod? Having a hard time finding ya balls?

You’ve got to rip him up now, Joe. We don’t want the pigs on our tail if some passerby spies us ’n gets a runnin’.

Joseph loosened his shoulders and started slowly walking, almost waddling, towards Ereclease. Ereclease’s eyes locked onto this mound of a man closing on him.

I would tell you to run, but unless you think you could scale that bloody fence without ripping your arse on that barbed–

Shots rang out through the surrounding fields.

Whatever number of sheep had been near the fence bolted off in a flurry of cloven hooves and wool. Ereclease’s Colt revolver smoked as warm, foetid spring rain began to fall on the dirt road, where chunks of Joseph Carlyon’s face were splattered across the newly forming mud. Joseph’s former lackeys each looked a different shade of pale; the stench of pissed breeches hit the nose of anyone within twelve feet of the terrified men. Another three shots rang out, and screams of absolute agony followed immediately. Ereclease had blown off each man’s left kneecap. He still couldn’t hear them through the searing fury in his head. He had taken too much of this torment from the Carlyons, from his father’s barn being burnt to this death of his pony, Shadrach, his closest friend. Ereclease was not a violent young man, standing at an average height for his age. People underestimated his slim figure, without the knowledge that he had a wiry strength from constant work on the farm, his arms like twisted hempen ropes. But this was his breaking point. Watching these men writhe—men that had sat and watched the Carlyons break the hopes and wills of the people in this town. But now they were at His mercy. Ereclease felt like God, looking down on his dominion of pain. Although this was not a dominion of any kind, these were three pathetic, maimed men with a deep fear in their eyes, like wells filled with a dark ink. And yet, as he leant over to clench a roadside rock in his white-knuckled fist, Ereclease had no mercy for them.

He followed the Yarriam Creek, and buried the bodies by the edge of the murky depths. The billabong mud swallowed up the bludgeoned faces of the corpses, leaving no remnant of the bloodshed that occurred that afternoon. After the last burial, Ereclease looked to the sky above, and felt the rain wash away the mud and blood from the lines of his face. He felt it wash away his sins. This rain was a great cleanse. He looked down at his calloused, farmed hands and busted fingers, dirt and other grime under his fingernails. His magnolia shirt was now drenched with rainwater and sweat, the bloodstains marked the spot just above where his heart used to be. Ereclease Jovesun decided at that moment to disappear, to leave behind his life, his love and his tattered body.

As he removed his clothing, he saw a jumbuck, a ram, standing at the end of a mud peninsula across the billabong from him and His bodies. He gave it a nod, believing that this was something larger than he could comprehend. A naked, raw Ereclease looked into the depths of the water, as if it had been calling forever, but he had never answered. He waded in. As he did, he found that he could not feel the surrounding water, and instead felt relief at a burden being lifted from his soul. When the water reached his chin, he felt at peace and took his last breath. He reminisced of all that had happened that day, exploring thoughts of what could have been. As the water reached his eyeline, he looked to the jumbuck, who nodded and turned away back into the bush. With that, Ereclease Jovesun was gone.

The billabong bubbled for a second and then lay flat. All was still. Peace was found through the falling rain.

2nd Place - Harry Holmes

“Well, we're talking about an incident that happened approximately 32 years ago, almost to the very day—mid-summer, June 1965. I, along with a friend, was on the south shore of Loch Ness, fishing for brown trout, looking almost directly into Urquhart Bay, when I saw something break the surface of the water. I glanced there, and I saw it, and then it wasn't there, it had disappeared.

But while watching, keeping an eye, and fishing gently, I saw an object surface. It was a large, black object—a whale-like object, going from infinity up, and came round onto a block end—and it submerged, to reappear a matter of seconds later. But on this occasion, the block end, which had been on my right, was now on my left, so I realized immediately that while in the process of surfacing, as it may, it had rotated. And with the predominant wind, the south-west wind, it appeared to be, I would say, at that stage drifting easily across.

So I called to my friend Willie Frazer, who incidentally had a sighting of an object on the Loch almost a year ago to the very day. I called him, and he came up and joined me. We realized that it was drifting towards us, and, in fact, it came to within I would say about 250, 300 yards.”

“Get me some bait, Boris.”

Boris looked at his feet, and let out a groan. He wished he was at the fishing pole.

“Sooner rather than later would be great, please!”

“Sorry sir!” Boris replied.

Old Ian could be somewhat of a grouch at the best of times. Ian Joseph Duncan was his full name, and he came from a rowdy long-lasting family of Scottish fishermen. In Fort Augustus, Ian’s home town, he was revered as one of the better fishers, holding the local record for the largest Trout ever found.

The two were fishing out in December, 1963. It wasn’t snowing on the lake Loch Ness quite yet, not till January they both prayed. 1963 had been frowned upon by the Duncan family, the weather had been oddly unpredictable. In Summer it rained more than it shone, and now it's Winter, and although it rarely snows in December near Loch Ness, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that year.

Boris was a young orphan boy, raised on the street of Fort Augustus. In 1949 Ian was at the market, selling his fish for various tools and trinkets, that he would later likely pawn off the english government for pound sterling. Boris crept next to him when Ian wasn’t looking, before stealing an especially large crab Ian had found in Loch Ness. Ian noticed, found Boris, punished him, and took him to the town council where Boris was duly adopted. Boris was taught to speak Gaelic by Ian, and English by his Yorkshire wife Beatrice.

