2018

Another year's stories posted and once again, thank you to all the writers.  I have started a new blog for our third year so please travel with me to the 2018 short short stories virtual world and pick up the first starter idea of the year.

Three Ships

She had never been one for Santa and angels and dreams coming true, but she needed a miracle, it was true. Especially this year. So when the figure appeared to her that night, she had no choice.

It was Christmas Eve and after she had secretly delivered presents under the tree to surprise her mother the next morning, she was more tired than her age suggested. She had never been so tired. She was inwardly and out drained as if she had run marathon after marathon with all resources depleted, no juice left.

“Maybe I’m coming down with a cold, “she thought, so she made herself some Echinacea tea and, after saying her prayers, snuggled into bed, where her cat soon joined her.

“You look like you’re having a lovely sleep,” she heard from far away. “But you must wake up now.”

She was instantly awake, in that way one has of going from complete oblivion to total awareness when faced with something urgent.

“Sit up. “

She did as she was told, her heart racing, every sense aware. The cat had suddenly leapt off the bed and scooted out the door and the room was cold. She saw nothing, but she heard.

“You are at a crossroads. Come with me while I show you something.”

And like that, while her body sat on the bed, she was yanked from it, from inside out, and suddenly she was flying far far above the ground, through the sky, through the stars. Completely aware, completely conscious and free and light as a bird – a lightness that was impossible to describe. But she saw the houses, the streets, the trees – she saw it all like they show it in the movies and she marvelled that it really was like in the movies.

She was stopped over a huge body of water, on which sat three ships. One was sparkling with gold and diamonds, but it was leaking and sinking. One was a beautiful wood – sturdy, with intricate delicate curly designs along the outside - and the third, simple and empty.

“Why am I here?” she asked. “What are those ships?”

“The possibilities.”

She began to be lowered, slowly at first, then suddenly she was plummeting towards the ships at terrifying speed.

“What’s happening?” she cried. 

“Choose!”

“Choose what?” she cried as she sped towards the ships.

“CHOOSE!”

“That one!” she uttered before she knew what she herself was talking about, and she instantly awoke.

The door creaked open and the cat scooted back in and jumped back up on the bed, while her heart continued to pound.

For several minutes she could not move or speak. Sweat beaded along her brow.

Then she heard it – music from the kitchen below:

“I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day on Christmas Day
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day in the morning…”



Jasmin Webb

A journey across the pond

The cool wind had guided my sailboat to the centre of the pond and I was concerned that the ducks would take a hostile approach to this unidentified floating object and attempt to sink it before I even had a chance to get to know my new Christmas present with its impressive sails and sleek lines. I imagined it resting on the bottom of the murky pool amongst mud, weed and broken bottles tossed in from passing drunks. Some council worker would claim it for his own when he had to clean it prior to some foreign dignitary visiting town, despite my slightly wobbly seven-year old’s effort at engraving my name and address into its side.

“It’ll be okay Jackie-boy,” my grandfather assured me as he crouched beside me and threw his arm around my shoulder. Despite my wanting to believe him, all I could think to do was cover my eyes with my hands…

                                                           ..............................................

…and I could see the bones in my hands as if I was looking at some X-ray machine.

"Face away from the blast, place your hands over your eyes, don’t be alarmed," the instructions reverberated over the tinny sounding loudspeakers on the deck. Moments later the light was brighter than we could have potentially imagined, as if God had plugged one hundred thousand lightbulbs into himself directly. Maybe this is what Reverend Paterson was talking about in church when he took mum’s funeral.

We were all excited about the prospect of visiting the South Pacific; the recruitment film had promised a life of adventure and all us lads had seen the native girls of the islands in the National Geographic. The senior officer placed the papers in front of me and provided me with the pen with which I proceeded to scribble Jack Forrester Hewitt.

..............................................

“Thanks, I guarantee you won’t regret it Mr Hewitt,” the crew member assured me as I handed my signed form for the island tour the next day. Mary and I returned to our regular chairs on the upper deck of the ‘Star Princess’ as we awaited the evenings entertainment and seating for dinner. Not being as sure-footed as I once was, much of my time was now spent sitting gazing over the ocean from the safety of a secure deck chair. In the late afternoon sun, passengers start to get excited about the presence of migrating whales and many clamber for their digital cameras and phones as a hail of flashes ignite the air. When my eyes readjust to their surroundings, I look to the starboard side and see a small yacht, sails fully set, hurling itself fearlessly into the setting sun. For a moment I see the hint of green and blue that my toy sailboat once had. I feel a light weight on my shoulder but there is no-one there. I expect my grandfather’s hand to reach down and scoop it up.



Andrew Hawkey

I saw three ships

“One for you,” She handed a red envelope to my Fiona. “This one for you,” She gave another to Angie.

“And this is for you,” She extended a white envelope with a green and red ribbon wrapped around it towards me, smiling brightly.

“Oh, I don’t celebrate Christmas,” I smiled in return, not reaching out.

