Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Hiwa hopes | Ngā manako ki a Hiwa – Arihia Latham
Span | Tīpae – Cilla McQueen
By starlight, the garden | I te aho whetū, te māra – Mereana Latimer
Sleepwalking | Moeteki – Sarah Penwarden
Corazón de estrellas/ Regresa | Heart of stars / Returning – Jane Davidson
Ples mo team we ol flae blong kalalaet oli danis | Where the flashing fireflies flutter – Leina Isno
The temptation of apples | Спокуса яблук – Serie Barford
Still | In der Stille – Lola Elvy
Joyriding inside the black hole – Caroline Masters
Stars in the ocean, stars in the sky – Shreyasi Majumdar
Paper stars – Vin Mahadevan
What if? – Céline Hayashi-Ronze
Flying – Mazz Scannell
Starlight, streetlight – Anny Trolove
The Black Star Express – Lee Clift
Stars on Stripes – Cathy Silk
In The Studio – Richard Dingwall
Collective – Jac Jenkins
Jurassic world – Deborah Jowitt
Twenty-one days without stars – Sue Barker
Te Tāwera – the morning star – June Pitman-Hayes
A gold star for Sammy – Sara Crane
Star swallower – Eloise Pengelly
The scarecrow of memory – Donna Shanley
Stars – Nicholas Fairclough
The nine stars of Matariki – Cindy Kurukaanga
One night only – Kahli Scott
Pierced tin – Shannon Spencer
Features:
Artist feature: Star Gossage on ‘becoming emotionalist’; kōrero with Moata McNamara
Language essay: Hēmi Kelly, ‘A Tradition of Māori Translation’
Songlines: Emerging voices + Otago artists conjuring creativity in the face of climate change
‘Keep the kōrero open’: Iona Winter on her new book, A Counter of Moons (with artwork by Kirstie McKinnon)
New book: Neema Singh talks with Erik Kennedy about his collection Sick Power Trip
New book: Rachel Smith talks with Mikaela Nyman about her collection The Anatomy of Sand
Iridescent moments: a conversation across space, time and genre with Adam Sébire, Michelle Elvy, Susan Wardell and Susie Johnston
Featured Artwork
Star Gossage, Untitled, 2024
Mariela Durnhofer, You are one of us
Star Gossage, Pathway of the golden heart
Mariela Durnhofer, Flying Waka
Star Gossage, Pākiri 2
Star Gossage, Untitled, 2024
Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Arihia Latham
Hiwa hopes
English
from ‘Takapō’
This morning in memory, my boots crunched my name into the blades of grass frozen with yesterday’s anxieties. Today I started asking for things from a star and wondered if that was a bit entitled, a little whiny. Hiwa-i-te-rangi, the most likely star to take on celebrity status as all of our human hopes flutter to the edge of the atmosphere like floating coins. Wishing, she was probably wishing we were better descendants. But the hopes I had were prised from the mitochondria of my cells and drawn out of the chromosomes I hummed with. Not interstellar but cellular. The hopes I had were silent.
Ngā manako ki a Hiwa
Māori
atu i ‘Takapō’
I tēnei ata, i roto i ngā mahara, i tāraia e aku pūtu taku ingoa ki ngā rau pātītī i mātao i ngā āwangawanga o nanahi rā. I te rā nei, i tīmata taku tono i ētahi mea ki tētahi whetū, ā, ka whakaaro ake au me he taikaha rawa, he tamariki rawa rānei tērā. Ko Hiwa-i-te-rangi, ko te whetū e kaha ake ana te tūpono o tana eke ki te tūranga hautupua, e kakapa atu nei ō tātou tūmanako tangata ki te tapa o te kōhauhau, ānō he ukauka e whakaangi ana. E mina nei, ko tāna e mina nei pea kia pai ake tātou hei uri. Engari ko ngā tūmanako ōku i tuakina mai i te pata pūngao o aku pūtau, i kūmea mai i ngā pūira i hamumuhia e au. Ehara i te whetū, engari he pūtau. Nohopuku ana ngā tūmanako i a au.
This story was first published in the dual-language anthology Short! Poto! (Massey University Press, 2025).
Arihia Latham (Kāi Tahu, Kāti Māmoe, Waitaha) is a writer, creative and rongoā practitioner. She is the author of Birdspeak (Anahera Press, 2023) and lives with her whānau in Wellington.
Nō Kāi Tahu, Kāti Māmoe me Waitaha hoki a Arihia Latham he kaituhi, he wahine auaha, he mātanga rongoā hoki. Nāna a Birdspeak (Anahera Press, 2023) i tuhi, ā, e noho ana ki Te Whanganui-a-Tara me tōna whānau.
Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Cilla McQueen
Span
English
On the spiral path to the summit of Motupōhue, we turn one way to look down the country to the north and then the other to look up south towards Antarctica.
Beyond Ōmāui lies the Tākitimu, milky blue, the sky pāua-shell pastel.
Sunlight and shadow on the sea, cloud, kelp, sand, lichen. Low persistent hum of the port machinery, traffic, beeps, clangs, thumps. On a calm day the working sounds ring clear. At other times they are muted by sea-mist or deleted by wind.
Neatly stacked with shining blocks of aluminium, a heavy truck crosses the bridge to the island harbour. That cold metal spans my writing life.
Once, we got into an old warehouse where a large amount of aluminium dross was stockpiled. The wrecking bar levered up a roller door that shrieked in the still night. The air was dusty, the bales stacked high. The moon shone through a hole in the roof, reflected in puddles on the concrete floor.
Dross is shifted around. It’s hard to dispose of. Dross increases.
On the bright side we have the rainbows whose spectral arches link Tīwai, Motupōhue, Rakiura. In spring, in the branches above my writing place, the pōhue flowers in clusters of white stars tumbling down the shady tree.
Tīpae
Māori
I te ara tōrino ki te tihi o Motupōhue, ka huri atu kia titiro iho ki te whenua ki te raki kātahi ka huri anō kia titiro whakarunga ki Te Kōpaka Runga.