Boris liked Ian on land, but on the water he turned into a whole different person. Ian was superstitious, and old Gaelic legends led him to be uneasy about the water of Loch Ness.

Boris brought him the bait.

“Thanks, kiddo.” Boris was taken aback by the gratitude he was just bequeathed. The last time he was thanked was when he left the engine on and he burnt all the fuel. It was sarcasm.

Boris took a look into Loch Ness. The water was milky, and the surface was foggy. Boris was suddenly taken aback. He could have sworn he saw something in the distance, like a dolphin, or maybe a whale, surfacing slightly. But in Scotland? He was more likely to win the lottery.

Boris had a shiver down his spine, but he shook it off. The boat was getting to him. They had been fishing for two days, and not for one minute had his stomach set still.

“I need to take a break Ian. I’ll be in the quarters trying to sleep…”

“Okay boy. Take it easy.”

Boris laid still. He recanted old stories he heard for Ian and school, trying to shake the image of that mysterious creature from his mind. It was so matter-of-fact in its posture, but so evocative in its context.

Just as Boris was falling asleep, he was awoken by a loud crash, followed seconds later by a devastating shake on the boat. The whiplash of the impact threw him off the bed, landing face first into a barrel of freshwater. No leaks were sprung, but he was stunned, getting up slowly and walking like a drunk man, up the flight of stairs and onto the boat. When he reached the deck, he ran to the beams and threw up a day of cooked fish. His vomit sat there, looking at him back. It looked almost boring.

Boris scolded himself for thinking such foolish thoughts. A pool of vomit, bored? Preposterous! Ian would have been up to here if he had…

Boris scolded himself once more. “Goddammit, Boris! Get your act together, you bumbling good-for-nothing! Ian could be drowning right now!” Boris ran to where Ian was fishing. He was knocked out on the floor of the boat. He must have fallen and hit his head. No wounds were visible, and he was still breathing with his pulse steady.

A pain overtook Boris. A high pitched whining, as well as an excruciating sting. He fell on the floor, rolling, trying to get the pain out of his head. As he rolled to the side, he opened his eyes, and a giant rectangular wall of water appeared before his eyes. A giant, looming obelisk of roiling water stared him in the eyes. It was at least twenty meters tall, and who knows how thick. The water never stopped flowing off.

And he was out.

“Boris… Boris… Boris!”

Ian woke him up. Boris was on the floor of the boat. “The… The wall…”

Ian was perplexed. “We hit a big rock, son. The impact knocked us clean out! The boat is unharmed, as am I, but I don’t know if I can say the same for you, kid”

The fog had cleared up, and he could see Fort Augustus across the lake. “So was it all a hallucination?” Boris asked himself. He shrugged it off.

“Let’s get home,” Ian said.

3rd Place - Carolena Booth

The Storm

Yet another rainy day, like we needed more water! It’s been raining for weeks.

The laundry flooded back in January. It swept our clothes down the street, including my favourite T-shirt. Part of the house is so wet that it is now uninhabitable and growing some mould I can’t even name. Yet we are still some of the lucky ones. Many people lost their homes due to the flood. I used to like it when it rained, as it made plants grow. Maybe you can have a little too much of a good thing. I think it’s somewhat ironic that my name is Amaya, meaning rain. Although most people just call me Maya. I hear pattering on the roof. The rain is gradually getting heavier. I wonder whether it will ever stop.

“Maya, Come here”. I hear coming from down the hallway.

“Coming”. I respond and get up. I walk down the hallway to the living room. Mum is sprawled across the sofa, today’s crossword half-done in her hands.

“Maya, guess what?”

“What?” I echo back.

“There’s a tropical cyclone forecasted. It’s bringing even more rain to Auckland. ” It's the worst cyclone to hit New Zealand since 1968.”

I’m stumped. I don't know what to say. More rain? How is that possible? Soon there won’t be any rain left!

“I just went to get more supplies. We might not be able to get them if it floods again.” Mum says.

“More rain, seriously!” I exclaim.

“I know. I can’t quite believe it either, but we must prepare. "Would you mind helping Dad get the sandbags from the basement?” she pleads.

“Ugh”.

“Please. Maya”

“Fine, but if I get eaten by whatever is down in there, it’s your fault”. I retort.

“Thanks, love you”. Mum quips back.

I tread my way down the hallway, the basement door awaiting at the end. I brace myself before I turn the handle. I try my best to avoid the basement. The creepy noises and the dim lighting are all something out of one of those horror movies I caught Dad watching. I couldn’t sleep that night or the next. I turn the handle and anxiously tip-toe down the steps. I march my way over to the sandbags stacked neatly in the corner. I try to pick up the first one, but I underestimate how heavy it is and drop it on my foot. “OW!” But that’s when I hear a noise. Coming from behind one of the old tarps. I cautiously peek around the corner. “Phew!” Nothing there! I turn my back.

“BOO!”

I jump, so startled that I knock over a paint can.

“Got you”. I hear Dad exclaim. “Finally. I’ve been waiting down here for ages.”

“Haha, very funny”. I rejoinder.

“Can you grab that wheelbarrow for me? It’s a lot easier than carrying the sandbags.”

I take hold of the wheelbarrow and push it over to the sandbags, The wheel squeaking as it goes along. I line the wheelbarrow next to the sandbags and say,

”What now, Sir”.

