A Virtual Pain
by Rupert Alchin

"Brendan, darling,  happy birthday!  Mmmwwaa!"  Great Aunty 
Mildred landed a fierce kiss on my cheek.  "I've got you the most 
wonderful present!" she said, raking through her purse. 
I wiped the lipstick off my face and smiled politely.  There'd be 
a lot of polite smiles for the week of Aunty M's visit.  
"Aha!  Here it is, darling.  I want you to open it right away!" 
I just knew there would be something horrific inside the parcel 
– and it couldn't have been worse.  Not only was it bright purple, 
but nobody has virtual pets any more.  They're so totally out of 
fashion it's not funny.
"I know how popular these things are!" declared Aunty Mildred.
"Wow, Aunty M.  Rad!" I heard myself say. 
"That means he likes it," explained Mum, who was standing 
next to me with a nervous grin.
My academy-award-winning performance may have pleased 
Aunty M, but it wouldn't help my new toy.  This little pet was 
going to lead a lonely life – and die a tragically early death.  No 
nasty lump of plastic with a flake of silicon for a brain was going 
to ruin my image.  I decided to take it to school next day and ditch 
it in the lunch bin.  
Next morning, I shoved it to the very bottom of my schoolbag.  
If it got hungry before lunchtime, there were plenty of sweet 
wrappers down there for it to chew on.  The problem was, I forgot 
that those stupid little things make noises when they want feeding.  
I was in class and had just about finished a particularly tough 
round of long division problems when suddenly I heard a squeaky, 
whining sound.  I didn't pay much attention to it until I realised 
that it was coming from … my schoolbag!  
I raced over to the hangers and reached into my bag.  It wasn't 
easy to grab the thing.  It slipped out of my hand a couple of times, 
and for a minute I almost thought I felt it wriggle – but I must 
have just imagined that.  When I finally found it, I wrapped it up 
in my sweatshirt to muffle the sound.
I was fairly sure that nobody had seen what was actually going 
on until Trudy Spiers whispered to me across the desk we shared, 
"So what have you got to hide, Brendy baby?  Are the CIA after 
your secret sandwich recipes or something?" 
"No," I told her, "they're testing to see whether your face 
makes bread go stale."  
At the same time, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that my 
bag had started jiggling on its hook.  Fortunately, the bell rang for 
interval right then, and I rushed outside with my bag and darted 
round to the back of the classroom. 
The jiggling had stopped, but the weird thing was that when I 
pulled out my sweatshirt, it was wet through, and when I wrenched 
the little plastic nerd from its hiding place I saw the words "wee-
wee" flashing guiltily across its screen. 
"Yuck!" said Special Agent Trudy Spiers, who'd come sweeping 
round the corner of the building.  "How'd your sweatshirt get all 
wet?"
"Well … um … the cap came loose on my drink bottle!  Yeah, 
that's it!  Mum's sure going to be annoyed." I grinned weakly.  Boy, 
was I was feeling confused.  I mean, I didn't really believe that 
that creepy little toy had actually – you know.  That would have 
been just stupid.  Still, at lunchtime I threw my sandwiches away, 
and for some reason I can't quite explain, I decided that I'd hold 
off on biffing the piece of purple plastic.  
I hunted around for it all over again and (this gets stranger all 
the time) when I found it, it was at the bottom of my packet of 
crisps.  Half the crisps had been eaten, and the plastic pain was 
coated in salt and vinegar – spooky!  Worse than all of this, when I 
looked up, I saw Trudy Spiers gawking at me.  Her eyes were as 
wide as saucers.  I waited for her to shout something to the rest of 
the school about Brendan Connell's nerdy toy, but the freakiest 
thing was –Trudy said nothing! 
When I got home after school that day, I realised what an 
extremely lucky break I'd had.  I couldn't risk Trudy seeing me 
with the plastic pain again.  It would have to go, and the long 
grass down the back of the garden was the place.  Its innards could 
rust away happily there, and if Aunty Mildred found it, I could 
always say that it must have fallen out of my pocket when I was 
playing. 
Just before dark, I sneaked down to the back of the section.  I 
couldn't see too well in the dim light, but as I pulled the toy from 
my pocket, I thought it felt a tiny bit furry.  Then, just as I was 
about to throw it, it kind of jumped out of my hand.
"Sayonara!" I whispered as I turned back to the house.  Behind 
me, something gave a quiet yap.  I hurried away without looking 
back.
Nothing much happened in the following week.  Aunty Mildred 
went back to Palmerston North, and there was no paranormal 
activity at school except that Trudy Spiers was unusually friendly 
towards me.  She even called me by my actual name.  There was no 
paranormal activity at home, either, although that all changed at 
the weekend.  
I was in the garden on Saturday morning getting some broccoli 
for Mum when I heard an ear-piercing yowl.  Myrtle, the cat, came 
hurtling out of the rhubarb patch and crashed into my leg.  I'd 
never seen her move so fast. Then I learned why.
Out from the same spot rushed this bizarre little pup.  He 
looked like a Pekinese or one of those carved dogs that guard 
Japanese temples.  His eyes were square and black, and his grey 
coat was kind of tinged with purple.  He jumped straight into my 
arms, and as I ruffled his hair, a few flakes of purple plastic 
fluttered gently to the ground. 
"Who's your friend then?" called Trudy Spiers from the path 
that ran along the edge of our place.  She sounded suspicious.
"Just a stray I found in the garden," I told her.
"Weird colour, isn't he?  Looks like he's just escaped from a 
poodle parlour!"
"What are you doing here, anyway, Trudy?" I asked.
"I'm walking Jumanji, my new cat.  Most cats don't need a lot of 
exercise, but she's a bit different." 
Something meowed, and when I looked down at Trudy's ankles, I 
saw this bright, velvety yellow cat with glassy, square eyes.
"I got her at about the same time you got your little friend 
there,"  said Trudy.  "She came from Long's toyshop."  She looked 
at me pointedly.  "She doesn't eat much, but yesterday I caught her 
chewing on a battery.  And we have to keep the door to Dad's study 
shut 'cos she's gone in there three times and totally ripped his 
computer mouse to pieces."
"Trudy," I said cautiously, "do you think there are more of 
them?"
"Ask Kirstie Chen, from Mr May's class.  She's got this new 
parrot.  It's fluorescent green, and it speaks fluent Japanese."
That was all a few months ago now, but Trudy is still a lot 
nicer to me than she was.  We even go to the park together 
sometimes to exercise Jumanji and Tama.  What we're really 
waiting for, though, is June the sixteenth – school Pet Day.  Now 
that is going to be awesome!

