Winning words
We reveal the Sunday Star-Times Short Story winners Your chance to read the winning entry described by the judges as a story that ‘spits you out feeling bruised but elated’
Christchurch, he won the secondary schools category with his short story Odds.
While he studies sciences, writing has been an important part of his life since a young age.
‘‘I’ve been writing since I was about 12... some of it was some very bad fan fiction. I was a bit sappy back then. I think I overwrote everything.’’
Over time, Boey said he learned to be more efficient with his writing and now had ‘‘a lot more control and structure’’.
Of his story, Nineteen Seconds, he said: ‘‘I’ve always really liked the idea of dreamscapes, and moving through dreams.’’
He said his natural interest in space and fantasy also were infused into his story.
Winning the $1000 prize and the award itself was a confidence boost, too. ‘‘I would love to pursue it to make it a career, if I could.’’
Author Amy McDaid, who judged the under 25 entries, said ‘‘Nineteen Seconds was ‘‘a complex, layered story comprising a series of dreams, and it grabbed me by the heart. Told from the point of a view of a man remembering and grieving his brother, the author cleverly depicts the pain of loss without being overwrought’’.
She said a dream sequence can be hard to pull off ‘‘but the author shows us that when it comes to writing, you really can do whatever you want if you can do it well’’.
Judge Carl Nixon wanted to congratulate all the people who put pen to paper – or fingers to keyboard.
‘‘Firstly, I think it’s worth congratulating all the entrants. The very fact of getting a story written defines a writer, as opposed to the many people who think about, and often talk about their desire to become a writer, but never commit to paper.
‘‘As is usual for this longrunning and highly regarded competition this year’s entries were numerous and varied. They came from all over the country and reflected New Zealand’s multiculturalism. There was a pleasing diversity in the characters’ gender, ages, sexual orientation, occupations and incomes, as well as in the places the stories were set. ‘‘Judging them was not easy. If there is one thing that defines the short-listed stories it is consistency. Consistency throughout the story in style, tone and in the details of the invented world of the narrative, also in theme. All the finalists make very few missteps in what are fully realised works of fiction. It was a pleasure to read all of them.’’ Sunday Star-Times editor Tracy Watkins said the near 700 entries this year were a reflection of the competition’s standing. ‘‘The Sunday Star-Times short story awards have launched the literary careers of some of New Zealand’s best writers,’’ Watkins said. Increasing the prize money to $5000 this year was a sign of the commitment of major sponsors Penguin Random House NZ, who have been involved in the competition for many years. There was also an increase to prize money for the under 25 category, thanks to sponsors the Michael King Writers Centre, she said.
The competition also got a boost this year with support from the Ma¯ ta¯ tuhi Foundation, which sponsored a hugely successful webinar series for emerging writers.
The dogs started up before sunrise. A lone howl next a chorus of answers and fresh queries. Hungry lonely hungry loneleee Their cries entered Pip’s dreams and she woke full of warning. Dogs always knew when walking day came. No light round the rim of the shutters but the whole town would be awake with the dog racket. That was the cruel joke of it Father said. Walking day meant no labour but neither could you sleep.
Pip’s thoughts fled direct to the boy walking. Last night Mother didn’t touch her stew. Her face set hard like lady grief. She said that Roger Brunt oughtn’t be walking cos it weren’t true murder. Father playing chicken said our fair and just law call it murder and he did it. Mother said Otis Brunt were a slave driver and all the bruises that poor boy wore and Father said but it were a big old hammer to the back of the neck nine times over which were murder in the eyes of law. Mother said law got no eyes just one big man’s gob. And what were Otis Brunt’s nickname? Father didn’t say nothing cos he knows Mother won’t dodge and Pip said everyone knows his nickname were Brute. She poked the fat pool on her stew but didn’t eat none. She’d been in primers with Roger and his bruises. He was twelve turns old same as her.
