The Novel and Short Story
Somehow appropriately – on the day that CK Stead won the worlds richest prize for a short story, we were privileged to have had Joan Rosier Jones present her seminar on the Short Story and the Novel.
Another great seminar – we are making a bit of a habit of it now. :-)
Once again, a lot of ground and information was covered, as well as getting our attendees right into active engagement and participation. With several challenging writing exercises and a a lot of fun and enthusiasm as well.
We look forward to all our participant on the day taking what they have got from the workshop and developing and progressing their writing.
———————————————–
Committee with Joan.
………………………………………………..
Comments from the day:
” Should have hired the hall for all night and held her captive. “
” A really helpful workshop. For the first time, ‘the process’ and the fact that it can lead to an outcome makes sense to me. “
” Joan is a great teacher, fun, entertaining and to the point. “
” Excellent all around. “
” A great seminar. We need more of these please.”
” Great session – very interesting and covered a lot of ground. ”
To which the committee would like to add their thanks to Joan also.
.
Travel Writing – Submissions
On the same day as we had the Poetry Writing seminar/workshops, we also ran the travel writing Seminar. I have now posted the submissions from the participants who wrote something for the day and have since polished and refined them, following the advice from Graham Reid, our guest speaker.
Thankyou to the writers who have submitted their work to us and I hope you enjoy reading their stories. Click on the links in the side-bar: Travel A, B, C. And feel free to leave comments in the section at the end of each story. As writers we all love to get some feedback on the work that we have produced.
Once again, congratulations and thanks to our writer. :-)
.
Travel – A
Inclement weather
~ Ron Pemberton
.
“Dive Ron dive or you’re dead!” A voice in my head screamed at me to get out of the clouds. “You have 20 seconds to live – think quick – dive or die!” I lowered my starboard wing to see if I could spot a gap in the clouds. There below me was a possible escape, a bright patch of cloud – a different shade no more – a little lighter than the swirling darkness all around me; I aimed for it.
Our gaggle of Harvard’s, World War II trainers, were heading back to Auckland after a long weekend at the Wanaka Air show. The whole weekend had alternated between cold and wet as sporadic showers swept through the area, now the trip home was proving to be a bigger shambles. The day had been plagued with intermittent showers and before taking off we had received news that an aircraft carrying a family home from the show had crashed at the Lindis Pass, killing all on board. After this piece of depressing news we made a decision to fly up the coast. I was a little apprehensive about going but left the decision in the hands of the more experienced flyers, a decision I had cause to regret.
After take off we gathered together in formation and our leader headed first for the Lindis Pass. Below our wing tips was clear air but above dark brooding clouds threatened our approach to the Pass. They gathered ahead of us, smothering the mountaintops and filling the Pass with an impenetrable darkness against the foolhardy that believed they might enter and survive. We turned for the coast but there below at the mouth of the Pass was the downed aircraft – a crumpled wreck.
Clear fine weather greeted us around Oamaru but as we got further north, around Christchurch, the weather started to deteriorate.
“Shall we stay at Christchurch?” A voice over the radio
asked as we crossed the Rakaia River, south east of the City.
“No we will plug on and see what it’s like at Blenheim. Then, if it gets worse we can stay there the night and cross the strait in the morning.” Another voice answered.
Cumulus-nimbus clouds pushed down on us – our visibility getting less and less as boiling towers of hell filled the sky. Vertical towers of Cumulus-nimbus, those dark menacing clouds of wrath, can suck a light aircraft up to 10,000ft leaving you minus your wings and a one-way ticket to your maker. The storm increased in its fury the further north we went, until we were flying at 150 ft above sea level with the rain falling heavily against our windshields.
“Ron, get up behind the leader as close as you can.” One of the pilots in the gaggle told me over the radio. “We will have to fly in a tight formation in this weather.” I brought my aircraft over from the leaders outer wing to get in behind him, my propeller appearing to be only a fraction away from his tail. One small slip, a little more turbulence, and my propeller was gone, and we would be both heading for the water. I had never flown so close to another aircraft before, my eyes focussed on his tail and the whirling blade of my propeller. The aircraft shuddered in the slipstream, weaving, and buffeting, trying to keep control and position in line astern.
We had been flying underneath the clouds with the Kaikoura coast on our port side, the weather getting worse and the visibility down to less than a kilometre.