Nightmare on Anchorage Island
by Johnny Frisbie

It was midday.  We were staying on Anchorage Island, and the sea 
was wild.  My brother and sisters and I sat in a treetop on the outer 
beach watching gigantic waves pound onto the reef.  We shouted at 
the sea to anger it, and it seemed to respond, throwing up waves that 
washed furiously towards us, sucking back everything in their path.   
We played the game for hours.  We felt we had control of the ocean.  
We never guessed that the waves were the beginning of something 
huge and terrifying.
Then, from the coconut grove behind us, we heard our father call.  
He sounded tense and anxious.  
"Come here instantly, all of you!" he shouted.  "Listen to me!  
This is the beginning of a cyclone.  We must prepare ourselves for 
the night: secure the roof of the house, tie the dinghy to the tamanu 
tree, and gather drinking coconuts and store them in the tree house.  
Hurry, children!"
But we were not alarmed.  This was even more exciting than 
watching the waves.  "No wonder the sea is so rough," said my 
brother.
Still, we decided to follow our father's instructions because the 
clouds were growing thicker and blacker.  The sky seemed lost in 
them.  Spray from the sea filled the air, and the fronds of young 
coconut trees hung heavily from the weight of it.  
At midday, it was almost dark.  Lightning began to crack like 
branches breaking in the wind.  It brought bright light to the fading 
day, as if it understood that we needed to be able to see as we 
prepared ourselves for the real night.  The thunder that followed 
each flash shook our bodies.  Trees trembled and birds took flight, 
only to return immediately to their roosts because there was nowhere 
for them to shelter.
Now we could see white waves moving further and further onto 
land.  The island was less than half a kilometre wide, and in no time, 
if the waves continued to build up, the sea would cross the land and 
flood into the lagoon.
For the first time, my brother and sisters and I felt real fear.  
This was not just a tropical storm, but a cyclone.  Our father was 
right after all.  We held hands in case a wave should sneak up and 
separate us from one another.  We closed our eyes many times in 
prayer.
That night, though it may still have still been day, we could not 
tell, we huddled together in our thatched sleeping house.  Our father 
stayed awake in vigil, listening to the movement of the waves, 
waiting for the big one, and making plans for our escape when it 
arrived. 
Outside, the wind whistled and hissed.  It snapped coconut trees 
like toothpicks and uprooted larger trees as if they were lettuce 
seedlings.  My brother and sisters and I huddled close to our father.  
We held tightly to his belt and sang ourselves to sleep over the noise 
of the storm.
Then it arrived, the big wave that Papa was afraid of.  The rush 
of it woke us.  It was too late for him to prepare us.  He only had 
time to scream, "Here it comes!" before the night intruder crashed 
like a bulldozer against the sleeping house, smashing it to pieces.  
The kerosene lantern disappeared into the churning sea with the 
rest of our belongings.  Except for flashes of lightning, we were in 
darkness.  The water was waist deep on my father. He picked up my 
two younger sisters, one under each arm, and waded like a thief into 
the night.  "Follow me, little ones," he called back to my brother and 
me.  "We must get to the dinghy before the next wave."
Progress was slow.  The sea came up to our chins.  At times, my 
brother and I had to swim or walk tip-toe through floating branches 
and coconuts.  
Ahead of us, Papa and his passengers reached the dinghy.  As 
soon as they were in it, he cried out to us to hurry.  He had heard 
the breaking of a wave on the reef and could see the white monster 
crashing through what forest was still left on the island.  The wave 
was building into a giant.  I thought it would swallow us as we half 
waded, half swam towards our family.  Then, suddenly, we were 
there and Papa was dragging us aboard.  
We had no time to say anything to each other before the wave 
engulfed the dinghy and threw it in the air.  The wind spun us around 
and around.  We were tipped upside down into the water.  
Caught underneath the dinghy as it landed, my brother and I 
found each other and intertwined our fingers.  We counted to three, a 
Pukapukan habit, and dived under the water and away from the 
capsized boat.  Our father called to us as we surfaced, and we saw 
him with our sisters, bobbing on the water like the coconuts around 
them.  Papa was so relieved to see us.  He was certain we had been 
swallowed up by the wave and swept into the lagoon.  
Together again, we began swimming towards the tamanu trees.  
They stood proud and strong, like ancient figures against the 
lightning-streaked sky, but they were almost naked, stripped of their 
leaves and small branches.
My little brother and I were trying hard to catch up with our 
father and sisters when we saw a sheet of roofing iron spiralling 
towards us on the wind.  We ducked deep down into the murky sea.  
The iron passed over us and disappeared.  My father was in tears.  
He thought he had lost us again.
Then, for a moment, the sea retreated, and raindrops the size of 
marbles began to pelt us.  Though we no longer had to swim, we 
could not walk against the force of the cyclone.  Instead, we 
scrambled after my father who, with my sisters clutched under each 
arm, crawled across the ground like a giant coconut crab.
"We have to work fast," shouted Papa when we reached the 
exposed roots of the tamanu trees.  He pointed up at a trunk.  
"There's a hole up there.  Climb into it."
I scrambled up the tree, climbed inside the hole, and curled up 
like a baby.  Later, when Papa had safely placed my brother and 
sisters in other holes in the tree, he came back to me with a 
pandanus mat, nails, and a stone.  He placed the mat across the 
entrance of my hideaway and nailed it securely to the trunk.
Except for occasional flashes of lightning, all was dark.  Then 
the wind grew even stronger.  It shook the tree hard.  Waves 
sweeping in from the beach and the lagoon met at the base of the 
trunk, like warriors locked in battle.  The ocean played games with 
me, testing my courage.
I do not remember falling asleep, but many hours later I felt my 
father's fingers scratching the top of my head.  Outside, all was 
quiet.  "You can come down now," he whispered.  "The cyclone is 
over."
He lifted me out of the hollow, and when we were standing on the 
ground, he cuddled me tight.  
My brother and sisters and I were so happy to see each other 
again.  We raced to the lagoon to survey the damage and to collect 
for our dinner the fresh dead fish that had washed up on the shore.  
We ate them raw – there was no dry wood on the island and no 
matches to light a fire with.  By afternoon, we were having so much 
fun, the cyclone seemed like a thing of the past.
All this is a true experience that happened many years ago.  To 
this day, I still remember it.  It is a miracle that we survived that 
nightmare on Anchorage Island.