I tua atu i a Ōmāui e takoto ana a Tākitimu, ōrangitea, ko te rangi he kanotea-pāua.
Ko te mārama o te rā me te ātārangi kei te moana, kapua, rimurapa, onepū, pukoko. Ko te wheo ngunguru o ngā mīhini o te wāpu, he motukā, he tātangi, he pākōkō, he pao. I tētahi rangi paruhi ka mārama pū te tangi o ngā mahi. I ētahi atu wā kua ngū i te kohu-moana whakakorengia atu rānei e te hau.
He putunga poraka konumohe, he taraka taumaha e whiti ana i te arahanga ki te whanga o te motu. Ka tīpae taua konganuku mātao i taku toiora tuhituhi.
Tērā te wā i kuhu mātou ki tētahi whare putunga tawhito i reira te konganuku porowhiu e putua ana. Nā te kaho tukituki te tatau pōkai i whakarewa, ā, ka tarakeha noa nei i te pō ngū. E puehu ana te hau, e teitei ana te tāke paere. I tīaho iho mai te marama mā tētahi kōhao i te tuanui, ā, ka whakaataria i ngā tōhihi i te papa raima.
Nekeneke ana te porowhiu. He uaua te ākiri atu. Ka nui haere te porowhiu.
Heoi anō he rā ki tua, he āniwaniwa ko ōna tāwhana mariko ka tūhono mai i a Tīwai, i a Motupōhue, me Rakiura. I te kōanga, i ngā peka i runga ake i taku wāhi tuhituhi ko ngā pua pōhue ā-pūtoi whetū mā nei ka taka iho i te rākau taumarumaru.
This story was first published in the dual-language anthology Short! Poto! (Massey University Press, 2025).
Cilla McQueen MNZM is a poet, teacher and artist who has lived and worked in the southern port of Bluff since 1996. She was the 2009–11 New Zealand Poet Laureate.
He kaitito ruri, he kaiako me tētahi ringatoi a Cilla McQueen MNZM kua roa tana noho ki te wāpu o te tonga o Motupōhue, o Murihiku mai i te tau 1996. Ko ia te Kaitito Ruri Taiea o Aotearoa o ngā tau 2009–11.
Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Sarah Penwarden
Sleepwalking
English
Sitting by the window turning my face away asleep half asleep lights coming up pulling boots over thick ankles blinking blinking walking on platforms that move under my feet redoing raccoon eyes in black liner sleepwalking head flopping back against the headrest skipping dinner dreams coming up from behind my eyes waking and realising where I am the sun coming up as a slit of light across the long black remembering how I said goodbye to my mother at the tram stop how the dust rose up imagining my bed at home and him in it in the screen view from the nose of the plane there is just sky sky sky and a white streak of another plane.
Moeteki
Māori
E noho ana ki te matapihi ka tahuri atu i taku konohi kua tata moe ka kā ngā rama ka kumea ngā pūtu i ngā rekereke mātotoru ka kemo ka kemo ka hīkoi i ngā papa e neke ana i raro i aku waewae ka tā anō i ngā mata pōuriuri mā te penekamo pango haere momoe ana pīngore whakamuri ana ko te māhunga ka taka ki te paemāhunga ka whakatahangia te tina ko ngā moemoeā ka rewa ki muri i aku whatu ka oho ka aro i ahau kai hea ahau ko te rā ka ara hai hīnātore whakawhiti ana i te pango roa ka mahara ki taku poroaki i taku māmā i te tūnga taramu te āhua o tā te puehu maiangi ki runga ka pohewa i taku moenga i te kāenga me te tangata rā i roto i te mata i te ihu o te waka rererangi he rangi he rangi he rangi, ā, me tētahi haenga mā o te waka rererangi kē atu.
This story was first published in the dual-language anthology Short! Poto! (Massey University Press, 2025).
Sarah Penwarden is a therapist based in Auckland. Her poems have been published in Poetry New Zealand, Turbine | Kapohau, Meniscus, Southerly and Mayhem, her short stories in takahē, and a story has been broadcast on Radio New Zealand.
He kaihaumanu a Sarah Penwarden i Tāmaki Makaurau. Kua tāia āna ruri i Poetry New Zealand, Turbine | Kapohau, Meniscus, Southerly me Mayhem, ko ana pakipoto i takahē, me tētahi kōrero kua pāohotia i Radio New Zealand.
Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Mereana Latimer
By starlight, the garden
English
There you are, knee-deep in the dirt, palms blistering against the green plastic handle of the old hoe, digging the lemon tree out of the garden.
After the keys changed hands, the house was still and silent. Your aunty would make excuses to visit, peer in the windows and take pictures on her phone. The wood-panelled dining room seemed suddenly bare without a table. They put down a drop sheet, brought in a sawhorse, then seemed to give up. The bones of the house were sinking, floors drooping without mokos to hold upright in place.
On the last day you hoped the house might just crumble into one big compost heap. Your nana always liked to garden. Even when her breath got short she would go out the back to check on her flowers. Right at the top of the section, warmed by the sun and lashed by the winds, she planted the lemon tree. It grew, unsteady at first, then lifted up its arms, buoyed by banana peels and epsom salts. Whenever you visited she would send you up to snatch pockmarked fruit out of its tight embrace.
When the house was cleared you got two silky scarves, thick with perfume. You ran your hand over familiar pink notepads and flicked through your nana’s birthday book, listening.
Tonight you see a new star burning. Standing there in her garden, underneath the crushing silence, something quickens. You put your hands in the earth. You dig.
I te aho whetū, te māra
Māori
Arā koe, ko ō pona ki te one, raupā ana ngā kapu o ō ringa i te kakau kirihou kākāriki o te karaune tawhito, e keri ana i te rākau rēmana i te māra.
Nō muri i te tukuhanga o ngā kī, ka tū, ka mū te whare. Ka whai takunga tō kōkā ki te torotoro, ki te whātare ki te wini me te whakaahua mā tana waea. Ko te wāhi kai i whakarākaitia ki te paparahi-rākau ānō nei kua mārakerake noa i te korenga o tētahi tēpu. I horaina he hīti, i haria mai he pae kani, kātahi ka hanga mahue noa. I te toromi ngā kōiwi o te whare, ko ngā papa e tapore ana i te korenga o ngā moko hai pupuri kia tū tika ai.