The driving rain lashed my windscreen, rain poured in through the gaps in the sliding overhead hatch, my legs soaked, my body surprisingly warm. Murmurs about “bloody ridiculous flying in this weather”, came over the radio from voices in the flight, then, the decision was reached to turn back to the small airstrip at Kaikoura.
“Keep in tight Ron, follow the leader, keep him in sight”
a voice over the radio warned.
The lead aircraft banked to the right, out towards the sea, a difficult manoeuvre as there is no natural horizon to follow as the dark grey rain clouds and the grey green sea blended into one grey nothingness. I followed; it was then I made my mistake. As I turned towards the grey morass of endless sky my aircraft pitched up as I made my turn, it was then I entered the clouds. No more light just a boiling mass of foam – no horizon to keep you level – no landmarks to direct you – no thoughts but death.
One of the most basic instructions when you first learn to fly is: “never enter cloud unless you are instrument rated”. Your mind sends incorrect signals to the brain, spatial disorientation aviators call it, your senses tell you that you are turning one way, which you try to compensate by doing the opposite the more you try the worse it gets, until finally… you are upside down and spinning towards oblivion. The Harvard only has basic instruments so there is no escape unless you have a few thousand feet of clear air between you and the ground to recover; I had 150ft.
The few seconds it took to realise my possible fate and the decision to dive for the light area seemed an age; looking down I saw the light and I put the nose down and dived.
Coming out of the clouds I could see the other aircraft coming at me from the opposite direction, they scattered to the left and to the right giving me room to bring the aircraft under control.
All around me the driving rained splattered against the windshield the wind buffeted the aircraft.
“Fuck Ron! We thought you were a gonna.” A voice yelled over the radio. “Can you see the leader?”
“I can’t see him!” I yelled back, trying not to allow the fear to creep into my voice.
“He’s about twenty five metre’s in front of you and to your right.” I peered through the dark grey rain filled sky straining my eyes for a sight of the leader. “I see him! I see him!” I yelled back.
“ Well aim for him were heading back to Kaikoura.”
I increased power – desperately peering through the maelstrom outside struggling to catch up with the lead aircraft while keeping an eye out for the rest of the flight. I couldn’t see the strip, as the leader started his descent, so I circled overhead. I lowered my starboard wing so I could see the ground and then I saw it off my wing tip. The wind was getting worse I could feel its force; the aircraft jumped and bucked like a mustang on heat as I turned for the runway. I pointed the nose at the Kaikoura strip, luckily the wind was directly down the runway so no crosswind to worry about but the gale continued its assault. Landing at a strange airfield in the best of weather can be a daunting task but in driving rain, low cloud, and gale force wind you make a silent prayer that you don’t have to go round again. I decided to take a long run at the strip allowing myself plenty of time to prepare for a landing. Speaking to myself through pursed lips and clenched teeth that this was it, – “one go – one chance.” The weather was getting worse – vision was impaired by the nightmare of the driving rain – it was almost horizontal – lashing and buffeting the aircraft as I approached.
I held the aircraft steady, my hand gripped the stick in a strangle hold, gear down – check, flaps down – check, “shouldn’t need too much in this weather”, fuel sufficient – check, instruments a OK – check, harness tight – check, carb heat off – check.
“No mistakes now Ron”, that voice in my head spoke again, “steady now.” The aircraft obeying my commands, no thoughts of fear just bloody determination to get on the ground in one piece. Your years of training kicks in – follow the rules – obey the procedure – keep calm… or at least try to. My mind focuses on the task ahead, keep it straight… power coming off, focus… and you’re down.
I looked ahead and there at the far end of the runway was another aircraft turning slowly off the runway. Yelling tersely into the radio, I said, “Who ever is still on the runway, can you please clear, I’m not going around again!” The aircraft cleared with plenty of space for me to finish my roll out. I taxied the aircraft to the pumps and shut it down. I sat there for a few moments collecting my thoughts – my heart pounding – my breath shallow – I closed my eyes while my chest rose and fell to the rhythm of my breathing. Then slowly, I climbed out of the cockpit my legs and arms feeling numb from the mental and physical exertion. I stood quietly, holding on to the wing, my mind going through the events of the last 20 minutes but then I was brought back to earth by some taunts from the others about not entering cloud and other friendly abuse.
We made a decision to stay in Kaikoura for the night. A sound decision followed that night by a good meal a bottle of wine and fitful night of broken sleep as the events of the day sieved through my brain.