Valentine
by Norman Bilbrough

Robbie got down to the dairy just as Mrs Singh was putting 
out the buckets of flowers.  He was overwhelmed by the big 
bunches screaming with colour.  All about six bucks.  Robbie 
needed something quiet; something he could hide and bring 
out at the last minute – which, if he was lucky, would be very 
shortly.  But stuff a bunch of irises under his sweatshirt?  
They'd be out stroking his ears.
"How much are the single roses, Mrs Singh?"
"Four fifty.  Four dollars for you, Robbie.  For your 
beautiful girlfriend."
Robbie's race went redder than the rose he picked out.  "It 
doesn't smell," he complained.  Mrs Singh grinned.  "They 
take the smell out of flowers these days."
Robbie held the rose close to his body so nobody could see 
it and then ran for the bus.  Trouble was, his sister, Tasha, 
spotted it immediately.  "Hey, who's the lucky girl?"
"What are you doing here?" snarled Robbie.  "Where's your 
bike?"
"Gotta puncture."  She punched Robbie's arm and ducked 
her face at the rose.  "Disappointed it's me, eh?  When you 
were expecting Jodie Ross.  Or was it Karen Bruce?"
"Neither," Robbie lied.
"So what are you gonna say?"  Tasha grinned.  "'You are 
my special valentine, Jodie.  Do I get a kiss?'"
"It's not Jodie Ross!"  Robbie shoved onto the bus ahead of 
Tasha and scanned the faces.  No luck.  Karen wasn't there.  
Tasha plonked herself down beside him.  "What about 'Here 
is a token of my love, Karen.'"
Robbie felt the blush start up from his neck again.  "Can't 
you sit somewhere else?" he hissed.  Tasha was a real in-your-
face flirt.  And she was always trying to guess about girls in 
his class.  Always on about kissing.
As soon as the bus stopped outside the school gate, Robbie 
was off, running across the asphalt with the rose tucked 
against his chest.  If only Karen had been on the bus, this 
wouldn't have happened.  
He dived breathlessly into the locker room and slammed his 
locker door on the rose – hoping he hadn't crushed it.  He'd 
see Karen in class and arrange to give it to her at interval.
But at maths time, she was in Brett Harvey's group.  
Expensive Brett Harvey.  Cool jeans, the best T-shirts, air 
running shoes that Robbie could only dream about.  And Karen 
was grinning and talking to him. Robbie couldn't believe it.  
Did she need her head read?
His friend Dan slid into the seat beside him just as the 
teacher shut the door.  Robbie looked at Dan's face.  Then he 
looked again.
"What's the problem?"
"Angela's hacked off because I forgot to get her a valentine 
gift,"  Dan explained.
"Buy her some flowers."
"No money until Friday.  Can you lend us a few bucks?"
"Sorry," Robbie said, "I've just spent my last."  He wasn't 
going to tell Dan on what – not with Karen cracking up at 
Brett Harvey's expensive jokes.  He glanced over at Angela 
sitting on the other side of the room.  She looked sour.  Bad 
day all around.
At interval, Karen was caught up with B. Harvey again.  
The guy was hanging around like a bad pair of sneakers.  
Robbie caught Karen's eye – she gave him a swift smile and 
then turned away.  Robbie felt sick.  He probably looked as 
pitiful as Dan.  A couple of rejects:  no girl liked them.
They played cricket at lunch, and when Robbie opened his 
locker before afternoon school, the rose fell out onto his face.
"Here."  He thrust it at Dan.  "Give it to Angela."
Dan was amazed.  "Who'd you buy it for?" 
Robbie shrugged.  Dan grinned.  "Changed your mind about 
Karen Bruce, eh?"
"I think she's changed her mind about me."
"You reckon?"  For a moment, Dan looked concerned.  Then 
his face lit up.  "Anyway, thanks for this.  How much do I owe 
you?" 
"Nothing.  It's yours."
Robbie thought Dan was going to hug him.  He hit his arm 
instead.  "Cool!"  He hesitated.  "Sorry about Karen," he said, 
and he tore off.
It was manual for the rest of the afternoon.  Karen was off 
in a different class.  Dan and Angela worked together in 
technology, the sun shining out of their faces.  It was Robbie's 
turn to feel sour.
Then there was the problem of the bus.  He didn't feel like 
seeing Karen again.  He decided to walk.  All five Ks.  It was 
good training for soccer.  Trouble was, he had to pass the bus 
stop – and she was there.  
"Hi!" she greeted him.  
Robbie nearly looked over his shoulder to check that she 
wasn't smiling at Brett Harvey.
"I missed the bus this morning," Karen grinned.  
"Oh."
"Mum had to give me a lift."
The bus pulled in.  Karen went a light pink and quickly 
pushed an envelope into Robbie's hand.  "Promise you won't 
open it on the bus?"
"I'm walking today," Robbie said.
Karen went up the steps.  "OK.  See you tomorrow then."
She waved as the bus pulled away, but Robbie didn't see 
her.  He was too busy opening the envelope.  Inside was a 
card.  There was a rose on it, pretty much like the one he'd 
bought – but without the green wax paper.  Inside the card 
was a short message.
"To Robbie, happy Valentine's."

Burgled
by Jane Buxton

This fictional story was written after the author had 
interviewed a young friend whose home really was 
burgled.

Mum never understood how much I wanted a dog.  She 
didn't even seem to listen when I begged and pleaded.  If 
only she'd realised how important it was to me, I know 
she'd have said yes.  Then, one afternoon, everything 
changed.  
I still get a sick feeling in my stomach when I think 
about it.  We came home from netball, and as we got out 
of the car, Mum said, "Look at that!  I must have left the 
back door open."  Then we saw the broken glass.  It 
wasn't Mum who'd left the door open – it was burglars!
I was afraid they might still be in the house.  I stuck 
close to Mum as we went from room to room.
"They've taken the TV," said Mum.  "They won't  get 
much joy out of that – it was ready for the dump anyway.  
Oh, no!  The CD player's gone.  And all my CDs!"
"What if they've taken my tape deck?" I said.  Mum 
and I checked in my room and my tape deck was still 
there.  I guess it's so old and battered that it isn't worth 
anything.  We stood staring around, trying to see if 
anything else was missing.
"Your Spice Girls poster has gone, Nessie," said Mum.
"No, Mum.  I took it down.  I'm sick of the Spice Girls.  
But look!  My duvet's gone!"
We went into Mum's room next, and her duvet was gone 
too.  "Just as well we have plenty of blankets," she  said.  
Then she discovered that her clock radio was missing – 
and almost all of her jewellery.
Back in the kitchen, we found that the microwave had 
been taken and some tinned food from the cupboards.  
Mum was almost crying as she phoned the police.
I felt a bit safer when the patrol car pulled up outside 
our place.  If the burglars were still hiding nearby, they 
wouldn't hang around now.  Constable Puketapu 
introduced herself and had a good look around our house.  
She made a list of all the things that had been taken.  
"They probably used the duvets to wrap up the other 
things they took," she said.  "Now, let's have a look at 
your garden." 
She studied the trees and bushes out the front.  "If you 
cut all those down, your house would be more open to the 
road.  Passers-by could see right in, and thenyou'd be less 
likely to be burgled."  She went next door to ask the 
neighbours if they'd seen anything suspicious.
Mum sighed.  "I don't want to chop the trees down.  
They're the reason we bought this house.  It's so nice and 
private."
"You wouldn't cut my old tree hut tree down, would 
you?" I asked.  But Mum didn't answer.  She was staring 
at something in the grass by the gateway.
"What's that bit of blue down there, Nessie?"
I bent down and picked up a paua shell earring.  
"There's more," I said.  "The burglars must've dropped 
this lot as they made their getaway." 
Mum ran inside for her glasses, and together we 
searched through the grass and clover.  We found all 
Mum's rings, her necklaces, her charm bracelet, and all 
her earrings except for the other paua shell one.
"Fantastic!" said Mum.  "I feel heaps better already." 
But I didn't feel better.  I still felt sick at the thought 
of burglars having been in our house.
When Constable Puketapu came back from the 
neighbours, she said, "Just as I suspected.  Your place is 
so overgrown with trees that nobody saw anything."  She 
looked around again at our garden.  "There is something 
else you could do for security," she said.  "Apart from 
fitting a burglar alarm, you could also get yourselves a 
dog."
A dog!  I could have hugged her!  I watched Mum's face 
closely to see what she was thinking, but she didn't move 
a muscle.  Even after the patrol car had driven off, she 
didn't mention the subject of dogs.
That was all three months ago.  Since then, I've been 
too scared to sleep on my own so I've been spending the 
night on the sofa in Mum's room.  In the daytime, I don't 
like being in the house when Mum's not there, even if 
she's just out in the garden.  But now everything is about 
to change.  Mum says it's no good being afraid in your 
own home, so tomorrow she and I are going to begin self-
defence classes.  I'm starting to feel braver already at the 
thought of it.
And the best thing of all is that today we went to the 
SPCA and came home with Juno.  She's a friendly, bouncy, 
middle-sized dog with a good loud bark.  And she's mine!  
She's going to sleep in my room with me and guard our 
house when we're not home.  As Mum says, something 
good comes out of everything.  And Juno is definitely 
something good.