I te rangi whakamutunga i tūmanako rā koe ka ngawhara mai te whare ki tētahi putunga onepōpopo nui. I pai ki tō kuia te mahi māra. Ahakoa ngā wā i ngāngā ai ia ka puta tonu atu ki te tieki i āna putiputi. I te wāhanga o runga ake, i mahana i te rā, i karawhiua e te hau, i whakatō a ia i tētahi rākau rēmana. I tipu, tipu tīkokikoki i te tīmatanga, kātahi ka hīkina ōna ringa ki runga, e kārewa ana nā te kiri panana me te tote epsom. I ngā wā i torotoro rā koe ka tonoa koe ki runga ki te hao huarākau komeme i tōna kauawhitanga.
I te whakawāteatanga o te whare ka riro ki a koe ngā kāmeta e rua, e monomono ana i te kakara. Ka pā to ringa ki ngā pukatuhi māwhero i mōhio paitia e koe, ā, ka wherawhera haere i te pukapuka rā whānau a tō kuia, e whakarongo ana.
I tēnei pō ka kite koe i tētahi whetū hou e mura mai ana. E tū ana rā i tāna māra, i raro i te pokenga o te mū, ka kakapa tētahi mea. Ka komo ō ringa ki te one. Ka keri koe.
This story was first published in the dual-language anthology Short! Poto! (Massey University Press, 2025).
Mereana Latimer (Ātiu, Ngā Wairiki/Ngāti Apa) is anchored in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. Mereana’s work has been published in Turbine | Kapohau, Sweet Mammalian, takahē and Katūīvei (Massey University Press, 2024), and on stage with thanks to Prayas Theatre.
Nō Ātiu, Ngā Wairiki/Ngāti Apa a Mereana Latimer e tau ana ki Te Whanganui-a-Tara. Kua tāia ā Mereana tuhinga ki Turbine | Kapohau, Sweet Mammalian, takahē and Katūīvei (Massey University Press, 2024), ā, kua whakaari mai i te atamira o Prayas Theatre.
Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Jane Davidson
Corazón de estrellas/ Regresa
Español | Spanish
Ōtepoti 2025
El resplandor invernal del sol refracta los arcoíris en la brumosa mañana, brillando a través de mi iris, haciéndome entrecerrar los ojos y liberar sal. Me siento lento y triste. Estos orbes cristalinos acuosos se me pegan a la garganta mientras salgo a la superficie para enfrentarme a una helada nocturna. El gato camina de puntillas sobre la hierba brillante.
Este Matariki mitocondrial, temporada de las Siete Hermanas, una ola de tane fuera de tiempo salta de barco. Uno, literalmente, nunca visto desde entonces/ uno expiró por un corazón roto/ uno voló de regreso en un avión en una caja de bits/ uno murió a causa del alcohol y el rock and roll. Desaparecido en acción desde las entrañas de nuestro pueblo.
Nos reunimos y cantamos Purea Nei para limpiar y redimir. Nos quedamos arraigados en la tierra, reconocemos que se fueron demasiado pronto, les deseamos lo mejor en su viaje inmaculado, les deseamos cielos de paz.
E Mama
…al día siguiente
mientras conducíamos bajo una ligera lluvia por la carretera principal
para llegar a ti
Tú, de repente
no haces prisioneros
chorro/fuera
A las ocho de la mañana de ese viernes..
Te enviamos a casa cruzando el océano. Tu descaro de colegiala, tu gracia de joven adulta y tu corazón palpitante. Migrando al norte hacia Cabo Reinga. Luego girando a la derecha hacia Buenos Aires. Regresando por la estratosfera: carbono, oxígeno, nitrógeno. Destellos en la cola de una estrella fugaz. Ahora formas parte de la galaxia.
De vuelta a la zona cero
estamos aprendiendo a vivir contigo y sin ti.
El concepto de que los humanos están ‘hechos de polvo de estrellas’ es una idea poética y científicamente fundamentada que conecta a la humanidad con el cosmos. Esta idea refleja que los elementos esenciales para la vida, por ejemplo el carbono, el oxígeno y el nitrógeno, fueron concebidos en el corazón de las estrellas antes de que existiera nuestro sistema solar.
Lamento de y Hirini Melbourne: https://www.folksong.org.nz/purea_nei/index.html
Heart of stars /
Returning
English
Ōtepoti 2025
The sun’s midwintery glare refracts rainbows off the misty morning, shimmering across my iris, making me squint and release salt. I feel slow and sad. These watery crystalline orbs stick in my throat as I surface to face an overnight frost. The cat tiptoes across sparkly grass.
This mitochondrial Matariki, season of the Seven Sisters, a wave of out-of-time tane jumps ship. One literally, never seen since/ one expired from a broken heart/ one flew back on a plane in a box of bits/ one died from alcohol and rock and roll. Missing in action from the belly of our town.
We gathered and sang Purea Nei to cleanse and redeem. We are left rooted to the ground, we acknowledge the too-soon gone, we wish you well on your immaculate journey, we wish you skies of peace.
E Mama
…the next day
as we drove through light rain on the top road
to reach you
you out-of-the-blue
take-no-prisoners
jet/ out
at eight a.m that friday morning.
We sent you home over the ocean. Your schoolgirl sass, young adult grace and long-beating heart. Migrating north towards Cape Reinga. Then turning right towards Buenos Aires. Returning through the stratosphere: carbon, oxygen, nitrogen. Flaring into a shooting star’s tail. You are part of the galaxy now.
Back on ground zero
we are learning how to live with/ and without you.
The concept of humans being ‘made of stardust’ is a poetic and scientifically grounded idea that connects humanity to the cosmos. This idea reflects that the elements essential for life, e.g., carbon, oxygen and nitrogen, were conceived in the hearts of stars before our solar system existed.