The morning dawned with no rain and clear visibility but above, white billowy clouds hung in the sky like crumpled washing their base no more than 800 ft. We crossed the Cook Strait with ease the smooth air giving an untroubled transit but the cloud base started to descend as we approached the coast of the North Island. Flying along the Kapiti coast we descended to a 100ft as the cloud base drove us lower. The visibility was a good 30 Kilometres – no rain – no wind – no fear, the engine purred like a kitten as the adrenalin flowed through my veins. It was exhilarating – it was real flying – your speed exaggerated by the closeness of the ground. No thoughts of fear, only thoughts of joy, an absolute feeling of being alive.
(1,717 words) ©2000
.
Travel – B
Windsong – a trip to Tiritiri Matangi
~ Sandra Kyle
.
It’s a picture-perfect Auckland day and we are on our way to Tiritiri Matangi, an open sanctuary for rare and endangered birds. Auckland’s skyline fades as we round North Head and plough out past Motuhuie and Waiheke. It’s already Autumn, yet so hot that there are people on Cheltenham beach, and the Cancer society is supplying sunblock to the ferry’s passengers. I am troubled with the thought that global warming affects not only us, but other, more innocent species, less able of adapting to a changing climate.
The Quickcat skims over the sunlit waters as the outline of our destination appears on the horizon. The Skipper announces points of interest. Over to the right a feeding frenzy; small fish hurl themselves out of the ocean, sparkling in the sun for one glorious moment before being picked off by excited gulls. Off to the left a group of fluttering shearwaters. A slender, long-winged brown and white seabird, (also known as the muttonbird) it breeds only in New Zealand. As we watch, they fly low with fast, rhythmic wingbeats interspersed with a long glide, on the lookout for sprats and krill chased close to the surface by predators.
The boat approaches Gulf Harbour Marina in the Whangapaoroa where it picks up more visitors, and the Skipper announces: “Dolphins to our left”. The boat slows almost to a standstill, and a duo come within a few metres of us, but today they don’t feel like playing, and having satisfied their curiosity, swim off again. It’s the closest I’ve been to dolphins, and I’m delighted. I grew up with stories of Pelorous Jack, and Opo, and three years ago visited Opononi on a pilgrimage. The stories of friendship between our species and others have always profoundly moved me.
The journey from downtown Auckland takes about one hour, and at 10:30 we enter the lee of Tiritiri and walk across the jetty to awaiting DOC staff. As I walk I hear the distinctive call of the Saddleback, now extinct on the mainland. The Island’s Manager and Chief Ranger welcome today’s group of about 50 visitors, including six Tiri supporters, acting as guides. The supporters of Tiritiri Matangi are major contributors to its development. Involved from the outset in planting thousands of trees and translocating species, they also provide financial and physical support for the ongoing scientific work on the island. The Manager tells the assembled visitors there is a “pack in” and “pack out” policy – no rubbish can be left here. Precautions have to be taken, too, that no predators are accidentally introduced, and we are asked to check our luggage for vermin. A trailer takes heavy baggage up the hill to the Visitor’s Centre, and we set off with just our day-packs, binoculars and cameras. Our guide is an older man in a Ranger hat. Before we start he gathers our small group around him to explain the big picture. “Everything’s connected to everything else”, he says. “If you take things out, you need to put things back”
We have come to Tiritiri Matangi (the name means “tossed by the wind”) to see some of our endangered birds – the Kokako, Stitchbird, Saddleback, and the rare Takahe. As we walk, our guide points out especially constructed nest boxes for the little blue penguin, who come ashore at night after hunting in the shallow waters for small fish and squid. We walk along greywacke-strewn Hobbs beach, named after a family who farmed there up until the 1970’s – and hear the loud, rapid chatter of the Kakariki (“small parrot”). native to New Zealand, endangered as a result of habitat destruction by introduced predators. Vivid green, with a crimson forehead, a noisy pair fly into some vegetation and disappear. I keep wishing I was a better spotter. Some fanciers can spot the most camouflaged of birds.
We follow our guide along the boardwalks of the Kawerau track into the young forest. I glimpse a tui sitting in a rimu, and then a saddleback, tieke, with its brown “saddle” of feathers and orange wattle. Sacred to Te Arawa, it’s said the saddleback served as pilot on the journey out from the Pacific. A couple of fantail, piwakawaka, follow us, chirping to get our attention, flicking their tails as they look for insects. I think of a school emblem I recently saw, showing a fantail and the motto: “Make them proud, who follow”.