The Mountain
by Rhonda Bartle

I'm heading for the kitchen to start tea.  Mum has left unavoidable 
instructions: potatoes, carrots, salad in the fridge.  But it isn't easy 
getting past Nan.  Just when you think she's dozing, her eyes spring 
awake, a hand reaches out, and she drags you down by her chair to 
listen to one of her stories. 
"I've only got a few minutes," I tell her.  
Gran grins like I've thrown her a challenge.  She squeezes my hand.  
"I survived a mountain once," she says.  "Mount Tarawera buried me 
alive!" 
"Really?" I ask, knowing full well that even Gran isn't old enough 
to have seen Mount Tarawera erupt.
"Listen," she says, knowing that I will.

I was tucked up in bed under the hotel eaves, hearing in my dream the 
sound of someone calling "Kitty, wake up. Quickly!"  Suddenly I was 
sitting up and then standing.  "Earthquake!" yelled Pa.
Through sleepy eyes, I saw Mam struggling into her corsets under 
her nightgown, dropping a dress on top without worrying about her 
bustle.  She bent to lace her boots.
"Not now, Louisa!" said Pa.  He pushed my mother and me through 
the doorway and onto the landing.  The wooden floor went this way and 
that beneath my reluctant feet as we swayed downstairs. 
From the door of the hotel, we looked out to the mountain, Tarawera, 
just a few miles away.  My mouth fell open.  Pa, in such a desperate 
hurry half a minute before, now stood planted like a post beside me.  
Mam raised one limp hand to an eyebrow.  Over the mountain hung a 
huge fireball.  An evil black cloud rose above it. 
"Lord have mercy upon us all," said Mam.
"It's one o'clock in the morning," said Pa, flicking open his pocket 
watch. "June the tenth, eighteen hundred and eighty six."
Anything else was lost as our ears filled up with roaring.  Three 
columns of fire, so high that it was impossible to see where they 
finished, shot from the mountain into the night, and the earth trembled 
and rocked.  A wind, cold and fierce, whipped over my bare legs.  My 
tongue felt sticky, coppery, and yet my mouth was dry. 
Around us, shadows ran everywhere, thrown up against walls.  Hands 
propelled us off the veranda and into the muddy street.  "Go!" the hotel-
keeper bellowed at us in a crazed voice as he shoved the hotel's cook 
against Pa's side and ordered her to lead us.
We became a tribe of urgent travellers, scurrying for our lives.  I 
had no idea where we were off to.  I remember Mam looking down at me, 
and the glare of the volcano made her face fat and rosy.  My father 
swung me hard onto his hip, and we galloped off after the cook. 
A short distance on, a fierce figure rose before me.  It was a poupou 
on a gatepost, and beneath it gaped the dark mouth of a low building.  I 
was flung inside the shelter with so many others that  I lost my mother's 
hand and my father's shape beside me, but I did not cry.  I was pushed to 
the back until I could go no further, bunched up against damp walls, 
earth under my feet.  
"Mam!" I finally wailed as loudly as I could.  My mother and father 
found me, and we stood close together as the room filled up.
"We're in the guide Hinerangi's whare," said a voice beside us.  
"She's the most famous woman in Rotorua," said another, "the best 
guide for the Pink and White Terraces."
"We're going to see them," I whispered in the gloom. 
Hinerangi's house was longer than it was wide, and although we did 
not know it at the time, it had sturdy walls that would enable it to 
withstand the force of the eruption.  A head count revealed sixty-two 
people taking shelter there, packed in like herrings in a pickle barrel.  
Around us, the smell was of scorching.  Outside, ash rained down 
like confetti. Women collected up jackets and shawls, pinned them 
together with brooches, and draped them over the opening of the whare 
to keep it out.  I sat down on the earth floor and fingered the eyelets on 
my mother's leather boots.  She had thirty on each foot.  Sometime after 
that, Hinerangi spoke.  She used plain yet perfect English.
"It was a canoe," she told us.  "Eleven days ago, it came out of the 
mist.  First the lake rose, unusual at this time, and then I saw the 
phantom canoe.  It was only a small waka with one paddle, but it grew 
bigger until it held thirteen men.  When I saw that they all had the heads 
of dogs, I knew that my days as a guide were over."
The soot was thick and covered us by now.  The air grew hotter as 
time passed, and we all had a terrible thirst that could not be quenched.  
Stones hailed down on the roof, and the whare shuddered.  Some of us 
were hustled to the doorway to relieve ourselves.  The smell of urine 
was heavy in the air until it too was buried by the ash.  I nudged my 
mother, but it was no time for delicate sensibilities.  "Just wet your 
bloomers," she told me.  "It won't matter."
And then the noise and shaking stopped, with just the glow left from 
the fury.  I could scarcely believe it.  The bravest among us pulled back 
the draped door, and we found that we were entombed as tightly as 
Tutenkhamen in his sandy grave.  A moment later, voices were heard 
outside and then the thud of shovels against the frame of the whare.  
Mam cried with relief, but when we were at last free, we climbed out 
into a vast desert – and it was terrifying. 
We had come to Wairoa to see the magical Pink and White Terraces, 
just half a day before Tarawera blew itself to pieces.  And now we might 
well have been visiting the moon.  It was still night.  The shape of the 
land was eerie and like nothing I had ever seen before.  Carbon hung 
like a curtain in the air.  Branchless trees pointed into space.  Few 
buildings were left unburied.  The hotel stood drunkenly against a grey 
background, ash piled up to its second floor windows.  There was no 
grass, no leaves, no animals.
We stood like sculptures.  Where were we to go?  For what?  And 
how?  Here at the end of the earth, there was nothing to do except await 
the dawn.  I scrambled back into the shelter.  Someone had hung a 
lantern from the rafters, and by its light I saw Hinerangi sitting 
straight-backed in a corner of the room.  Her eyes were dark and gentle 
like my father's.  Her lips were edged in ink.  
"You came to see the terraces," she said.  "Well, I think they are 
gone now, but sit and wait for the daylight to come." 
I was tired.  I lay my head close to her feet.  Then I slept, and in my 
dreams I drifted with Hinerangi in her waka on the silent pukeko-blue 
waters of Lake Tarawera.  We were hemmed in on all sides by hills of 
green.  The lake was decorated with anchored islands.  Steam rose out of 
the forest, and when I saw the beauty of the Pink and White Terraces, I 
wanted to sing.  
Heated water cascaded down steps of silica a hundred feet above us.  
It flowed over dozens more and lay in crystal pools that lapped the 
cooling water of the lake.  And dominating all, a mighty geyser threw 
plumes of steam up to heaven.  
As I watched, Hinerangi took from her hair a huia feather and 
dropped it into the lake.  It floated on the water like a miniature canoe.  
Then, in my dream, Pa called to me from the shore, and I had to go.