Lament by Hirini Melbourne: https://www.folksong.org.nz/purea_nei/index.html
Jane Davidson es escritora, artista, activista ambiental y observadora cultural de Ōtepoti Dunedin. Escribe ensayos de no ficción, poesía y cartas al editor. Escribe sobre temas ambientales, feministas, poscoloniales, de cultura pop y biográficos, y actualmente trabaja en una serie de poemas que abordan el duelo y el trauma. Es miembro reciente del Colectivo de Poesía Octagon y reside en la bahía de Pūrākaunui, Otago.
Jane Davidson is a writer, artist, environmental activist and cultural observer from Ōtepoti Dunedin, who writes non-fictional essays, poetry and letters to the editor. She writes about environmental, feminist, post-colonial, pop-culture and biographical issues and is currently working on a series of poems talking about grief and trauma. She is a recent member of the Octagon Poetry Collective and lives in Pūrākaunui Bay, Ōtepoti Dunedin.
Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Leina Isno
Ples mo team we ol flae blong kalalaet oli danis
Bislama | Ninde
Mi stap tingbaot bagegen taem se mi stap luk ol flae blong kalalaet oli danis long ol natongtong blong mifala long Tsiri lagun long Vanuatu. Hemi wan long ol nambawan memori blong mi taem mi smol. Papa hemi talem long mi bagegen se ol natongtong ia oli mekem bigfala wok long saed blong protektem yumi everiwan agensem klimet jenj. Taem ol flae blong kalalaet oli kam danis insaed long natongtong, hemi taem tu blong ol fis mo pijin oli kam tugeta blong mekem pikinini. Long lanwis blong Ninde, rep woow hemi minim se niufala laef hemi stat nao. Ol storian blong krismas tu i stat mo everiwan i glad.
Where the flashing fireflies flutter
English
I watched the flashing fireflies flutter in the mangrove swamps in our Tsiri lagoon in Vanuatu. It was one of my favourite childhood memories and adventures. Dad reminded me the mangroves are important swamp trees in these drastic climate-change environments. When the flashing fireflies flutter in the mangrove swamps, the marine wombs are fertile and the lagoon conditions are perfect to support the magic of life and growth, both above and below the lagoon. In my Ninde language, rep woow means to start birthing. Our traditional nativity stories begin. Excitement builds.
This story first appeared in Te Moana o Reo | Ocean of Languages, here.
Leina Isno hemi wan woman Vanuatu we hemi kamaot long nakamal blong Denemus long Malekula. Hemi totkok langwis blong Ninde long Saot Wes Bei, wetem Bislama mo Franis. Ol langwis ya oli impoten tumas from oli mekem hemi stret woman Saot Wes Bei mo Vanuatu afta we hemi stap ova long twenti yia ova si. Leina hemi bin raetem wan storian we hemi kamaot long fes buk blong ol woman Vanuatu Sista, Stanap Strong! A Vanuatu Women’s Anthology (THWUP, 2021).
Leina Isno is an Indigenous ni-Vanuatu from her Denemus tribe in Malekula, in the Vanuatu archipelago. She speaks the local Ninde language of South West Bay as well as Bislama and French. These languages are very important to maintaining her identity especially after living abroad for more than two decades. Leina’s nonfiction has been published in Sista, Stanap Strong! A Vanuatu Women’s Anthology (THWUP, 2021).
Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Serie Barford
The temptation of apples
English
Child-me climbed trees with impunity. Plucked fruit kissed by antipodean sunlight and birds. Chewed apples harbouring codling moths. Spat debris to the ground. Believed an apple a day keeps the doctor away.
Mother-me ate fruit picked by strangers. Fell into a doctor’s arms. Impossible love happens! My medicine man stayed until he didn’t. Left for a star with permanently crisp apples.
Crone-me spies baubles zhooshed by spring in the Chornobyl exclusion zone. Forbidden fruit beckons. I am tempted to climb this survivor for old times’ sake. Lick and bite taut skin. Chew and spit.
Resist.
Note: Chornobyl is the Ukrainian spelling of Chernobyl (Russian spelling).
Спокуса яблук
Українською | Ukrainian
Дитиною я безкарно лазила по деревах. Зірвані фрукти, ціловані сонячним світлом і птахами з протилежної сторони Землі. Пережовані яблука у прихистку рота. Огризок, виплюнутий на землю. І віра, Хто яблуко з’їдає, той у лікаря не буває.
Жінкою я їла зібрані незнайомцями фрукти. Падала в обійми лікаря. Ймовірно неймовірне кохання! Мій цілитель був допоки його не стало. Допоки він не пішов до тієї яблуні, чиї плоди завжди були хрусткими.
Бабцею у Чорнобильскій зоні відчуження я вгледіла знайомі кульки, налиті весною. Манить заборонений плід. Спокушає видертися на вцілілого як в старі та добрі. Лизати ти кусати тугу його шкіру. І жувати, і випльовувати.
Але.
This story first appeared in Te Moana o Reo | Ocean of Languages, here.
Serie Barford was the recipient of a 2018 Pasifika Residency at the Michael King Writers’ Centre, and performed from her collections Tapa Talk and Entangled Islands at the 2019 International Arsenal Book Festival in Kyiv, Ukraine. The Ukrainian translation of Tapa Talk was launched at the festival. Her latest collection, Sleeping With Stones, was published by Anahera Press and shortlisted for the 2022 Ockham New Zealand Book Awards.
Сері Барфорд – участниця резиденції Pasifika в Центрі письменників Майкла Кінга (Окленд, Нова Зеландія) та гостя Міжнародного фестивалю «Книжковий Арсенал» 2019 (Київ, Україна), де вона представила збірки своєї поезії Tapa Talk і Entangled Islands. На фестивалі було презентовано її книгу Tapa Talk («Слово тапи») у перекладі українською. Остання збірка Сері Барфорд Sleeping With Stones вийшла друком у видавництві Anahera Press і увійшла до короткого списку премії Ockham Book Awards 2022.