The dogs across the river set up a fresh howl in their pen. Pip pretended it were the barber gusting down the valley like it were turning season shaving leaves off the trees tho wind didn’t cry like a mother lost her child. Wind didn’t utter that doleful. Why did those dogs with their sharp front teeth sing so much regret? A dog could rip life from a body in a beat yet they always sung it like tragedy after. No sound like a dog on walking day to say what it were to be a life but who knows what’s gone on in a dog’s head.
Next the howling split in pitch two ways one deep baying next to high and piteous wails. Bridge in a death song. But Pip could hear those dogs playing something new.
Roger would hear the fresh dog sound from his bed too. A walker could stay home the night before with guards on the door and one in the room to make sure he didn’t take the sissy’s way. Roger were a fast boy. Always first at the running in school. Strong now too after five turns in his father’s metal shop. Not the sort to go coward tho if he got a run up those guards would never catch him. Roger weren’t much of a talker in primers nor could he read his laws at seven when his father pulled him out to turn metal. Course he could recite any child could but it weren’t till the laws bled in your eyes by ink on a page that the teachers know their work’s done. Eyes ears and mouth it. Respect and fairness.
Some said that’s why he done it. Cos he hadn’t read his laws yet.
But he could sing. Like silver of the moon Pip remembered it. He weren’t no show off but once he started it were like a bird wheeling on a current it couldn’t help itself like wind were made for birds to dance on. Kids always hush when Roger sung.
Downstairs Pip could hear Mother feeding wood in the stove for the kettle. Their family never ate till after walking. Father said it were respect in the old days so it were now. Dogs didn’t eat before and neither should they.
Pip rose and pulled her walking cloak out of the drawer. She flicked it hard to out nesting creatures. Last turn when Si Minter walked for poisoning June Minter a baby mouse ran up the fold of her sleeve to sit at her neck like it come to watch for Si Minter’s blood. Pip done a shriek and jigged the mouse off. Folk thought it a show of abidance to law tho Pip hated the Minters cos they said Father married low. Well look at them two now deader than stone. Deader cos Pip knows some stones dream of the sea.
In the kitchen Mother was mixing dough with her hands. Pip filled her mug and thumped the kettle back on the stove. Morning, said Mother. Dogs sounded sick, said Pip. Dogs know what folk don’t, said Mother pulling and scraping at the dough like penance. Why’d they make him walk then? said Pip. Mother’s right eyebrow twitched and she raised a floury finger.
You don’t let anyone hear it out your mouth or you’ll end up on dog yards. I need you here, said Mother.
Pip stared at her. Mother could get mad like a pot of boiling jam but never would she speak out cos Aunt Jean got put on dog yards for her mouthy ways. Got bit and died of dog sickness. A woman gets to a certain age and she don’t want to shut up. That’s what folk said. But respect were law. Stone and iron. Pip knows it but still Roger’s predicament hopped like a flea on her. Mother cleared her throat.
No rain tho, she said.
Weather talk was what a bottling family knew cos folk don’t trade for rain-pocked plums. But Mother meant the plank. In rain some lost their footing and fell in the river on their walk. The chains would hold them while the eels cleaned a body to the bone like a dog but slower. Sometimes dogs joined in with the eels and make a right mess of the water. Dogs were the way to peace for a disrespecter. Only dogs cleaned a soul.
Pip sipped her tea and willed her mother to look at her but Mother’s eyes gone out the house to someplace else. Walking days took her far. But Roger weren’t just a flea on Pip he were an animal trapped and gnawing at her from inside. She thumped her mug down on the table and Mother jumped.
I hate the lotta them! Pip shouted. Mother gave a long slow nod but still kept her silence. Weren’t nothing to make it different. Part of law’s to be a watcher. Watch the disrespecter walk the plank. Some shat some cried for their mothers some tried to pull their chains. Fear written in their bodies and on the air like foul wind. Walkers that whimpered or shook in silence. They entered your dreams and if you looked away you got detention slaving dog yards for a quarter turn. That’s how respect worked.