The door opens, and in comes Mum.  "Where's tea?" she calls.  "I'm 
hungry." 
I gape at her.  Dinner's not even started.  "Gran was just telling me 
a story," I explain, "about the time she saw Mount Tarawera erupt."
"Mount Tarawera?" says Mum, looking at Gran suspiciously.  
"That'll be the day!"
"Let's have fish and chips for dinner," says Gran quickly.  "My 
shout."

Walking on Water
by Alan Bagnall


I'm wheeling my bike out the school gate.  I feel so light, 
so happy.  I feel like I'm walking on air.
"Good one, Kanisha!" Manu had called across to me 
during our volleyball game.  "You've got style!"
And that's the second time today he's noticed me.  He 
stood behind me in the art room when I was printing my 
lino cut.
"That's cool, Kanisha," he said.  
I thought it was a useless print, so he was really 
looking at me!  Everybody likes Manu.  He just can't do 
anything wrong.
I think about Manu as I bike down to the pool.  It's 
three fifteen.  The pool will have just opened.  He'll 
probably be there already – on the diving board.  Manu on 
the springboard!  I just have to check.  It can't wait 'till 
I'm changed.   
I lean my bike on the wall outside the pool, pay my 
money, and walk straight in.  My feet don't seem to touch 
the tiles.  My eyes are fixed on the diving pool – and 
there he is, Manu, on the springboard!  
I take a deep breath.  My heart is hammering.  I feel 
so light I could float.  Now even the tiles feel soft.  
"Help!"  They are soft!  "Help!  I'm sinking!"
Beneath my feet, the green pool cover is moving.  The 
attendants are pulling it off.  "Help!"  I'm up to my 
knees.  My dress!  My school uniform!  "Help me!"
But nobody comes to help.  Around the pool edge, 
everyone is laughing.  The whole pool echoes with shouts 
and catcalls.
"A miracle!"
"Kanisha walks on water!"
"Go for it, Kanisha!"
Even the pool attendants are doubled up laughing.  I 
flounder over to the pool steps, still clutching my soggy 
towel bundle.  I climb out and run outside, leaving a trail 
of splashes and drips.  I bike home in a fury.
"Was Manu at the pool?" my friend Jodie asks me 
later.
"Wouldn't have a clue!  How would I know?  He 
certainly didn't jump in to help me!"
Suddenly I see the funny side, and Jodie and I roll 
around on the lawn laughing, laughing at me, Kanisha, 
walking on water!