Your language, your window
To reo, to mataaho
Lola Elvy
Still
English
Days ago, it snowed. Water fell from the sky. Enough to drown houses, they said. We looked at each other and mouthed words like change – Wandel. We were unequipped. Cleared the ice with our hands and boots.
We used to sail in the darkest hours, watch the night turn shades around us. Your hands gripped rope as if to tie you to this world. Wir haben nicht die Zeit, you said.
Die Langsamkeit, die Ewigkeit der Welt.
What do you need time for, with so much sky?
The tides around us heaved and hurled. Enough water to drown mountains, we said.
The silence let you hear the stars spin.
In der Stille
Deutsch | German
Vor einigen Tagen hat es geschneit. Wasser fiel vom Himmel. Häuser könnten ertrinken, sagten sie. Wir sahen uns an und flüsterten Worte wie Verwandlung – transformation. Wir waren nicht vorbereitet. Schoben das Eis mit den Händen und Stiefeln beiseite.
Früher sind wir in den dunkelsten Stunden gesegelt, haben der Nacht zugesehen, wie sie ihre Farben wechselte. Deine Hände mit dem Tau im Griff, als könntest du dich an
die Welt binden. We don’t have the time, sagtest du. The slowness, the foreverness of this world. Wozu braucht man Zeit – es gibt so viel Himmel.
Ebbe und Flut wogten und tauchten. In diesem Wasser könnten Berge ertrinken, sagten wir.
In der Stille hörte man die Sterne kreisen.
This story first appeared in Te Moana o Reo | Ocean of Languages, here.
Lola Elvy writes music, poetry and other forms of creative fiction and nonfiction. She founded and edits the online youth journal fingers comma toes, which hosts the New Zealand National Flash Fiction Day youth competition. Her work has been featured at events and in online and print anthologies. She is currently pursuing a degree in music and mathematics.
Lola Elvy schreibt Musik, Gedichte und andere Formen von Fiktion und Sachliteratur. Sie ist Gründerin und Herausgeberin des Online Jugendmagazins fingers commas toes, das den neuseeländischen Jugendwettbewerb National Flash Fiction Day veranstaltet. Ihre Texte und Arbeiten wurden im Rahmen von Veranstaltungen sowie in Online- und Print-Anthologien veröffentlicht. Derzeit studiert sie Musik und Mathematik.
Joyriding inside the black hole
Caroline Masters
Inside the black hole, tiny waxeyes and fantails twitter. I drink cold coffee.
When I couldn’t sleep last night – probably around the time my car was stolen – I did what you’re not supposed to do: I scrolled through the news on my phone. Guess what? Our universe might exist inside a black hole. Absurd, but kinda wonderful.
This morning, I’m tired. Maybe it’s the pending insurance claim, maybe it’s the black hole, or maybe the coffee’s too weak.
Still, at some point during the night, somebody stole my car inside the black hole. They woke the neighbours with squealing rubber, took the corners too fast. The back end swung wide on the winding road to Cornwallis Beach, clipping letterboxes and sending wheelie bins flying. It wasn’t a getaway – it was a joyride, fast and pointless and full of noise. Eventually, the bumper gave in. All four tyres exploded. Glass burst like stars across the tarmac inside the black hole.
The black hole contains my pending insurance claim, cold coffee, 8.2 billion Earthlings, Mars and all its rovers, Saturn and its 274 moons, the Kuiper Belt, quasars, pulsars, and all that jazz. And this chaos just keeps unfolding. In this expanding universe, I still have to fill out forms and describe what the Aqua looked like.
Inside the black hole.
Stars in the ocean, stars in the sky
Shreyasi Majumdar
After the storm, Ōtaki Beach is scattered with starfish – little life pulsing in orange, pink, ochre. I crouch near the driftwood and lift one. Slick with salt and silt, its arms curl in, shy or stubborn, I cannot tell.
Dida stands beside me, wrapped in a pashmina, floral gumboots planted in kelp and kina. “They’ve fallen,” she says, crooked fingers pointing skyward. “Once they find the water, they can go back.”
Her memory is a tide – retreating, returning. It carries Kolkata and Kaikōura like foam in a single wave. To her, mango trees and tōtara root in the same soft earth. The Ganges and the Clutha flow as one into an undivided ocean. A boatman croons Tagore, while Karoro wheel above.
We walk the shoreline together, gathering stranded starfish, gently tossing them back into the waves as we go. Dida names each one: Bonolata, Shila, Debi.
One starfish lies still, clutching the sand. “She’s forgotten the water,” Dida says, her voice heavy with the grief of memories that slip through her like sand underfoot.
I crouch down and pick it up.
“Tara,” Dida whispers as I offer it to the sea. The tide gathers it gently. It lingers – then vanishes.
Dida glances at the darkening sky, where one bright star has appeared right above the horizon. “Tara is home,” she says through a toothless smile. I follow her gaze. A single star over Ōtaki. Or Benaras. Or both. A sliver of light, before the fog returns and carries Dida inland.
Paper stars
Vin Mahadevan
A thick layer of dust coats my fingers as I reach to open the jar. I hear the familiar sound of the metal latch screeching as the lid lifts and the jar breathes a sigh of relief. My fingers dive inside, plunging deep within the hundreds of thin, multicoloured paper origami stars. If I look hard enough, I can almost make out the ridges of his face in the thousands of folds. In the discoloured paper, I can count his freckles, feel the wisps of his honeycomb hair, and see how the corners of his mouth crinkled when he looked at me. For a moment, I’m caught there, sitting in the rafters and wishing he was sitting with me too, moving memories out of my childhood home. Everything seems beautiful in the stillness when you sit in silence and admire the stars. Then I remember. I sigh before looking away. The stars are pretty, but only from a distance. Trying to touch a star leaves burn marks and scars. It’s best to leave them to the glass confines of telescope lenses and mason jars.
What if?
Céline Hayashi-Ronze
Your taxi stops at the red light while on your trip down memory lane.
SkyCity silently towers over the sleepless crowd. You were once one of them, and yet this never was your city.
‘In another time, in another life.’
You look through the window. The other you is staring back at you from the other side of your reflection. She is living her best life, in an alternate reality where you didn’t take yourself back.