Mother’s hands got busy with the dough. She lifted then thumped it down thwack. Pip watched her knock the dough for what was never said. Roger had been pulled from school at seven turns cos all families needed workers. Pip was kept in school till she’d grown big. Everyone knew Pip stayed those long spoiling turns cos her big sister fell in the bottling copper. Five wailing days for her to pass only seven turns old. Were nights Mother woke Pip and Father screaming and scrabbling in the urn for her dead girl till Father gave it to the metal yard for melting. Maybe Roger’d been the one to turn that old urn to something new. If Mother said strange things around town folk put it down to her hard luck. Folk patted Pip on the head and told her what a good girl she were what a bit of fortune to have a girl like Pip.
She sipped her tea and Mother patted the dough with her two large hands.
It’s not just nor fair, said Pip again but quiet like a dog whimpering in its sleep.
Pip dressed warm beneath her cloak then left the house with Mother and Father at sunrise. Outside the air were chill but the dogs had gone quiet. All walkings took place at dawn. Leave dogs too long they’ll start in on each other and have nothing left for a walker.
Feet crunched on the gravel road and Father greeted neighbours as they joined the procession to the walking place. Pip and Mother stayed quiet beside him. Some folk spoke of the dog racket shaking their heads. Some children too small to know law ran ahead in circles shouting till their mothers called them back. Sky were lighting up. Pip reached for Mother’s hand like she were a small child who needed to be pulled back too. She could feel all the hard parts of herself like there weren’t nothing soft left. Bones under skin teeth in gums. Bones in the dirt. Teeth loose and rolled like dice. She pulled her hood up to hide her face.
Mother could get mad like a pot of boiling jam but never would she speak out cos Aunt Jean got put on dog yards for her mouthy ways. Got bit and died of dog sickness. A woman gets to a certain age and she don’t want to shut up. That’s what folk said.
Father shook hands with Pat the butcher. Pat had the notion to build a stalls so watchers could sit and be dry on walking day and maybe sell sausage and plums. Mother called Pat a dirty chancer. To watch was law but it didn’t mean you come to gawp. It weren’t no place for sausage and sitting around. Father said Pat were good at business some folk just didn’t understand change.
Pip looked up. On the hill behind the dog yard the hawk sat waiting on the yard post. Ever vigil for its luck. Soft pink scraps. Bits left aside by dogs going for the thigh stomach heart. The hawk was there like usual but the dogs were silent in their pen not even moving and readying like they always did.
In the walking yard Pip could see the back of Roger’s head. They hadn’t yet taken off his cloak that would come after the chains were linked to his leg. A walker’s tunic were thin nothing to hinder teeth and if they shivered on the plank well soon it would be done.
In the watching docks Roger’s mother were surrounded by her sisters. She had her head down and made no sound as watchers lined up to give offerings.
Mother squeezed Pip’s hand then let go pushing her to the offer. Pip nodded. She moved toward the wretched woman she thought why couldn’t Roger’s father fall in his forge and burn alive then Roger wouldn’t have to walk. Weren’t nothing fair but there were beauty in what Roger done. Beating a violent man to death with his own hammer.
She heard the murmured offerings of those before her.
Respect will be done. It is dog’s will. Soul’s safe with a dog.
Then Pip were next and Roger’s mother lifted her head. Her eyes jumped with a recognition Pip didn’t want. She glanced down and felt wrong. Wrong to be looked at by such needy eyes and wrong to look away. Wrong to hold false words in her mouth.
These are our ways, said Pip. Her chin tucked down like a tail.
She turned away and walked back to her mother and knew she were just like the rest no mettle in her heart.
A hush came over the crowd in their waiting. Pip could see Roger in the walking pen chains on. His body were lean beneath the meagre sack no meat for dogs.
The caller touched his arm to signal and Roger looked down at the caller’s hand on his body. He nodded.
These are our ways!
The caller rang his deep cry like a bell through the still dawn and folk spoke the words alongside. Dogs are ancestors come to sit judgement. Walker may you rest after justice.