Is That Your Diary?
by Jane Buxton 

It all started when Mr Richmond brought his diary to school.  Everyone 
in our class had been complaining that they didn't want to keep diaries 
any more.  It was getting boring, and we couldn't think of things to 
write in them every day.  
"Diaries don't have to be boring," said Mr Richmond, thumping down 
a fat black book on Emma's desk.
"Yikes!" said Emma.  "Is that your diary?"  The book had so much 
stuff stuck in it that it wouldn't close properly.
"What's in it?" asked Lily.  "Can we look?  Or is it private?"
"No, go ahead," said Mr Richmond.  
So Lily opened the diary, and we all crowded round.  There were old 
black and white photos of our teacher as a baby in nappies.  There was 
one of him at about three years old driving a little pedal car and one of 
him at the zoo looking at a camel.  On each page, he had written a bit 
about the photographs.
"How old were you when you wrote this diary?" Clementine asked.
"I was twelve," answered Mr Richmond.
"Messy writing for a twelve-year-old," said Daniel, "and you've 
spelled 'pedal car' wrong."
I looked quickly at Mr Richmond to see if his feelings were hurt, but 
he just laughed.  "You're right.  It's pretty untidy, but I wasn't writing 
it for anyone else.  I was doing it for myself.  For fun.  And it's still 
readable, isn't it?"
"I think it's good," said Isabelle.  "It kind of … you know … shows 
your personality."
"Hey, look!" said Lily, turning the page.  "Who are these weirdos?" 
She pointed to a black and white newspaper cutting.
"They're the Beatles," said Mr Richmond, "a famous pop group from 
England."
Isabelle read aloud from the opposite page:  "Jean and Annie are 
going to Auckland to see the Beatles, but mean old Mum won't let me 
go."
Glued onto the next six pages were more newspaper cuttings – the 
All Blacks and the New Zealand Cricket Team.  Then came some soft 
blue feathers glued onto the page and a sad poem about Mr Richmond's 
budgie dying because he forgot to feed it.  He'd spelled "budgerigar" 
wrong too, but nobody said anything.
After that, there were postcards, birthday cards, postage stamps, and 
a lock of fair hair with the name "Jane" printed beneath it. 
"Who was Jane?" we all wanted to know.  But Mr Richmond just 
smiled mysteriously and turned the page.
"Yuck!" exclaimed Lucie.  "What's that?"
Pakitae read the messy writing:  "Dried frog skin found on the main 
road near Stratford".
"Don't touch it," warned Mr Richmond.  "It's quite fragile."  
The next two pages were full of old movie tickets and lolly papers, 
and after that were some drawings.  They were pencil sketches of cars 
and motorbikes, rather old-fashioned looking, but we could see that our 
teacher was a good drawer, even then.
Pakitae flipped the pages back to the frog skin.  "Awesome," he said.  
"Mr Richmond, could I do a diary like yours?  I've got a perfect flat, 
dried mouse skin at home."
"Mr Richmond, if I did a diary, could I put some of Copper's mane 
in it?" Tui asked.  
We all laughed.  Tui was horse-mad.  We knew her whole diary 
would be full of stuff about ponies and horses.
The next day, almost everyone in the class brought some sort of a 
book to use as a diary.  Some people had old exercise books with the 
used pages torn out of them, and a few kids had real diaries, brand new.  
I brought an old unused diary from 1997. It had the date on every page, 
but that didn't matter.  After a few days, it had stuff glued and written 
all over it.
We were all excited about our diaries.  We spent hours writing and 
gluing and sticky-taping.  Everyone's diary was different.  Tui's had 
lots of stuff about her pony, but it had some pressed dried flowers and a 
neat description of her grandmother's garden too.  And it had a plane 
ticket and other souvenirs from her trip to Australia.
Pakitae's diary had "Mouse skin – mouse caught by Sneaky and 
flattened by Dad's Holden".  But it also had two of Pakitae's favourite 
poems and some of the best cards from his phone card collection.
Lucie had a special letter from her dad in Australia, but she didn't 
want to glue it in.  Instead, she made a paper pocket to hold it on the 
page.  Several people copied her idea.
I had the idea of collecting the autographs of everyone in the class. 
"Great!" said Mr Richmond.  "Who knows? Maybe one day some of these 
names may be famous!" 
"Yeah," said Pakitae, "and these diaries might be valuable one day, 
too."
"I doubt it," said Clementine, "but they'll be interesting to look at 
later.  It'll be fun to show our children the things that we were into 
when we were their age."
Emma laughed.  "Maybe they'll look at my pictures of the Spice 
Girls and say 'Who are those old-fashioned weirdos?'"
"Yeah," said Pakitae.  "And they won't know what my phone cards 
are.  The way technology's going, there'll be some other invention by 
then."
Isabelle looked up from her writing.  "These diaries are a bit like 
time capsules, aren't they?"
"They are," agreed Mr Richmond, "but I don't want them to be 
buried or hidden away.  I'm hoping that when they're finished, we can 
put them on display at the back of the classroom so that we can all read 
each other's.  And if you promise to be careful with my frog skin, I'll 
put mine up there too."
We all cheered, and Daniel grinned as he taped down a long, sleek 
whisker from his pet rat, Rambo.  Whoever said diaries were boring? 

1 + 1 = Hundreds!
by R. A. Brockway

There could be no doubt about it – Yeltsin was pregnant.  And he 
intended to have four or five babies if the size of his stomach was 
anything to go by.  What a disaster!
My dad had never been keen about mice in the first place.  "Give 
them half a chance, and they'll breed like rabbits," he'd said.  Ha ha.
Mum said, "You're so disorganised, Jack!  If you keep mice, will you 
even remember to feed them?"
"Yes!" I said, "and I did.  Smoky-grey, sleek little Clinton and jet-
black Yeltsin, both bought from the pet shop, were the most pampered 
mice in the country.  I set up their cage in the shed.  Every day I 
changed their water and fed them fresh pellets, and sometimes I gave 
them cheese for a special treat.  "You're a brilliant pair of pets!" I told 
them all the time.
But now they were going to be more than just a pair and my problem 
would keep getting bigger.  There was nothing to stop the baby mice 
from going on to have families of their own.  
I pulled out my diary and got writing:
DISASTER PLAN!!!
1.  Find homes for the babies.
2.  Separate Y and C (second cage needed).
3.  Find a new name for Y (but what?).
4.  Whatever happens, don't part with either of them.  And DON'T let 
Mum and Dad find out that Yeltsin's pregnant.
"Mice – free to good homes," I told everyone at school next day.  
There were no takers, so I tried "Beautiful, super-intelligent mice free 
to any old home!"  Even then, all I got was the usual ignorant rubbish:  
"Yuk – mice stink!  They bite!  They poop all over you!"  Nobody was 
interested.
When the babies arrived, there were five of them.  Yeltsin, tucked up 
in her newspaper nest, looked proud and happy and very sleek. But those 
babies were grotesque!  I didn't say so to Yeltsin, but they looked like 
baked beans on legs.  Who would ever want them?
I delayed the birth announcement for as long as I could.  Then I 
explained that the babies were too young for visitors.  
"What have you got to hide?" asked Damien, who's supposed to be 
my best friend.
"Were they all born with two heads?" said Melissa.
I could only put them off for a week, but lucky for me, in that time 
things changed.  Radically.  The baked beans' eyes opened and a soft 
fine fur grew over their skin.  When Damien and Melissa came round and 
saw them, they were rapt.
"I'll have that one!" said Damien.  He pointed to a grey baby that 
looked very like Clinton, the proud father.
"I could take one too," said Melissa, "as long as it's guaranteed to 
be a male."  (She already had a white mouse called Archibald.)
"I'll guarantee it," I said, "personally."
Soon everyone at school knew how cute the babies were.  I pinned a 
notice to the wall.  It said:  
MICE
Free to EXCELLENT homes only.  
Viewing strictly by appointment.  
By four thirty that afternoon, all of Yeltsin's babies had been 
promised homes, and I thought my problems were over – until Melissa 
and Damien turned up.
"You should have separated those two adults by now," Melissa said, 
looking into the cage.  "If you're not careful, Yeltsin's going to be in 
the family way again!"
Yikes!  I'd been so worried about item one of my disaster plan that 
I'd forgotten the rest of it.  We hunted everywhere for a box to use as a 
cage, but we couldn't find one.  
"Let's try the pet shop," I suggested.  
The three of us zoomed down on our bikes.  There were some fancy 
cages in the window, but they started at $19.95 and went up from there.  
"I'd like a mouse cage," I told the pet shop owner, "but this is all 
the money I've got."  I held out $8.25.
"It doesn't have to be special," added Damien, "just as long as it's 
mouse-proof."
"Really," said the owner, pretending to look over his shelves.  "I 
doubt that I can help you."
"I hope you can," I said, "because it's your fault that I need another 
cage.  You sold me a breeding pair instead of two males."
"He's right," said Melissa, "and my parents say that, legally, goods 
have to fit their descriptions.  Yeltsin was supposed to be a male – and 
he's had five babies!"
"For heaven's sake …" the man began to say.
"We thought we'd write to Fair Go," I said, "just to run it past 
them."
The other customers in the shop suddenly turned and stared at us.  
The shop went real quiet.
"Hang on!" said the owner grumpily.  He poked around under the 
counter and came up with a wooden box and a piece of perspex for a lid.  
"No charge, OK?"
Perfect.  Now I could use my money to buy an extra water bottle and 
pellet dispenser.  I even got Clinton a red trapeze with mirrors on the 
sides.
"Yea!" I shouted as we left.  "The babies have homes to go to, the 
cage is organised, and I've got a new name for Yeltsin."  (I'd decided to 
call her Hillary.)  "And," I yelled, "Mum and Dad don't know a thing.  
It's too good to be true!"
It was.  When we got back to my place, Mum and Dad were standing 
in the driveway, their hands on their hips.  Never a good sign.
"You've had some phone calls," said Dad.  "Someone called Susan 
rang.  She wants to know when she can come round for the baby.  She 
said you'd know what that meant."
"Thanks."
"And Damien's father rang," said Mum.  "He asked if the new mouse 
was definitely a pet, not a wild one."
I looked around.  Funny thing – Melissa and Damien had 
disappeared.  "It wasn't my fault," I mumbled.  "That stupid man in the 
pet shop made a mistake."
"I think I made a mistake," said Dad, "letting you keep mice in the 
first place."
"It's all sorted!"  I said, marching into the shed.  "I've found homes 
for all the babies, and I've got this new cage for Clinton."  I placed it 
on the bench and lifted Clinton into it.
"But what about a water bottle," said Dad, "and something for him to 
play with?"
"Pets are a big responsibility," added Mum.
"And one that I take seriously!" I said.  I pulled the water bottle, 
the pellet dispenser, and the red trapeze out of my pockets.  Clinton 
jumped onto the trapeze straight away.  In the other cage, Hillary was 
busily working out on her treadmill.
We watched them for a few minutes.  Then Mum said, "Don't you 
think they look kind of lonely like that?"
Dad folded his arms firmly across his chest.  "They look just fine to 
me," he said.
And I had to agree.

