Te Kaharoa

Creative Writing 601 Special Edition Preface

Jani Wilson — Sat, 20 Jul 2019 00:00:00 +1200

Creative Writing 601 (soon-to-be-hopefully-renamed) is based in Te Ara Poutama, under the auspices of the Māori Media degree, the only degree of its kind in the world. To fuel, perhaps, an unknown/untapped desire for creative writing, potentially publishing in Te Kaharoa is an opportunity for our year one and two tauira to experience the publication process from conceptualisation and development in the classroom, and sending them out into the world. Excited by the prospect of this, we invited a number of our past tauira to submit work to Te Kaharoa as a means of seeing publication through, and potentially setting a pathway for future tauira to follow. Welcome to this experiment.

The Retrieval

Matilda Poasa — Sat, 20 Jul 2019 00:00:00 +1200

It was supposed to be a simple retrieval job. In and out. I was supposed to recover a necklace from the house of some rich dude who, to be honest, probably wouldn’t even have noticed that it’d been taken. Fucking rich people. I knew the house would be empty tonight because it was the night of the big gala. Every local and national newspaper hadn’t shut up about it for the past two weeks. Everybody who was anybody in New Zealand would be there. A “celebration of the spirit of generosity” the New Zealand Gazette had dubbed it. Philanthropist and all round rich guy, Edward Monay was donating millions of dollars to the poor and underprivaleged of New Zealand. Whoopty fuckin’ doo. Why do rich people always have to tell the world they’re gonna donate money? Why not just do it and then feel good about it in private? I don’t make a song and dance every time I give a dollar to a homeless person who shakes their cup at me on the street. I laughed. A dollar compared to Monay’s millions. Monay. Geez, even his fucking name sounded wealthy. “Fuckin’ rich people,” I said, lightly shaking my head and chuckling as I crept along the outside wall of Mr Monay’s estate.

Strawberry

Taniora Williams — Sat, 20 Jul 2019 00:00:00 +1200

Peering out from behind the low clouds in the foggy night sky, the full moon’s light shone invitingly upon the back doorstep. As I sat under the silver tone of the moon, memories flooded my mind; the times when I was just a little girl eating strawberries that belonged to the crop next door. When no one was looking, I would go to the back of the yard where a tall wooden fence separated our house from the strawberry farm on the other side. If it wasn’t such a pretty fence, I would be annoyed with it. But I liked its colour, its smoothness, and its strength.

The Peach and the Sky

TZE (NGĀ-TAI) WEE — Sat, 20 Jul 2019 00:00:00 +1200

Tao laid in bed staring at an old black and white photo of his mother; twirling a little peach-shaped jade pendant between his fingers; a gift given to him by his mother. Tao’s name meant peach in Chinese, he was given the name by his mother; as a baby, he was a chubby and sweet little thing, now, a young 17-year-old man; slim, gaunt and bitter. Tao closed his eyes trying to remember the sweet, fragrant aroma of orange blossoms whenever his mother walked into the room, how gently she spoke, even when angered, her hands; soft and warm against his cheeks as she placed a tender kiss on his forehead. Tao thought of these memories religiously every morning, it made him feel closer to his mother even though they were oceans apart.

Mua

Jenny Gomes — Sat, 20 Jul 2019 00:00:00 +1200

1.39 am

32 year old Private investigator Marama Walker squinted at the road ahead trying to see past the battering rain pelting against her windscreen. Huddling closer to the steering wheel, she absently pushed a wayward lock of wavy black hair with one hand and steered with the other. As the wind picked up outside, she wondered what the gods were trying to tell her. After all, it’s been years since she quit her job as a cop and became a private investigator. A decision made at an impulse after the death of her daughter five long years before. It came as a shock when the Chief of police demanded she meet him tonight. Looking at the time she couldn't help but think just what was so urgent that her former boss the Chief of police sought her out after half a decade. Marama couldn’t help but grimace at the thought a niggling feeling of foreboding creeping on the back of her mind. Marama fumbled around the front of her shirt until she felt the touch of a smooth stone, a pounamu touched her finger. Marama often did this to remember who she used to be. Sighing she let go and forged ahead towards her destiny.

Hū

Keanna Johnson-Phillipps — Sat, 20 Jul 2019 00:00:00 +1200

The walls felt as if they were caving in on me, wrapping me up tighter than my mum did before she left me. Institutionalisation, colonization, since starting at Wayvalley High School in a rather wealthy area, I was a target. Skin so dark you’d think I was misplaced, like an abnormal white zebra with only one black stripe that ran right down its spine. Yes, I was the stripe. School was like my father, Jim Turia’s house. A place only known by 5 years old Kahu, but never forgotten after 10 whole years. Which was surprising seeing as my memory is quite bad, unless you want me to discuss the impact colonisation has had on my people and our country. Anyway, I’m sitting here amongst a flock of doves with uniforms that their parents probably washed every day. Well compared to mine anyway, my dress shirt has never seen an iron before and my pants look like Uncle Riki’s bum, saggy. Don’t get me started on my shoes, I walk in the house with bare feet every day, so Uncle doesn’t have to spend more money on another pair. I always laugh because Mrs Sherman is the epitome of my school shoes. Worn out, broken and ready to give in, though some how she still manages to walk her way through each day. She’s my music teacher, a 40ish year old Pākehā woman that looks at me like Uncle Riki’s boss looks at him. Oh yeah Uncle Riki, you could say he’s my father. He took me in after my mother and biological dad passed on, which I’m truly grateful for.