“Still welcome to join us,” she insisted, jabbing the card towards me with a warm smile. “My house, 6.00 pm on the 23rd. Don’t be late!”

She hollered away, skipping to her next invitees on her list. Fiona closed her locker with a shrug and smile, looking over my invitation.

“You know, Ashley, it would be nice if you did celebrate Christmas with us for once. You never come to any of the Christmas gatherings held,” Angie commented, slapping on some lip balm.

“This is the first time I’ve been invited,” I state matter-of-factly.

They shrug at this and we start walking. Fairy lights lit up the usually dark and gloomy hallway on our way to class. A few miniature Christmas trees, replicas of the big one in the school canteen, stand to remind us of the cheer and warmth that the Christmas spirit brings. The Christmas spirit I never seem to have. We pass by several classes before Angie reaches her homeroom and we bid her farewell.

“I heard he’ll be there,” Fiona smirks a few steps before I enter my first class for my first period. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

“Who said I wasn’t coming?” I laugh and wave her off, entering the chemistry lab. “Hey,” he greets me, pulling out the chair beside him for me to sit.

“Hello. Are you coming to Kirsten’s Christmas gathering on the 23rd ?” I ask as casually as I can, sitting down beside him. He furrows his eyebrows at me.

“Yes, are you finally coming to your first Christmas party?” There’s a laughter in his voice and a twinge of a smile on his lips. I nod in response. “We’ll have to make it a special one, won’t we?”

“I’ll see you there.”

********************

“You look fine, Ashley,” Fiona reassures me, her hands on the steering wheel as we park near Kirsten’s house.

“Beside, I’m sure he’ll love it,” Angie teases, earning a laugh from Fiona.

“Your first Christmas celebration! I’ve never been this excited since my birthday!” Fiona squeals.

“That was two days ago,” I mutter under my breath as we leave the car. We enter the mansion Kirsten calls her house and are immediately greeted with blinding Christmas lights and reindeers hanging from the ceiling. We come right in time to see Kirsten stand on a platform holding a mike.

“Welcome everybody, and Merry Christmas! To begin our celebration, let us join hands in song,” She motions for the band to start playing music. “I saw three ships come sailing in...”

“On Christmas day, on Christmas day,” My friends started joining in and soon, a choir of people began singing too. I glanced around the room hoping to find a glimpse of him, but I fail to do so. Instead, I listen to everyone else sing and cheer to a song everybody but me knows.

“Our Saviour Christ, and His lady,” His voice suddenly rang in my ears, although it was only a whisper. “So you came.”

“Only for you,” I replied, earning a grin from his handsome face. “On Christmas day, on Christmas day.”



Katya Tjahaja

Saturday 16 December 2017

They call it the City of Sails – boat ownership is higher per capita than anywhere else in the world – but draw lines on the map from the coasts – north to south, east to west – and those lines intersect on my kitchen table.

I see a lot more cars than watercraft.

I was surprised to actually get a park just along from the ASB Waterfront Theatre.

Sails are rarely seen on the Manukau Harbour – in that harbour there are no beaches, mostly mud, they pipe the city’s shit out there beside the sacred river at Otuataua, the people are Polynesians in state houses – Polynesians: the greatest seafarers and navigators that history has witnessed.

Here on the Waitemata Harbour – rich tossers’ sleek white craft are moored. Heading up the gangplank: ‘How was it last night, debaucherous?’ ‘ … threw it in your face?’ ‘ … jumped off the balcony’.

Further around – Fullers ferries to Waiheke, a man playing the bagpipes.

And at last, at Queens Wharf – AIDAcara: registered in Genoa, gross tonnage: 38,531, a capacity of 1,186 passengers with 360 crew. This explains the unusual percentage of wrinkled Caucasians in pairs on the waterfront today. The Waste Management Oil Recovery tanker is pulled up on the dock beside the ship.

The crowds thin as one proceeds east past Admiralty Steps to Marsden Wharf. Huge red iron fences with ornate gates keep people from the water’s edge with overstated Victorian hauteur. Thirteen strands of electrified wire above the iron spikes indicate that even today the golden rule prevails – those with the gold rule.

At Marsden Wharf is berthed NOCC Atlantic, a giant object with all the grace and elegance and curvilinear art nouveau detail and decoration of a concrete block. Trucks rumble into its cavernous rear end.

Beyond the NOCC Atlantic is a small rock that is the place that on 18 September 1840 Ngati Whatua chief, Apihai Te Kawau, granted land to some visiting folks from across the ocean. Himalayan blunder!

I stomp on further along Quay Street. ‘Let the World be Nuclear-free’ the mosaic exhorts from the spot where French agents murdered Fernando Pereira.

I am almost at the Spark Arena, halfway between Storage Shed One and Storage Shed Two, while astonishing, yellow, War-of-the-Worlds machines roll about tossing shipping containers around before I realise that I am not going to be able to get any closer to the sea. I can glimpse, beyond the buildings, an orange ship with a black funnel with two pale blue stripes.