“Come help me lift these into the wheelbarrow, and don’t call me Sir”.

“Ok, Sir”.

We lift the sandbags into the wheelbarrow. They are a lot easier to pick up with another person helping. Once we’ve loaded all the sandbags into the wheelbarrow, I rush upstairs to get my raincoat. Then head out the front door to meet Dad outside, who has already pushed the wheelbarrow out of the basement door. We start by taking the sandbags out and building a makeshift wall around all the doors on the ground level. We left the basement for last. To be able to push the wheelbarrow back inside.

The sandbags are finally in place, but that didn’t stop the water last time. I don’t know what will.

We climb up the front steps to the front door. (The only one without sandbags in front of it.) I take off my raincoat, my arms aching from the manual labour and my face and hands numb from the icy coldness waiting outside.

“Maya, come into the kitchen.”

I trek into the kitchen, willing my frozen legs to follow. Mum is waiting for me with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in her hands.

“I thought you might like something to warm you up”.

“Thanks, Mum”.

I collapse on the couch, spilling hot chocolate on the way down. The first sip is like a tree spreading its roots of warmth through my whole being, reaching every corner. The rain is coming down hard outside, and the wind is calling as if looking for someone or something. There’s little we can do to prepare now. We just have to sit and wait. We must brace ourselves for the storm.

Highly Commended - Ben Martin

Her

I finally met her again on a cold, wintry Friday afternoon, when the sun was still barely peeking its light through the clouds. We had decided to meet at a set of dreary stone steps by an old tree, not too distant from the cemetery. I was an anxious mess all day. My mind had been brewing up a storm from the anticipation. I stepped out the door of my final class of the day and headed to where we planned to meet. When I started walking I began to feel like something was devouring my stomach from the inside. It was the realisation that now was the time. Every step I took toward the meeting place was a heart attack with millions of thoughts invading my mind all at once. It was the first time in years that I would have the chance to speak to her in person again, the first time in years that I would have the opportunity to hear her beautiful voice again, and I didn’t even know what I should say to her. What do I even say? I thought, What the hell am I even supposed to say? I'd thought of millions of different scenarios of how it could all play out or what I could say but I still didn’t have a clue. I wanted to tell her everything that had been choking my thoughts for so long, but I knew I couldn’t say those things, at least not now. It wouldn’t be right. It would be too soon.

I felt the breeze kiss my skin. The air was cold, crisp, and tensing with my eagerness to meet her. I walked hurriedly. I turned around the corner underneath a shady overhang across from the steps, where I could see her from afar. She was standing by the steps, just like she said she would. My movements slowed to a glacial pace. Every bead of sweat dripping from my skin froze like the icicles underneath the overhang. My eyes were drawn to her like a lost ship to a lighthouse in the middle of a storm. Her pastel skin was a beacon in the sunlight. Her jet-black curls wrapped up my glance like a blanket, and her eyes seemed to glisten with the apparent delight of seeing me. I couldn’t believe that out of everyone it could've been, it was me she was waiting for.

I stepped out and walked from the shadowy overhang past the tree, and like the branches and leaves of the old tree, my hair swept from one side to the other from the sharp breaths of wind that leapt on me. Emotionally, I was crossing no man's land, entering new territory, like a vessel voyaging through uncharted waters. I got to her, and as I stood before her I gathered the courage to say “Hi”. She echoed back to me excitedly, "Hi!" Her voice was ethereal, a siren's song to a lost sailor, entrancing me. I asked how she'd been and she said she'd been okay, asking me the same. An awkward, nervous aura seemed to float between us. We were both so young and shy, not knowing what to say, or how to act around each other. She said that she wanted to take me through the cemetery that day, so we knew that when we started walking, that’s where we would be heading.

From the stone-studded steps, we travelled on a soil track towards the cemetery and chatted about whatever came to mind. She told me about books she'd been reading and the paintings she'd made. Our personalities seemed to braid comfortably together. I watched her as she spoke, all wrapped up in a cosy, purple cardigan and striding forward in her little cherry-red boots. The singed tips of her short, curly hair wavered in front of her face with her movements. I watched as her lips moved and contorted, meshing and morphing to the words she spoke. As she continued talking she tripped over her tongue, realising that I hadn’t talked much about myself, and truthfully there wasn’t much to talk about that she hadn’t already known. “What have you been up to after all this time?” she asked me with intrigue. “I’ve just been getting readjusted to school. It’s been a long time” I replied. I thought it was stupid of me to bring it up because I felt embarrassed to talk about it, and I thought it might make her disinterested in me. I didn’t explain much further about the reasons behind my absence or what I was up to during that time. But it didn't seem to bother her. I felt no judgement.

We surpassed the hilly part of the trail and arrived duly at the cemetery. The smell was natural and forest-like, and an earthy aroma seeped from the soil beneath our feet. She talked about how she loved the cemetery. Her love and fascination for this magnificent necropolis seemed almost spiritual with how she spoke of it so fervently. She talked about how beautiful all the marble tombstones were, and how the people whose names were inscribed on the headstones fascinated her. We walked on up another winding, hilly part of the cemetery track - curved and curled like her hair - and made our way through the cemetery further. I would've thought that a walk through a graveyard would've felt more menacing than as peaceful and therapeutic as it was. The track progressively became more abrupt and steep again, and we passed even more gravestones. Her infatuation with the people named on the headstones mystified me, but I was even more interested in her. I listened to her as she told me all she knew of them. I admired that passion of hers, and how authentic it was. She felt so real to me.