Does she have children? A million dollar mortgage with a newly built fancy house? Maxed out credit cards? Does she still go to Newmarket to get her hair cut? She’s got manicured nails, a Mercedes SUV in the garage, the latest bag from an eponymous brand.
Is her gaze still empty? Does she still feel invisible? Has she managed to fill the black hole that is slowly eating her from the inside with something other than stuff?
Your prodding gaze interrogates your what if. All you see is your reflection. Or is it hers? She’s looking back at you from the other side, exploring the what if that you are.
The light turns green. The taxis start. Yours turns right, hers left. You both hope you are happy.
Flying
Mazz Scannell
My horse’s foreleg glides into the greasy silver coils of fencing wire. Hissing like a snake, the lariat tightens around her slim black fetlock. Our galloping momentum draws the wire tight. Catapulting us high into the air, above the placid sheep grazing in the green paddocks and below a sapphire blue sky. As we descend, the tarmac comes rapidly into focus. I can see the small greywacke stones winking like sharks’ teeth in the gleaming black bitumen. Tucking my arms close, I hold my breath and brace myself. Waiting for the substantial impact of a one-ton horse. The smell of our mingled sweat fills my nostrils.
I know she is close. I imagine our bodies skimming across the black tarmac, with me as the middle layer of a living club sandwich. It doesn’t happen, the expected loss of breath, the sudden heavy weight and the cracking of my bones. I am on my own. Dirty jodhpurs skyward, checked shirt pulled tight, my thick single plait swings across my back like a braided rope. It wraps itself around my neck like a snake as I connect with the silver rock teeth that lie hungry in the harsh sunlight. There is the sharp crack of my riding hat folding sideways. Then silence. A black void before a sudden burst of shining gold stars. They dance in time to the uneven thudding symphony in my skull as it skims across the road. My left temple breaks my fall.
Starlight, streetlight
Anny Trolove
Walking up the path to my house at midnight, in winter.
I stop, eyes wry, and look back at my guest. “Okay for a night walk?”
His hands in his pockets. His long hair loose.
We’re sober. We’re new. “I’ll bring you a warmer jacket,” I say.
He has all the time in the world. Hands in his pockets. “I’m good.”
I lead us, not up to the graves of my mother’s grandparents, but down to the sea.
We hoof-slip down sand dunes, holding each other up. Dappled clouds unearth a distinguished, after-full moon. Stars star recklessly, far above.
Return, slowly, to the soft, cold shore. Find our strong shoes coated in damp, grey sand.
My intimate quotes Kierkegaard, holding his water bottle against himself like an idea put on hold, laughing with his feminine fangs.
The Black Star Express
Lee Clift
I arrive at the platform at exactly 8:38 pm. The train’s black lacquered paintwork is polished to dazzling perfection. Its name is picked out in pure silver amid a cluster of smoky crystal stars. I step into the coach. Black leather seats, silver trimmings, marble floor, and crystal everywhere. All of it gleaming and glistening.
Gathering myself, I make my way down the aisle. I nod to an elderly man as I pass his seat. He nods back with a wide grin. I reciprocate. I am ready for this journey too, but not everyone is. A middle-aged woman, eyes clouded, stares through me as I pass. A cold thread of air whips around my ankles. I hurry on. A young man glowers at me. His fashionably styled hair, immaculate grey suit, white shirt, and black tie suggest a businessman. Or a conman. I wonder what befell him.
I arrive at my seat and barely settle in when we start moving. I lean my head back against the soft leather. I never dreamed the Black Star would be so luxurious. Eventually, a cheery voice calls out, “Next stop, passenger 8:38.”
The train pauses, and I step down to the eternal darkness. My own special place. Filling the shadows of space along with billions of other ordinary souls. Few of us get to ride the White Star Express. That’s okay. Without us they would never shine. We are the dark matter that holds the universe together.
Stars on Stripes
Cathy Silk
Our stars do not stud this chilled, inky firmament.
We halt where the eagle roosts above the iron gate – its wings flared, eyes sharpened. Heavy doors grate open, and we spill out onto a layer of fresh snow. Smaller eagles perch on khaki chests and caps. We are yelled at, shoved, snatched. The snow underfoot is the only softness we will feel here.
The gate under the eagle’s glare swallows us up and slams shut.
Our stars lie on the stripes we’ve worn, now entangled in piles, on the floors of the barracks, beyond the barbed wire, where the train rails go no further.
In The Studio
Richard Dingwall
“Scumbling.”
She put her head to one side, not understanding.
“You’re dragging paint on a dry brush over an already painted surface. It adds texture. Think: Monet’s Rouen Cathedral.”
Jennifer looked at the large canvas propped on an easel. Great swathes of reds, greens and blues crisscrossed in a sort of lattice, applied, it seemed, with a house painter’s brush; and, yes, it crumbled away, revealing an uninteresting grey preparatory ground.
The artist himself was impressive: a harlequin figure with shining lights of colour illuminating his dark shirt and jeans. He had persuasive eyes.
“I have trouble with people,” she said. “I try to paint my lovers, but they always end like butterflies pinned to a board.”
“You have many lovers?” he asked.
“Just the right number,” she said.
The artist responded with a modest smile.
He led her past the large canvas into the depths of the studio. On a bench, carelessly deposited tubes discharged pigment as vulgar as the large painting he had first shown her. Smaller paintings, vibrant and scumbled, rested against the walls waiting to be admired. There was an old chaise longue in the corner with red velvet upholstery.
“I was really interested in figure work,” she said.
“Oh, I do life study.”
She flicked through the heavy sheets of cartridge paper of his sketchbook, murmuring over the curves and angles of the posed models.
“So,” he said. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said. “Or another day.”