I turn and head back. I saw three ships.


Barnaby McBryde

The Electric Coconut Christmas Tree

On Stoddard Road, just across from the medical centre, The Auckland Samoan Assembly of God church is an old factory building, large, with a warehouse roller door on the side for trucks to back up to. The car parked on the road outside has prayer beads and an Arabic inscription hanging from the rear-vision mirror.

The motorway runs along behind the building. Next door: Panel and Paint, on the other side: the Elegant Knitwear factory, then an overflowing dumpster and Tulja Centre. Tulja Centre is a mall. What an excitingly modern idea it was in 1974, fresh from the distant home of capitalism – the shops are inside! Not a verandah in sight! But not so exciting now. And don’t think Dubai. Tulja Centre doesn’t have a ten-million-litre aquarium with 300 species of fish nor an indoor rainforest. It is mostly deserted, it has four shops on either side of its central passageway. Roti Hut and Hyderabad Kitchen if you want to eat Indian food; Nims, Sakhi and Devotie if you want to buy Indian women’s clothing; Sona Sansaar if you want to buy Indian jewellery or a few elephant deities …

If you approach Tulja Centre from the other direction, as you avoid the kids on bicycles, weave amongst the women with headscarves, the black man in a thick down jacket on a hot summer day, the old bearded man in dishdash and skullcap, a series of smells reach you as you walk – incense from the vegie shop, spicy cooking smells, linen and washing powder from the giant laundromat. There are a more than reasonable number of barbershops, a couple of tailors, a TAB and ‘a name you can trust’ Mohammed’s Halal Meat.

At Deliciously Pasifik you can buy Samoan taro or Fijian pink taro. There is a security guard outside the Post Office. Hip Hop bursts from passing cars and across the Siasi ’O Tonga (NZ) Trust Board sign – an incomprehensible green tag.

And at the back, left-hand corner of Tulja Centre – Café Abyssinia.

And in the central walkway of the mall – the electric coconut Christmas tree. It brushes the, admittedly low, ceiling. The trunk is green plastic but the coconuts are green plastic lit from inside and the ten or so meager fronds are made from plastic tubes with flashing lime-green lights inside. The tree rests on a wooden board and an unapologetic electric cord is plugged into a socket in the wall.

‘Ganna’ he calls it – the commemoration of the birth of Christ on 7 January. He recalls the white netela the people wore as they headed to the round stone church in the evening, the songs, the processions, the candles, the walking home in the silence at 3 a.m.

No flashing trees, no presents – the holy service, the feasting: Ethiopia before The Derg killed the Emperor, before the Red Terror. About the time they were building the Tulja Centre here.


Dhiraja

General Pause

Back home, there had been a heavy fall of snow, turning the field beyond the stone wall into a Christmas card. A proper Christmas, she thought, not this hot, off the clock, barbeque and strawberries antipodean version.

Charlotte paused, one score left to clean. Outside her window, a builder in a Santa hat was packing up his tools, whistling tunefully. He caught her eye, and waved.

“Merry Christmas!”

You too, she mouthed, returning the wave.

She opened the cover of the clarinet part for the Vaughan Williams' Fantasia on Christmas Carols, and began to erase the spidery pencil marks. Everyone else was at the garden bar, one last gathering before they scattered for a month. I’ll just finish these, she had said. Won’t be long.

The clarinettist was new to the orchestra, still conscientiously noting every one of the conductor’s directions in her tiny hieroglyphics. Every beat of a complex rhythm numbered, moments of featured melody underscored, a General Pause circled multiple times with pencilled coils.

Charlotte leaned back in her seat. At home her mother would rise in a few hours, a twelve-hour day in the kitchen ahead. She would be singing carols as she cooked - Deck the Halls, I Saw Three Ships, Ding Dong Merrily on High - producing mince pies, delicate hors d’oeuvres, a pre-stuffed turkey and prepared vegetables ready for the oven, Christmas pudding and bread sauce. There would be eighteen for Christmas Day, arriving in waves after hours snarled on the M25 in unforgiving weather. The children would be irritable, babies hard to settle again. Only a long weekend away from work for some or a short hiatus in the school year. Her brothers would have projects parked until after the festivities, and tensions would mount if work phone calls intruded.

Charlotte closed the score and added it to the pile. She swept the erasing curls into the rubbish bin. The builder had long gone, and the office was so quiet she could hear the hum of the lights. In the late afternoon sun, the others would be on to their second glass, toasting another successful concert season, breathing into the slower rhythm of the summer ahead - camping on sunburnt lakesides, beach cottages with no clocks, a cycling tour with grandchildren.

Charlotte shelved the scores, and gave her empty desk one last glance. Next year they would begin again, a clean page, a fresh start.

For now, the General Pause. Halls were holly-decked. Three ships had sailed in and found safe harbour. Shepherds enjoyed a beer in the silent star-lit high country. The baby slept.


Rosemary McBryde