I love birds. I have always loved to watch them, and feed them, but I became a true bird fancier when I bought my first bird, Coco, a small yellow cockatiel. Coco’s antics proved endearing to all who came in contact with him. He would deliver “Coco’s blessing” to visitors to my home by flying onto their head or shoulder and singing to them, or exercise his nest-building instincts by playing with their hair. . Once Coco breathed onto a mirror, leaving a patch of mist where his breath had been. I had an epiphany that day.. We are often so arrogant towards other species, refusing to see how similar they are to us – a denial that is very convenient when you consider the way they suffer at our hands in factory farms, and in feedlots. In the wild too, as we destroy their habitats through “development.”.
Our little group passes some feeding stations where my companions and I remain for some moments, watching the stitchbird, hihi – called for the tzit tzit sound they make. Endemic to NZ, thought to be fewer than 1,000 left, these little honeyeaters have the distinction of being the only bird that mates face-to-face. Our guide points out the male, strikingly more handsome than the plain grey female, with a bright yellow band across the chest, and black head. As well as the tzit sound, they have a high pitched whistle, and around the feeding station these extremely active little birds chatter to each other the whole time.
We emerge from the forest and walk up a grassy hill to the lighthouse, New Zealand’s oldest, built in 1864. Those staying overnight go to the bunkhouse to eat, the rest sit at wooden tables at the visitor’s centre, or picnic on the grass. A fan of the pukeko, I look out for the Takahe, who it superficially resembles. I don’t have to wait long. A giant purple and red bird appears from behind the building, placidly walking among the visitors. Suddenly, a very ordinary scene becomes extraordinary. “That’s Ross”. says the Manager. “Come here, Rossy” and he runs his clumsy chicken-waddle towards her. In the 1800s there were only a few sightings of the Takahe and in the first half of last century the species was considered extinct. Then in 1948 an amateur ornithologist came across a small population deep in the South Island’s interior. Now, thanks to breeding programs such as that on Tiri, there are more than 200 Takahe world-wide.
Lunch over, we go back to the ferry along the Wattle Track. After a few moments I hear a noise like leaves snapping, and turn to see two Kokako feeding in some Broome. As we stand and watch, they dart from branch to branch, plucking and eating leaves. Without strong wings, they are like a flying squirrel, gliding from tree to tree and running up trunks on their long legs. These endangered wattlebirds – they appear on the reverse side of the $50 note – also feature in Maori mythology. It was Kokako that gave Maui water as he fought the sun. Kokako filled its plump blue wattles with water offering it to Maui to quench his thirst, and Maui rewarded him by making his legs long and strong, enabling him to cover more ground in his search for food.
My companions and I check our brochure. We have seen most of the birds we came to see, and more besides – white-eyes, tomtits, blackbirds. But we still haven’t seen the North Island Robin. Look for them on the forest floor, our guide said, as they feed on invertebrates. Suddenly we come to a rest area in front of a feeding station, and there he is, Toutouwhai, mistakenly named robin – no relation to the European variety but the name has stuck. I am fascinated by this fellow –slightly bigger than a sparrow, with a large head, plump grey body, white and yellow breast and belly, he stands upright, sentinel-like, on his long thin legs. I approach closer; he continues fossicking under the leaves. Fearless, he rummages near our shoes as we photograph him, stopping every now and then to look around, all curiosity, all legs. Seeing Toutouwhai I realise what I have been trying to understand since I arrived on the island. Picture-perfect day, lapping water, native forest, crystal birdsong; we have been on a journey through New Zealand’s soul. Thankful for this realization, I compose a Haiku for Robin:
Diminitive gem
I want to know about you
What is your true name?
It’s Kokako, not Robin, who answers me, as we emerge from the forest, with his haunting, mournful farewell. Our last encounter with a rare species is with a lone brown Teal duck, (Pateke), feeding at the side of the track. Once in their millions, now fewer than 1300, the brown teal is thought to have evolved from the very beginning of life in New Zealand. As we wave goodbye to DOC staff on the jetty I think of the birds of Tiritiri Matangi this night, perched high on branches of manuka, and totara, kanuka, and pohutakawa, totara and puriri, their beaks nuzzled into their back feathers to keep out the cold, and to rest their necks. As sunlight crowns the horizon, they will break into song, a communication that is natural and direct, and, unlike our own species, without malice and without duplicity. Unlike our species too, these innocent creatures have done nothing to damage the Earth, or threaten the environment.. At least global warming means that more birds will survive the winter. My thoughts again entertain Haiku’s minimalist cadence:
Bird settles on branch
He sings and then flies away
Ka kite, little Bird.