May you walk your way back to respect.
Pip watched Roger climb up to the plank, his chains clinking as he stepped. On the other side the dogs now stood necks and backs bristling. Some folk said dogs knew their own and took extra pride in cleaning those souls.
Then Roger were on the top plinthe but he didn’t twist round to give the address that were his final right. Roger weren’t a talking boy but he didn’t even look back just stepped out onto the plank and caller loosed his chains so he could move forward.
Pip could feel how it made the crowd uneasy Roger not turning nor taking his address. Like a wire ran through them pulled tight and plucked they all felt a thrumming inside. It were the dog silence after the racket it were the coward hearts not speaking their minds. It were Roger showing them back their silence.
Watchers eyes on the walker his bare feet on the plank chains around his dirty legs.
Dogs standing like gods in their yard across the river waiting to feed.
The thrum through the crowd and the hard sole of the boy’s feet on the smooth wooden plank. The water flowing under with eels soon making their way out to sea. Then Roger were at the end of the plank and on the plinth above the dog yard and a strange sound were coming from him.
Song.
Roger’s voice rung out like silver in his chains like dogs crying at full moon like iron being forged with a hammer. It cut through the wire that held the crowd and they stopped watching him and watched each other instead. Pip looked at Mother and Father looked at Pat the butcher and the hawk sat over the lot of them.
And all through this the dogs were silent. Roger walked himself down into the old dog yard singing all the way tho later folk argued over what to call the noise he made. Like dogs birthing said some like a match struck in darkness. Pip could only think of her sister on her final night crying out to Mother to make it better please make it go away.
No one could say how they got broken only that the son of a metal worker knows ways to charm links off a chain.
Dogs didn’t touch him. They moved around him silent and smart. They lined up biggest in front next Roger and the pack at his back. Then the lot of them came back over the plank. Two big dogs in front next Roger next the pack. Roger sung his song the whole time. Some said there were red in his eyes like a forger’s fire but Pip saw his eyes and they were Roger’s own. Blind in song like he had been in primers.
And when the two head dogs and Roger stepped down off the walker’s plinth the pack fanned out behind him and no folk could come near. Caller tried and one of the pack near bit his hand off. The crowd saw this and when Roger bent down and picked up his cloak the dogs surrounded him like armour and when he stepped out of the walkers’ yard the crowd moved back to give him and the dogs space.
All the time Roger singing and the pack silent and bristling at the crowd warning them not to come near and no one did.
Pip watched it like she’d known it all along. This were true law. Dogs had told them that morning with their dog racket only folk didn’t understand.
Roger’s feet were still bare on the gravel. Pip looked down at her own shoes which she knew were too small. As he walked past Pip broke the silence shouting at the
Pip reached for Mother’s hand like she were a small child who needed to be pulled back too. She could feel all the hard parts of herself like there weren’t nothing soft left. Bones under skin teeth in gums. Bones in the dirt. Teeth loose and rolled like dice. She pulled her hood up to hide her face.
lotta them.
Who will give him shoes for walking?
Who will give him shoes!
Her voice sounded raw in the morning air. Roger stopped and his dogs stopped too. He gazed out at the crowd and the two head dogs growled their warning.
First no one moved then Father bent down. He pulled his boots off and gave them to Pip.
She took Father’s boots in her hand and the crowd parted to let her thru to the dogs. She stood many arms’ length from the head dog holding the boots out and eyeing Roger. She put them down on the ground and stepped back.
Dog from the rear pack came picked up the boots in his sharp teeth and took them back to Roger who nodded first to the dog then to Pip. He slipped his own feet into Father’s boots. Pip heard Roger’s mother give a gasp and she were weeping but Roger didn’t say nothing he just put his hand in his cloak pocket and turned and walked on with that pack they were his dogs now.
Pip reached once more for her mother’s hand and stood close.
Only once the dogs and the boy were out of sight did the hawk move off its post on the fenceline and come down circling over the crowd to be close if it got rough. Ready to take whatever fell first.