Happy Birthday!
by Alan Bagnall


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YOU!


Our research shows that you are the most vulnerable, the most receptive, the most profitable targets for MARKETING …

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And what's more, it's YOU who have a whole lifetime of spending ahead of you! 

Yes, now you really count.  

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That's why we employ the cleverest people, on the biggest salaries, to manipulate your mind to make you buy what we want to 
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A Natural Actor
by David Hill

One-thirty.  Ten minutes till Room 18's class play started, 
twenty minutes till Tanya's big speech.  From behind the stage 
curtain, Tanya heard the rest of the school come into the 
assembly hall.  Beside her, the other kids from Room 18 
swallowed nervously.
Tanya was nervous too, so nervous she hadn't eaten her 
lunch.  OK, so she only had one speech.  And the speech was 
only two words:  "No, thanks."  But she had to say it to Chad 
Finlay, who was acting the part of the gang leader – Chad 
Finlay, the coolest, cutest guy in the class.
Everyone in the audience was supposed to laugh after Chad 
said "Come here, you!" and Tanya replied "No, thanks."  But 
how could they laugh at two such tiny words?  Especially since 
Tanya's voice went even tinier when she said them to Chad 
Finlay.
One-fifty-five.  Five minutes till the play started.  Fifteen 
minutes till Tanya's big (huh!) speech.  She muttered it again:  
"No, thanks."  She could hardly hear herself over the noise of 
the audience coming into hall.
She could hear something else, though.  "Hurrrr!"  her 
stomach suddenly growled.  "Hrugglle-hrogglle-hurrrrr!"   
"Oh, no!" thought Tanya, "I should have had lunch after all!"  
What if her stomach rumbled as she was saying her lines!
She rushed off towards the changing rooms, past Chad Finlay 
and the other gang members trying to look calm at the side of 
the stage.  
"Tanya, where …?" began Ms Yee.  But Tanya had gone.
In the changing room, she grabbed a peanut butter sandwich 
from her bag.  Down it went.  She grabbed two coconut biscuits.  
Down they went too.  She hurried back.
One-fifty-nine.  One minute till the play started.  Eleven 
minutes till Tanya's speech.  Her stomach had gone quiet.
"Ready, everyone?" whispered Ms Yee.  
There was total silence on stage.  Then "Aher, aher, aher."  A 
nervous tickle started in Tanya's throat.  Someone went "Sh-h-
h!", but Tanya couldn't stop coughing.
Ms Yee tiptoed over to her.  "Suck one of these cough lollies," 
she whispered.  "I keep them for emergencies."
Tanya sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed.  She 
breathed deeply again.  The play began.  She could hear the 
opening words. 
Two minutes past two.  Eight minutes till her speech, and the 
fumes from the cough lolly were tickling her nose.  Any minute 
now she was going to sneeze.  Tanya tore outside.  She huffed 
out the cough lolly fumes and breathed in the fresh air.  The 
sneezes stopped.  She walked back to the wings.
"Right," murmured Ms Yee.  "On you go."
Tanya snatched a look at her watch.  Ten minutes past two.  
No minutes till her speech.  The coughing had stopped.  And the 
sneezing.  And the rumbling.  "There's nothing left to go 
wrong," thought Tanya.
As she stepped out into the lights, she saw the faces of the 
audience look up at her.  She wasn't nervous now.  She felt 
completely calm.  "Pity I'm not a good actor," she thought.  "I'd 
like to make people really laugh.  I'd like to make them take 
notice, especially Chad Finlay."
On stage, the gang stared at her, just as they were supposed 
to.  Chad pointed.  "Come here, you!" he hissed.  
"He's a cool actor, too," Tanya decided.  
She opened her mouth to begin her tiny "No, thanks" and –
"Hic!"  Out came a ginormous hiccup!  The audience roared.  
Laughing and cheering filled the hall.  Even the gang began 
laughing.  Chad kept pointing, trying to look angry, but he was 
shaking so much with giggles that Tanya thought he might get 
hiccups too.  She walked straight on across the stage, as she 
was meant to, and made her exit.  The audience clapped for ages 
after she'd gone.
"Great speech, Tanya," whispered Ms Yee as Tanya passed 
her.  "You made everyone laugh."
Tanya's face was bright red.  Ms Yee was only saying that to 
make her feel better.  She hiccupped again.  Then Chad made 
his exit.  He came right up to her.
"That was awesome, Tanya!" he said.  He sounded like he 
meant it.  And suddenly the coolest, cutest guy in Room 18 gave 
her a huge smile, all to herself.  "How'd you think of doing it?"  
asked Chad.
Tanya shrugged her shoulders and smiled back.  "It just 
seemed to, hic, come naturally." 