Collective
Jac Jenkins
I’ve really got nothing to say about the fake eyelashes making their mark on space that hasn’t already been said, although I’ve been thinking that the blue crew deserves their own collective noun. Yeah, something like a feather of faux feminists, perhaps. But that’s me inhabiting the lowest level of wit, and in the spirit of generosity, I’ll say that there’s nothing implicitly wrong with chasing enlightenment by selfie tourism, just don’t bend it, don’t twist it into a feminist action. Yeah, I’ve really got nothing to say about the polyester of cadets making their mark on space that hasn’t already been said, although I’ve been thinking that you’re well off-rhythm, well out-of-time if you sing about how wonderful the world is right now.
Yeah, I’ve really got nothing to say that a fury of feminists hasn’t already said.
Jurassic world
Deborah Jowitt
Carrie cradles the ammonite in her hand. She’s fascinated by the perfect stone spiral that started as a sea creature. Their Uncle John gave it to her brother Bryan, but he had three already. It was only fair to take one.
She tugs the curtain aside, sees pinpricks of light in the darkness, and the pale sliver of the new moon. She imagines the last dinosaurs looking up at the night sky – and thinks about the way small predators hunting in bands brought down prey much bigger than themselves.
Uncle John gave her the Golden Book of Dinosaurs. It’s not as good as a fossil, but the picture on the front is impressive. She wills the lumbering Brontosaurus to run on its stumpy legs, its ridiculously long neck within biting distance of a trap-jawed Tyrannosaurus rex.
Carrie and Bryan are both good readers, but Bryan has tiresome reading rules: start a book from the beginning, and once you start, finish it. If she keeps still, she can look over his shoulder at his Giant Book of Dinosaurs. Not so often it attracts his attention, often enough to read more about the animals that swam the Jurassic seas.
Above her the velvety blanket of night is studded with stars. Carrie dreams of being a raptor, fast and deadly. She’s hunting a huge plant-eating dinosaur. She attacks. Its head swings round towards her. She’s not surprised to see it has Bryan’s face.
Her hand reaches for the ammonite, safe under her pillow.
Twenty-one days without stars
Sue Barker
Her cabin’s close to the waters’ edge. She lies in the dark, sleeping bag up to her ears, waiting for the man in the cabin next door to stop yelling, falling against walls, playing Bat Out of Hell at a stereophonic level. She hopes he’ll turn the music off before he passes out. Surely, he must pass out soon. She wants to yell, SHUT UP! but instead whispers, Not a peep, you.
She’s enjoyed the teaching on the West Coast, loved the kids, but not the oppressive feel of this place, the horizon indeterminate as grey water meets low grey cloud. People here walk hunched under the heavy sky. Rain’s perpetual. Lichen on fenceposts and trees. Even on cars. Her three-weeks remote-placement experience is over, finally.
Tomorrow she’ll drive up through the shadow and rain of Arthur’s Pass out into the sunshine of the Canterbury Plains. Back to her cottage where she’ll sit outside with her lover at a clear crisp sundown, clinking wineglasses, watching for emerging stars. Awaiting Venus. They’ll laugh about the Coasters. Seriously, it’s another world, she’ll say.
She won’t tell about the drunk man fighting himself in the next-door cabin. Won’t mention he’d asked her to the pub on other nights, how he’d pounded on her cabin door that last night saying, Hey, wake up, I know you’re in there.
She’ll remember the suck and grind of the stone-beach waves, the way they slapped and drew back into the Tasman.
Te Tāwera – the morning star
June Pitman-Hayes
Brian was fully dressed, wearing his ‘for special occasions’ hoodie (the one their mum had sewn glow-in-the-dark stars on) when he climbed down to the bottom bunk and shone his torch.
“Wake up, Manu! We can’t be late. We promised!”
Manu raised an arm up, shielding his eyes, stretched, then punch-nudged Brian, pulling him in close.
“C’mon then bro. And turn off your torch,” Manu ordered as he wrapped his sleeping bag round his shoulders.
Outside, a sensor light came on. Shit! Should’ve turned it off, Manu thought.
Their eyes would take longer to adjust to the night.
Brian clung to one end of Manu’s sleeping bag as he led them past their neighbour’s house toward a three-wired fence. They slithered under like eels.
Silver fern laid on the track the day before glowed in the moonlight.
On the pouwhenua that stood in the clearing by the urupā, the paua-shelled eyes of their tupuna glowed too.
“It’s spooky, Manu. I’m scared,” Brian said.
“Nothing to be scared of. Your hoodie stars are shining, see?” Manu said, sounding braver than he felt. He hummed, ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine’. Brian smiled.
Inside the urupā, they spread the sleeping bag out over the fresh mound. Manu said, “Soon we’ll see Te Tāwera, the morning star. Sun’ll be comin’ up too.”
The brothers said a karakia, sat down and waited.
A gold star for Sammy
Sara Crane
Esme can’t remember how to use the new cooktop. She’ll ask Sammy. She makes scrambled eggs in the microwave. Can’t find the salt. Shakes too much soy sauce in. Eats it, because there is nothing else.
Across the road Sammy scratches his new buzz cut. He eats the stale remains in his lunchbox because there is nothing else. He chews the leftover pasta curls slowly and wishes he hadn’t thrown his apple core to the seagulls.
Later, at the beach, Esme watches Sammy’s dog hunting out a dead fish and rolling in it. Sammy’s mum will have to wash her later. The special dog shampoo smells of lavender and mint. Neither Sammy nor the dog likes how it tastes.
Esme wishes there was someone who could wash her hair. Or even rinse it. Especially after she’s been swimming. She wonders if it would just turn into dreads naturally. Probably not. Sammy’s mum would know.
Sammy skips alongside his mum as they go down to the beach to fetch the dog. She has a treat in her work bag, and if he gets the last star on his chart, it will be his. The dog comes lolloping back smelling pongy.
Esme limps back up the track with them. Her legs are getting worse, and her feet feel sore.
Sammy worries that she will stop wanting to swim and he’s not allowed in the sea on his own. Swimming with Esme is better than any gold star.
Esme gives the dog a marshmallow fish.
Star swallower
Eloise Pengelly
They had a tartan red blanket rolled up in the car boot. The boot filled with bits of dirt, sand and seaweed. A rope. He had a scrappiness she’d placed as charming carelessness, the way his hair unintentionally dreaded. She liked this wildness, this freedom.