.
Travel – C
IN SEARCH OF TUTANKHAMUN
~ Maureen Spencer
.
I walked across the sunny courtyard brushing a coating of stone dust from my sleeve. It reminded me that nothing lasts for ever. Unfortunately nor did the Ancient Egyptians.
Cairo Museum is very different from others I have seen around the world; dusty stone objects dominate every available nook and cranny. Near the entry sits a large black stone, discovered by Napoleon’s troops in the northern town of Rosetta. But this stone is a fake. The genuine Rosetta Stone resides in The British Museum and Egypt’s fight to reclaim it continues.
Opposite the black stone is a tiny statue of Kufu a pharaoh who, so the story goes, prostituted his daughters to pay for the last stones of the Great Pyramid.
The museum is crammed with people. I walk along a corridor and watch a tourist hung with cameras, photograph a brightly painted stone frieze from olden Thebes. (Luxor)
‘Gees will you look at this Martha, 4000years old? It would look grand in our garden.’
I smile. Round the next corner I find what I am looking for. Tutankhamun’s father, Akenaton. This pharaoh founded the cult of the sun god, aton. His huge sandstone statue, 3-4 metres tall, dominates the room. The misshapen female body with thick lips and slanting eyes looks freakish. Maybe he is the first alien?
A museum guard sauntered into the room. Seeing me alone he said, ‘He’s a weird one,’ indicating the statue, ‘he almost destroyed Egypt.’
‘Yes. But he had a beautiful wife, Nefertiti?’
The guard came over and whispered confidentially, ‘She worshiped the gold, not the man. No woman could love that.’
I was inclined to agree, but instead inquired, ‘Which way to Tutankhamun’s treasure?’
‘Come with me.’ He took my arm and led me into the corridor. ‘You will find him at the end, turn right and up the stairs.’ I pressed five Egyptian pounds into his open hand. His words rang in my ears. No woman could love that. But I knew together they had six children?
Tutankhamun’s jewellery lies in black velvet lined cabinets in a room packed with tourists and guarded like Fort Knox. I strained to see necklaces constructed of blue lapis, orange carnelian and turquoise, intricately set with gold filigree. Heavy solid gold bracelets lay beside delicate lapis earrings. The pieces are riveting and my imagination races; when did he wear them? As I jostle to see them clearly. Lord, the world and his wife must be in this room today, because the smell of body odour increases as I pass down the line. Beautiful as the jewellery is, I leave and with relief walk out into the airy corridor to see the exquisite golden Selkis goddesses guarding the four corners of Tutankhamun’s massive gilded shrines. I stand and gaze.
A small child stands beside me, staring intently at one golden goddess. Not talking or fiddling, just staring with wide dark eyes. Suddenly she shouts. That’s my mummy,’ and dashes off?
The four caskets, one of pure gold draw me, but then the illusion is shattered, the masks are different? The beautiful striped lapis and gold mask sitting in a cabinet nearby must surely be Tutankhamun, but who is that on the second coffin lid?
Leaving the glittering golden artifacts I make my way over to Tutankhamun’s relatives, The Royal Mummies. In a room with no hint of tomb mustiness, these Kings from 3000 – 5000 years ago look stately in death as in life. Seti I is the most attractive with his flawless mummified head and face. Rameses II with skimpy orange hair and one arm permanently raised looks a very old man. Thutmosis III, for all his battles with the Nubians and Palestine, has a kind face.
Ahead of me a middle aged woman is quietly sobbing into her handkerchief, as she bends over a mummy. Suddenly, a tall sultry eyed young man with longish dark hair bursts through the door. He clutches hold of the woman and with a cut glass English accent says, ‘Mother! They have been dead for thousands of years, you don’t know any of them,’ and with a quick, ‘Sorry’ to me, he bundles the woman out.
It’s time to leave the Pharaohs to their eternal slumber. I locate the stairs and find the souvenir shop. A small blue bust of Nefertiti catches my eye and a museum guide book will show me what I’ve missed.
Holding my purchases I walk outside into the sunshine. I know one day it will all be lost, but today, Ancient Egypt is very much alive.
.
Words: 760
To fly to Egypt: Fly Emirates. Melbourne to Cairo 14 hrs non stop.
Fly Emirates to Singapore. Changi Airport motel. Sleep 12hrs
Fly Emirates to Dubai. 2hrs stop over
Dubai to Cairo
Fare cattle-class: NZ $ 2500 – $3000