Coming down the hill from the cemetery we reached a place we would settle down for a bit. A little rotunda in the middle of a field area of the gardens. We sat down with our backs against the white wall of the rotunda's stage, closer to one another as we got more comfortable. She was so close to me that the silky touch of her skin was almost palpable. Her aroma was a rosy scent. I could see every intricate detail of her face. Her skin was a She had a straight Greek-like nose delicately sculpted between her eyes and mouth. She had rich, full lips and an assertive chin that made a dimple beneath her mouth. She had the likeness of a statue of Aphrodite.

She spoke, immediately commanding my attention. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how I feel…” Her eyes gravitated towards mine. She leaned over as if meaning to say more but looked so timid. She laid her hand on mine. I felt her velvety fingers sink into my skin slowly like a glacier. “I want to be with you”, she said nervously but passionately. She uttered the words that I wanted to share with her for so long. “I want to be with you too,” I said, with a skittish inflexion. I had no idea what to do at that moment, I was a still statue. What was this feeling? I thought. Then suddenly, I spoke. “Do you want to walk together some more?" She tried to hide a cheeky smile. "I do, only if you let me hold your hand."

We wandered for a while longer but then found ourselves sitting together again. We sat on a bench - one of three - at a stone structure that overlooked the gardens, sitting closer together this time. The stone was old and grey, with beautiful foliage covering the walls. The seat was old, almost decaying, and coated in hard moss. We felt like we could see the whole universe from our vantage point. The night was consuming the sky before us, and the stars began to peak their lustre out from their little hiding spots around the cosmos.

She hugged my arm while she rested her head on my shoulder. She appeared happy, and it felt strange that it must’ve been me that was making her feel that way. She lifted her head to look at me, crossing her legs over mine on the bench, ensnaring me. She stared deep into my soul. An inferno was cultivating in her eyes, a tender flame burning like a million stars. As I stared back into her eyes, I no longer felt any burdensome worry clutching its marble jaws on me. I finally felt relief. I felt content.

Formal Writing

1st Place - Jimmy Muir

Focus Question: How did the Nigerian Revolution Music of the 1970s influence the course of Popular Culture?

From 1967 to 1970, Nigerians endured a genocidal civil war. This war, lasting roughly two and a half years, saw the deaths of 500,000 to 2 million innocent Biafran civilians, along with approximately 100,000 military personnel. In the aftermath of an unjust regime of weaponised starvation and military rule, came an outburst of colour and sound. During the following decade, men who had been drafted into the military came back to their towns and cities and began to create some of the greatest psychedelic funk/rock music the world had ever seen. Drawing on pro African roots and spirituality, while influenced by American pop culture and the Black civil rights movement, Nigerian musicians fueled a left-wing revolutionary wave against their corrupt and militant government, giving voice to those opposing the atrocities committed both during the war and in its aftermath. Nigeria’s spark of artistic innovation set off a tidal wave over the world, influencing and altering the course of popular music and musicians to come, and arts culture as a whole.

“The emergence of psych rock in Nigeria has less to do with mind altering drugs, and more to do with mind altering circumstances.”

- Temitope Kogbe DJ and African historian from Lagos

Out of trauma comes art and innovation. A musical phenomenon coming out of a post-trauma West Africa to a colonial Western society is a cycle that has been repeated more than twice, the most infamous being the West African slave trade of the 17th century. The enslaving, raping and theft of the West African people brought blues, jazz and sprouted off a multiplicity of different influenced art forms, creating a beautiful culture out of a trauma still so deep rooted in the history of humanity. The repercussions of the trans-Atlantic slave trade demonstrate a deep scar in West Africa that will never be fully healed, and from that healing came music and art.

As stated above, the Nigerian Civil war claimed the lives of an estimated 2 million innocent people in just under 2 years, due to a cruel form of warfare tactic where the invading forces cutoff supply of food and water to their enemy; in this case being an entire republic. The Biafrans were predominantly Igbo people. The Igbo are the indigenous people of Nigeria, and have suffered severe and detrimental losses in the civil war; the loss of home and culture alongside the death tolls.

Following the war, an outcry began bubbling away among the Nigerian people. A genocidal atrocity like this deserves an uproar from the people, and the leaders of the people in this case were the artists and musicians. Musicians like Fela Kuti and members of Ofo And The Black Company. These creative individuals were listening to the topics sung about by the Western musicians, songs of civil injustices and unwelcome wars, and chose to create their own revolutionary sound. Inspired, they wrote of their own tragedies and situations; a near totalitarian, genocidal government and power stripped from the people. But they also sang of joy, life and love during a time of struggle. The Western musicians included soul singers, such as, James Brown and Otis Redding, alongside rock gods such as Hendrix, The Beatles and Santana. These rocking psychedelic sounds were paired with the soul and groove of the R&B backbeat to create something the world hadn’t seen before. And when these sounds were spliced with politically charged lyricism, the music became a powerful atomic bomb for difference. Their music became an escape from the crisis. But these were not necessarily new sounds for Nigeria, having their people carry those ancient beats and melodies to America, enslaved and subjected, for their sound to come back to them along with its offspring via vinyls and radio waves, leading to a new wave of West African music. The “perfect storm” of musical components, a Pro-Black and spiritual voice shining through in a county moving through pain, drawing both from its roots and an outside perspective. Rhythms and melodies travelled from West Africa to North America, were distilled and returned, were then distilled further and sent back, and so on – a trans-Atlantic feedback loop continuously building in power.