He was prone to delusions, she knew this. Some mornings she’d wake up and the kitchen would be trashed, bits of paper written all over; circles and stars drawn, connected by black vivid lines. She’d thought maybe it was too much Facebook, all those alien conspiracies. Since they’d been on their South America trip, her feed was filled with weird post suggestions of mysterious archaeology sites that completely warranted the world to rethink its past.
The only past she did rethink was agreeing to move in together. And to take the drive today.
“I have something to show you. The lines connected. It’s as I’ve been telling you, leading to it all.”
“Leading to what all?” she asked, not really listening anymore, dragging smoke from her vape.
The car wound around the Banks Peninsula and down into a muddy bay by the water, the sun disappearing over a farm hill peak.
“All that there is to know,” he said, pulling on the hand brake and grinning. His face and shoulders were calm. She hadn’t seen him like this in a while. But his eyes were a different story, the pupils completely expanded to black, an entire universe of swallowed stars.
The scarecrow of memory
Donna Shanley
He was like a star half-seen, a shimmer on glass: cerulean, aqua, the colours of cold. His feet left no prints, only the sound of cracking ice.
He stole memories. Having none himself, they were baubles he snatched from the air. He kept what he fancied, tossed the rest. He was a scarecrow, lost pasts clothing him in second-hand motley: a salt-stained sailor’s hat; yellowed ribbons from a bride’s bouquet; a vest, silver-grey, woven of the breath-held rememberings of the old.
He wandered perpetually in now, without yesterdays, until one night something blocked his
path – fragile but impassable. An old man was weeping, holding in his hands a red shawl.
Scarecrow drew nearer. The man shrank back, seeing him in glittering outline, all darkness inside. For a long time he stared, shivering, into Scarecrow’s star-rimmed emptiness; slowly began to sense in it, faint and frosty, an echo of his own: the absence, the longing for just once more. He held out the shawl.
Scarecrow staggered under the weight of love in the faded stitches. He heard the time-softened click of needles; felt the bone-ache in the fingers that held them; saw a ship, an iceberg; felt yesterdays stretching from the shawl in an unending stream – and found among them one for him. He heard voices calling him “child,” “brother.” Something unaccustomed stung his eyes.
Gently, he replaced the shawl in the old man’s hands. The memory of it would warm him; would start to fill the space between the stars.
Stars
Nicholas Fairclough
Ariana has a trampoline. Jasper thinks that the trampoline belongs to the Holiday Park, and anyone who has accommodation at the Holiday Park can use it. Ariana says, “Nah, it’s mine. It’s next to my whare so it’s mine.” Ariana and Jasper jump and jump and laugh and laugh. Jasper has double bounced Ariana at least three times – she’s way lighter than him, light as a kererū feather, which is heavy as far as feathers go, but light compared to a human, even a small girl human. She yelps. Her eyes as wide as the full moon. She laughs and laughs. Really cracking up like. Then they’re all puffed and lie on their backs and it’s getting dark and Jasper’s mum yells out, “Jasper, it’s dinner time. Your dinner’s going to be cold.” But he likes it here with Ariana. The sky is darkening, the first stars appear, and he tells Ariana about his best friend Luke. About how they used to do everything together, like ride their bikes everywhere and stuff and go down the concrete slide at the park at the end of their dead-end street called Pukatea Street on their skateboards. On their arses, mind – they were too chicken to stand up. They used to dive into flax bushes and throw stones at seagulls and waterbomb cars.
The stars make Jasper think of Luke.
But now he has a new friend. Her name is Ariana. And she’s pretty. Jasper has never thought that about a friend before.
The nine stars of Matariki
Cindy Kurukaanga
As the eldest, it was my job to ensure Mum got her wish, to have the nine stars of Matariki carved and gilded into her black granite headstone. Matariki was a vital part of our childhood. Mum made sure of that. All eight of us kids grew up knowing what each of the nine stars represents, the meaning of Matariki to our ancestors. She used to say we were her stars, despite us all being guilty of doing things that dimmed our shine. The first Matariki after her passing was always going to be hard. The guiding star of our cluster would be missing. After feasting and remembering those who had passed since the last rising, we gathered at her graveside. We encircled her in song and stories, then told her our plans for the year ahead.
We watched Matariki and her children rise in the pre-dawn sky. We stood close together. Mum was our ninth star.
One night only
Kahli Scott
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime celestial event that will be visible down here, in the south of Te Waipounamu, for one night only. You won’t need a high-end Canon to capture it like with the Aurora Australis, but the shops are swarmed with people rushing to buy upgrades, anyway.
We hike to Miner’s Hut, which Ella’s booked out through her uncle at the Department of Conservation. Coco sets up her tripod while we’re taking off our boots. She’s a hundred followers off being able to monetise her account, so she needs a good time lapse. Gabe boasts that his Google Pixel has a built-in astrophotography mode that’s probably better than Coco’s camera. Ella laments her old iPhone, and I point out that I didn’t bring a phone at all.
As the hills swallow the sun, we think we can see faint flickering disturbances in the clouds. But the reports say that when it happens, we’ll know.
Coco feels it first as she checks on her tripod. She thinks it’s a bug – a small sharp sting on her hand. Ella feels it next. She jumps from the grass and swats at her thighs. Then Gabe’s swearing and swinging the torch on his Google Pixel around, trying to find the culprit.
It soon becomes unbearable, and the three of them rush into the windowless hut to take cover from the invisible plague. They shout at me to join, but I’m unafflicted. Above me, the sky begins to dance.
Pierced tin
Shannon Spencer
You see, I never wanted this.
I like the small dark places, the echo of light. Pierced tin.
Outside, there are people walking around all ‘how about this heat’ but I know the day by the shadows, and that’s fine. It’s fine because it burns, you know? When you live a little in the dark, the bright stings a bit, and Icarus would never have fallen if not for the sun.
If you don’t know birds exist, you hear their songs and think maybe that’s just what wind sounds like blowing through pierced tin and that’s enough – fake stars, and the idea of wind, and not falling.