Activism played a huge part in Nigeria's musical revolution for peace and unity throughout the 1970s, and most of the country's most prominent music makers were activists in their own right. Fela Kuti’s own mother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, was one of Nigeria’s most respected and internationally resonant feminist leaders and revolutionaries. She fought for Nigerian women’s rights and spread her teachings to the outside world, making a positive global impact on Second Wave Feminism. While first releasing music in the late 1960s, Fela himself was openly disrespectful and publicly undermining of the Nigerian government even before the Civil War, on the topic of military corruption. During a tour of the U.S in 1969, Fela researched the writings of Malcolm X, and the political organisation, The Black Panthers. These elements of thought were fused into his music, becoming a highly politically charged musician. Because of this, he developed a large and devoted Nigerian fan base and following, all of whom believed in his message.

Innovation is the overall theme encompassing Nigeria at this time. An example of this thirst for ingenuity in an explosion of sound was William Onyeabor, a mystical musical figure, who created his own busted up synthesisers out of junk and scrap metal. The music he made was joyous and centred around love: love for his people, love for himself, love for this life. This was a shift in energy from the earlier activist and Afro centric chants of Fela Kuti. His music created light in the dark, which was a different approach to those who fought using song, but both were for the people, by the people.

"...He couldn't understand the love songs in Africa, with so much poverty and suffering.”

- Femi Kuti, Fela’s son

Due to his political transparency, Fela was a target for at least two assassination attempts by the Nigerian government, for example, in 1977, 1000 Nigerian soldiers attacked his recording studio compound in Mushin, Lagos. He was frequently visited by his loving 82 year old mother, and when the raid occurred, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti was thrown out of a window and died of her injuries. Fela himself had his skull fractured and broke several other bones. While Kuti was critical of people who attempted to replicate the sound of American pop music, he did sing in English, which assisted his international popularity. His influence reached outside of his own country. The teachings of Malcom X and a new wave of civil rights, along with ancient West African mysticism, were fused together into his work.

“Music wants to dictate a better life.”

- Fela Kuti

Another artist that used ancient African mysticism in this new age was Ofo and the Black Company. The band member of this leaderless band, Larry Ifedioranma had been recruited into the Nigerian military during the civil war and was a member in the army band – both rock and experimental. With the goal of creating Nigeria's first acid rock band, and influenced by Hendrix and Cream, Ofo and the Black Company were unconventional. They refused to subscribe to the previous popular mainstream aesthetic and didn’t conform to a Western view of popularity. Their name was influenced by Igbo and they drew from the roots of Nigeria and its deep culture. Each member was a chief, all equal and they based themselves on a pro-Black philosophy. Leaving behind the commercially appealing cheerful face of Black musicians, Ofo and the Black Company created a new approach. They became popular in Great Britain, moving to England for a time and forming relationships with artists there from all over the world.

Because of the nature of this trans-Atlantic feedback loop, innovation is a necessary component to this process. Nigerians strove to emulate the USA’s Western technology, requiring originality and innovation with what they had available. That’s how this cycle worked. An example of this thirst for ingenuity in an explosion of sound was William Onyeabor, a mystical musical figure, who created his own synthesisers out of junk and scrap metal. The music he made was joyous and centred around love: love for his people; love for himself; love for the ladies; love for this life. This was a shift in energy from the earlier activist and Afro centric chants of Fela Kuti. His music created light in the dark, which was a different approach to those who fought using song, but both were for the people, by the people.

The sound of the music produced by Nigerian musicians during this period is deeply ingrained in music today. Fela pioneered the new wave groove. The Afrobeat sound and feeling that Fela Kuti layered in Water No Get Enemy (1975) is simple but ever present, the ripples of it spread into many of pop music’s textures during the 1980s, including tracks like Once in a Lifetime (1981), written by David Byrne of the Talking Heads. Paul Simon listened and went on to capitalise from it himself – travelling to Africa to collaborate and borrow and to create his hugely popular Graceland (1986) album. The music coming out of Britain such as The Clash, The Specials and Madness wouldn’t have been possible without the foundation of African influence. Ska, dub and reggae all fed into the feedback loop, both adding to, and taking from, the tapestry of the loop. The beat, the melody, or both.

Modern hip hop would not be what it is without the Nigerian groove – we can imagine Kendrick Lamar rapping over any Kuti track. More than just the sounds, just 10 years after Fela Kuti’s Water No Get Enemy, Public Enemy and NWA spoke of resistance, expressed anger against corruption and injustice towards their people. Just as America’s Civil Rights movement inspired Nigerian musicians in the late 1960s and early 70s, the Nigerian Musical Revolution of the 1970’s fed directly into the Black Lives Matter movement, injecting into the very fibre of the movement to improve the lives of Black people in Western societies.

2nd Place - Ally May Sharma

Opinion Piece: How Can We As A Society Mitigate The Influence of The Incel Community?

*Please beware there are mentions of rape and porn in this piece of writing.*

Many people might be unaware of the word "Incel," but it means to be "involuntary celibate." You may have heard of them on the news or in news stories, but dismissed them as a small collection of internet weirdos that no one knows anything about. It is easy to disregard what you see and hear about them because it appears unusual, unbelievable, esoteric, and even hilarious. This is a mistake. The incel community is the section of the "manosphere" where violence is most widespread. It is an on-going community of males who are dedicated to the violent hatred of women. A group that perpetually recruits young men who have weaknesses and are self-conscious, telling them that women are to blame for their unfortunate circumstances. Many of these vulnerable men can be groomed, in gaming chat rooms, through the use of memes and videos. Many could potentially be found on bodybuilding discussion forums, where incel radicals know they can find a community of males who are already concerned about societal notions of strong, stereotypical masculinity and who are already self-conscious. These are the types of men who extremists seek out because they can be exploited quickly. This is a community in whose name over 100 individuals, around the globe, majority women, have been seriously injured or murdered since 2010. In this piece of writing I'm wanting to look at how we as a society can mitigate the influence of the incel community.

Incels have an ideology inspired by white male supremacy, deification of male violence and oppression of all women. Incels consider themselves as victims of a "female gynocracy" who have forced them into servitude. Lauren Bates has seen this idea in UK schools with 13 and 14 year old boys thinking that there is a female conspiracy at the center of the government, that white men were losing their jobs in their thousands to women. With the rise of social media and it being a part of many young people's daily lives, algorithms of these websites/apps have led young males to increasingly disturbing contents. To quote Guardian journalist, Lauren Bates, “Concepts such as evil women controlling men’s lives or rape being the natural end product of “depriving” men of sex are filtered through viral YouTube videos and memes, appearing across the sites that wallpaper young people’s online environments. The more frequently they see misogynistic content, the less shocking it seems. After viewing one video, or liking one post, social media platforms feed more content, often more extreme in nature, to users with the aim of maintaining and monetising their attention spans.” These social media algorithms are designed to maximize user engagement and keep users on their platforms. Unfortunately, this can lead to a dangerous cycle where users are fed increasingly extreme content to maintain their attention, even if that content promotes harmful ideologies. Another aspect of the quote from above is the perpetuation of harmful stereotypes about women, such as evil women controlling men or justifying rape. This can definitely can lead to damaging the dynamics between genders and promote harmful power imbalances.

When these men are repeatedly exposed to misogynistic content, it can gradually normalize and desensitize them to its harmful nature. What was once shocking or offensive might become more acceptable or trivialized in their eyes. We can't really separate incel ideology from the sexism that is constantly happening everywhere in our societies. The low-level sexist remarks and underlying sexism that is easy to shrug off, and sexual harassment all though our society make this much more extreme and dangerous misyogny seem more acceptable to younger people when it comes up on there feeds on social media, or when they see it on youtube where videos are recommended to them through their algorithm.

Incel violence has impacted locations all around the world. In 2018, Alek Minassian purposefully drove a rented car into people in Toronto, which was one of the most high-profile deadly Incel incidents. Ten people were killed. According to the NZ Herald, just before he hit the pedestrians, he shared a Facebook column stating that the 'Incel Rebellion' had already begun and that they would overthrow the 'Chads and Stacys' (A term incels used to describe males and females in society who have no difficulty finding sexual partners). Alek also praised Elliot Rodger, a 22-year-old who killed himself in 2014 after killing six people and injuring more than a dozen others in knife and gun assaults near the University of California. Elliot's attack, while not the first sexist act in society, has been viewed as a hero by many Incels. According to Chris Wilson, senior lecturer at the University of Auckland, "these attacks inspired "tonnes" of incels, who refer back to those attacks." An Incel was also involved in the attempted murder of two Epsom School students at a bus stop earlier this year in Aotearoa. Following the 50 km/h collision, Caleb Reilly Bell, a 26-year-old male, told police that “his life was unfair since he had never had a sexual partner and that other people in society were happy while he wasn't.”

While the incel community needs a comprehensive multifaceted approach to dealing with it there are small ways in which I think we can mitigate its influence. Online platform regulations could serve as one solution to regulating the community. Advocate for more rigid policing of hate speech, harassment, and extremist content on social media platforms. These platforms should carefully monitor and remove incel-related information as well as accounts that advocate violence and misogynistic viewpoints. When you try to get genuine Incel websites taken down, the matter becomes much more complicated and difficult since those websites are managed by the website owners (who, coincidentally, are Incels!). However, if social media sites removed and filtered out incel messages and sexist content, incel extremists would find it much more difficult to attract additional young males. Making taitamariki aware of the hazards of online radicalisation is another component that these platforms should make users aware of, because it is a danger to all of us, as we all use the internet in some capacity.

Another way we may counteract the community's effect is via education. According to One News, "it's up to the individual school, in consultation with its community, to decide how and what, if anything, to teach about consent." Rape is a major component of the Incel Ideology. Lauren Bates discusses a forum she found on an incel website about a man becoming a 'rapecel' and wanted other members' perspectives regarding experiences, guidance, and ideas on it in her novel Men Who Hate Women. Lauren claims that "several of the encouraging answers included "Go Nuts!!!" and "You'll find it impossible if you do it right, you have a 98.95% probability of getting away with it if you rape." The conversation around the leglisation of rape is a conversation on many Incel chat forums. The legalization of rape is a topic of debate on multiple Incel chat forums numerous incels support the idea, whilst some worry that making rape legal would remove the naughtiness and humor from it. Conversations in which it is said that it is the fault of women that males are compelled to rape in the first place (due to their refusal to provide them with sex). This concept is typical of incel logic, in which the roles of victim/survivor and offender are reversed. The necessity of consent as a compulsory subject in schools needs to be taught in our schools throughout Aotearoa. We should be having on-going conversations in our school environments with taitamariki about healthy relationship ideas, consent, empathy and gender equality, a conversation for all, not just young men. If schools were made to compulsively teach these ideas in school and the big conversation around consent and being open about it, I think it would make a difference in our school system.

A further way we could use to mitigate the attraction of this dangerous ideology is for parents to monitor what their taitamariki view online. The ease with which pornographic content may be accessed on the internet is somewhat frightening. Many of these websites that are actually for individuals above the age of 18 do not inquire for your age, and you may view this content directly by clicking on the page. It's simple to tell your children, "Don't go on these websites, they're inappropriate for children,'' yet, strangely, this may not work! Instead, having ongoing talks about pornographic material and educating them that it is not a true picture of any form of sex might be a better strategy. Talk to these boys about the industry of pornography and how many men, women, and (NBs) can be victimized in the films you see on pornographic sites. It is a talk which could involve everyone, not just boys, since porngraphic content can be accessed by anyone, which is why these conversations must be held with all taitamariki to make them aware of the hazards of being exposed to graphic information at an early age. These sorts of interactions can also involve teaching your child the notion of consent and what constitutes and does not constitute consent. It may be an uncomfortable conversation to have but it's important they learn about this at 13, or 14, then when they are older because again they may be already desentized to pornographic material.

Although they may not be a particularly organized group, they have a far more widespread internet presence than we may realize. It's not implausible to be concerned and outraged about the "smaller" acts of violence, sexist remarks, and ordinary sexism in our daily lives when we consider that these males are acting at the most extreme end of the incel scale. Lauren Bates wrote in an article with the Guardian about a comment on a forum that stated “I enjoy walking behind women in the parking garage after work,” “The sheer terror gives me a massive erection.” Now I think it's really important that we don't perceive incels as just “horny, sex starved individuals” or just “awkward adolescent men” and actually see this community of men as a threat to our society. Like I've stated before, the everyday sexism, many people just dismiss is not okay, it just allows it to be normalised. It's necessary to call individuals out, no matter how little, and make them know that what they're saying isn't simply a "funny joke" or "not that big of a deal." Women's and girls' lives will continue to be harmed as long as we fail to acknowledge this community as an extremist one. Perhaps in considerably more numbers than any incel attack that has been seen.

3rd Place - Sam McGee

The Drug

Named Social Media

I grew up on an alien planet. Life was great back then. Pre-social-media-Sam was a different breed. He could read books for hours at a time, have an attention span of at least 30 minutes, and have fun outside. Then came along a life-changing drug, and it wasn’t paracetamol. Social media crashed into my life faster than you can say TikTok, and washed away all those great hobbies. I became a square-eyed slave to Youtube and Instagram, and would do anything for a quick video. I’m here to tell you how social media is so addictive, how it affects the New Zealand youth, and why you should steer clear of it.

I know that most of us won’t admit it, so I’ll say it. The truth is, we are addicted. Our worthless quest to keep on scrolling takes over many necessary aspects of life - including sleep. Sleep has become a piece in a jigsaw that is often overlooked by teenagers, and it is seen as something to fit in after school and screens. A recent news report said that teenagers spend as much time online as at school (Newshub). This doesn’t leave much time left in the day, and sleep certainly isn’t the priority. The reason for our ‘doom scrolling’ is summed up perfectly by Katherine Ormerod in her book Why Social Media is Ruining Your Life (2019). She calls it “holistic life dissatisfaction”. Everyone wants to live a life without worry, right? Seeing others online flexing their depiction of perfection only dissatisfies us more, and that adds up into an ever growing list of insecurities. Another big part of why social media is so addictive is validation from others. Simply getting recognition is enough to make people reload their feed every few seconds, waiting for the next like, comment, or follower. Everyone has done it. After making a new post or story, the anticipation for that first reaction is what drives people to be on it so often.

What is there to gain? All this time spent staring at a small screen could be used more effectively. Students always complain about short deadlines for homework, but would it really be that much of an issue if you just removed yourself from your phone? Spending time away from devices is not only a great way to be productive, but studies show that it improves your mental and physical health (CNET). Benefits from a full social media detox include: reduced anxiety and depression, enhanced focus and increased productivity, improved sleep, and more meaningful connections in real life. Funnily enough, these are all elements of the idolized life that millions look up to. This growing problem with addiction is not only a problem with kids, but also with the celebrities who are supposedly living the desired life. Tom Holland (the actor who plays Spiderman) is having a social media detox to help improve his mental state of mind. He said he found “Instagram and Twitter to be too overwhelming” (WION). This shows that the power of social media is too much even for superheros.

I heard a fact recently (ironically from social media), that said the average person spends three weeks a year, just watching videos (Youtube). This hit me hard, and I wondered what one single day would be like without the influence of apps like Youtube and Instagram. The next morning I began my mission and demolished my morning routine, getting ready in less than 10 minutes. This no-nonsense way of life made me feel like the old pre-social media Sam, a better, healthier and creative little boy. Realizing that I still had an hour and a half until school, I was puzzled with what to do. So much time that was previously filled with sitting down and gazing into my phone was now free for other activities, like catching up on school work, or even reading a book (crazy right?). This state of bliss didn’t last for long, and I discovered my phone glued back into my palm, but that's not the point. Losing the phone for a brief period of time improved my life so much that it opened up previously nonexistent time to grind out homework before school. In the long term, this could potentially change weekends into being fun again, instead of a jail cell to get work done. Sleep would go from a boring few of hours of peace between school days, to a treasured time to recharge. Those two weeks that had prior been lost glued to a screen could be used for hanging out with friends, getting out into nature, or whatever else takes your fancy.

Humanity’s constant crave for social media has become so toxic that many people have gone back to flip phones to escape this putrid reality. From spending more time obsessing over likes and followers than sleeping, to being lost without it, social media is the driving force in our world whether we like it or not. What you should take away from this piece of writing is that these platforms are soul sucking traps, and that the idolized lifestyles that are portrayed online are nothing but fake. Maybe life outside the screens isn’t so bad after all?

Highly Commended - Charlie Bowmer-Lea

Legendary bands need legendary managers.

Led Zeppelin became one of the most influential bands in history. The creative genius of the group is without question. However, their success was in no small part due to their manager; Peter Grant who, from a position of great respect for the members and their talent, set out to manage them with an obsessive commitment to providing the band with the freedom to create.

Jimmy Page, John Bonham, John Paul Jones and Robert Plant, together, formed the ultimate rock quartet: Led Zeppelin. They quickly became musical behemoths during the seventies with their first album (released in 1969) reaching tenth place on the “US Billboard 200” and their second album being their first to reach the number one spot. They also dominated the rock scene for the time they were active due to creating some of the most experimental music anyone had heard at that point, plus the level of power emitted during live shows was unheard of.

While the four band members were the geniuses that were creating the sounds we know them for, Peter Grant, their manager, was the one working actively behind the scenes to help Led Zeppelin in any way he could. He is widely regarded as “Rocks greatest manager” and it shows in the success of Led Zeppelin. I will be looking at some of the traits that encapsulate what made Grant such a great manager and a monumental piece in the Led Zeppelin puzzle. Grant was obsessive in his active support for the band. From ensuring the members’ financial well being to making sure they received nothing but the best conditions in the industry, such as a higher pay when it comes to live shows or getting assigned to the right label for the group. He also showed a great level of intelligence when it came to the music industry and its inner workings and was highly knowledgeable about the current musical and cultural landscape at the time. Grant deliberately refocused attention on the needs of the artists, often at the expense of the record companies, tour promoters and other agents. Grant knew what it meant to be a good manager - to him, his main objective was to make things as easy as possible for the band so they could simply do what they did best and create music without worrying about anything else. Grant’s philosophy in his own words was: “They take care of the music. I do everything else.”

One of Grant’s opinions as a manager was that it was most important to not step in front of his band’s creativity, because at the end of the day, it was them and their music that brought in the money. He knew that all he had to do was get out of the way of the creative process. He did in fact, do one better - Instead of simply stepping out of the way, he actually gave them so much creative control over their work that they never had to worry about things like losing rights to their songs or the financial repercussions of what they were doing. One big factor at play when it came to creative control was that Jimmy Page and Peter Grant completely funded the first Zep album (self titled: Led Zeppelin) from their own pockets; each putting in around £850 each for a grand total of £1,782 which is equivalent to £39,541 today ($81,455NZD). This meant that the two of them owned 100% of the rights to the music on the album. This in turn allowed the pair to shop around when looking for labels. After gaining traction following their tour of Scandinavia and America, LZ was getting offers from the likes of Atco (Cream, Vanilla Fudge, Buffalo Springfield) and Capitol Records (The Beatles, the Bee Gees).

It was also Grant’s idea to work with Page to create their own publishing company, Superhype Publishing, which they did at the end of 1968. This would mean they had to pay for the manufacturing of the records themselves, but in turn, they got a staggering 100% of the total profits (split 80% to the band and 20% to Grant). This level of trust in Led Zeppelin's creative process is the foundation of what made Grant such a great manager - he had complete faith in the group, and what they could do. This trust, which accumulated into just £1,782, profited a total of £18,450,000 ($74,000,000NZD). He understood the music his group was making, he understood Page’s vision, he trusted in it all, and it paid off.

“It was Grant who arranged their deal with Atlantic Records in 1968, then hailed as one of the biggest in industry history. He never interfered with their music, but was a “hands-on” manager who traveled the world with his charges to ensure their financial and physical well-being. - A quote from Peter Grant's obituary written by Chris Welch.

As part of his active management ethos, Grant wanted to travel with the band whenever they went on tour, almost as a cautionary measure to ensure they were respected by others as he respected them. He didn’t want to be stuck just dealing with business all the way from London and he considered himself to be a better tour manager than anyone else. This proved true as the band became a massive success during the first American tour, which was months before their first album even released. This was mostly in part to Grant's knowledge of both his band, and the music scene in the US.

Grant was aware that at the time, the biggest part of the music scene was the (not so underground) underground wave that was sweeping the US. Many in the country, especially youth, were craving something new. Grant knew that and used it to his group's advantage by basi

Lunchtime Music Concerts