Half Fare to Palmerston North
by Dorothy Corry

The house was quiet when I let myself in.  I was supposed to be at 
soccer practice, but I knew no one would catch me at home.  Rachel was 
at violin, and Sarah was at her friend's place.  Dad and Ali never get 
home before five.
I pulled off my school uniform and threw it into the corner beside my 
bed.  I fished my grey sweatshirt out of the wash basket and shoved it 
into my backpack with the few things that I was taking with me.
In the kitchen, I took five dollars from the small-change jar that Ali 
keeps on top of the fridge.  I wondered about leaving a note – then I 
thought about Dad, and what had happened last night, and decided not 
to.  I picked up my skateboard from the hall and was out the door.
The station was in a crazy, late afternoon rush by the time I got 
there.  I joined the queue to buy my ticket, trying hard to look as though 
it was something that I did every day.  But when I finally reached the 
counter, my throat was dry.
"Palmerston North, please.  Half fare," I said in this strange, hoarse 
voice.
"You want that bus over there," said the woman selling the tickets.  
She pointed to somewhere over my shoulder and looked past me at the 
next person in the queue.
The bus driver, when he finally decided to notice me, wasn't too 
friendly.  
"That's not allowed inside," he snapped, waving his pen at my 
skateboard.  "It'll have to go in with the luggage."  His yellow nicotine-
stained fingers slid down the list of names on his clipboard.  
Grandad had had fingers like that, I thought.  He'd smoked heaps.  
I'd always wished he wouldn't.
"You'll have to go on standby," said the driver.  "I'll let you know if 
we have room."  He nodded to show me where to wait.
I was worried, now, that there wouldn't be a seat for me.  All day, 
and for most of last night, I'd been planning how I'd take off to my 
friend Jason's in Palmerston North.  Jase and I used to be neighbours 
before we shifted to Wellington – yet another change this year.  
"There's always a bed for you here, Luke," his mother had said when I 
was there last holidays.  I knew she'd let me stay with them.  Maybe 
she'd let me live with them permanently.
I thought back to what had happened last evening.  I'd been lying on 
my bed after tea, reading, when Dad knocked on the door.
"Luke, I need to talk to you," he'd said, sitting down on the bed.  He 
kept fiddling with the Time magazine that he was holding, rolling it up 
into a cylinder and then unrolling it and smoothing the cover.  Its red-
letter headline said "The Communication Industry".
He didn't say anything else for a few seconds, but he was frowning, 
so I knew that this was going to be a "serious" talk.
"Your teacher has just phoned," he said.  There was a pause.  "He's 
concerned about your attitude at school.  He says that your homework is 
late too often.  He wants to know whether there's a problem."
My stomach gave a kind of lurch, but there was no way I was going to 
say anything.  I looked up at a cobweb on the ceiling, and that's when it 
happened – wham!  Dad hit me round the head with the rolled up Time 
magazine!  I was so shocked.  It wasn't that he'd hit me hard – it was 
just that, well, Dad had never hit me before with anything – ever!  I felt 
terrible, like I wasn't even a human being.
He stood up after that, and I could tell that he was really angry.  
"You aren't listening, are you?" he stormed.  "You're thirteen, and you 
can't even give me an answer!"
Now I was angry too.  "I'm not supposed to hit anyone, but you can!" 
I shouted back at him.  "That's sick!" 
He got up from the bed and stormed out of the room.  Almost 
immediately, he was back.  He came up close to me, his forefinger 
pointing at me like a gun at close range.  "And you're grounded for the 
weekend," he said.  
"I'm moving out!" I shouted at his back as he walked out the door.  
I decided right then that I was going to leave next day after school.  
It wasn't that hard to decide because it wasn't the first time I'd thought 
about going.  Since Mum left, things had got worse and worse.
It was okay for a start.  Sarah and I seemed to get on better than we 
used to.  Then, when Dad met Ali, and later, when Ali and Rachel came 
to live with us, it got like I was the odd one out.  Sarah and Rachel 
teamed up.  They were always giggling together and borrowing each 
other's clothes.  Now, Sarah even sounds like Rachel when she talks.  
I know that Ali tries hard to like me, but there's always this awkward 
silence between us when we're in the same room together for more than 
a minute, like we've got nothing to say to each other.  That's why I 
stick to my bedroom in the evenings, especially with Dad always 
working so late.
It was at Grandad's funeral that I knew things would never get any 
better. Mum was there with her new partner, John, and Dad and Ali were 
chatting with them as though nothing was wrong.  I thought, "They all 
like it this way.  Mum and Dad are never going to get back together.  
This is the way it is from now on."
An announcement over the railway station speaker system said that 
Bus 18 was leaving for Palmerston North in five minutes.  I suddenly got 
this empty, sad feeling in my stomach.  My family was history.  Grandad 
was history.  Jason and his mum probably wouldn't even want me at 
their place.  
The driver got onto the bus and began counting heads.  I turned round 
to check the station clock and found myself staring, close-range, at a 
dark suit.  I nearly jumped out of my skin.  Dad was standing right 
beside me.  The wind had made his hair stand up, and he looked like 
he'd been running.  
"I thought you might be here," he said, pushing my daypack out of 
the way as he sat down.  For one weird minute I thought he'd come to 
see me off on the bus.  Then he said, "I'm sorry about last night.  I 
shouldn't have hit you with the magazine.  Things are stressful, but I 
shouldn't have taken it out on you." 
He dug his hands into his pockets.  "So much has happened this year, 
Luke:  at home, at work.  And I miss Grandad too, you know."  He 
cleared his throat, like he always does when he's tense or embarrassed.  
I should have said something, but the mean part of me said "Don't help 
him."
"I've turned down the latest project," he said, "so I can be around 
home more."  He paused, waiting, but I didn't say anything.  "Maybe I 
can help you keep up with your homework.  Maybe we can take a few 
days in the holidays and go skiing – just you and me.  It's ages since we 
did that.  Huh?  What do you say?"
He looked so worried and sad that, suddenly, I wanted to hug him 
hard and say "All right, let's do that."  At the same time, I also wanted 
him to know that I hadn't completely forgotten about last night, so I 
said, "In Sweden, you can go to jail for hitting your kids."  
"Guess I'm lucky this isn't Sweden," said Dad, with this stupid half-
grin on his face.  
He put his arm around my shoulders, and I didn't try to stop him.  
"Burger?" he asked.
"Dad?"
"Huh?"
"Sorry I took off like that," I muttered.
"Sure," said Dad.  "Sure."

The Jumper
by Feana Tu'akoi 

The alarm clock said eleven p.m., but I was too excited to sleep.  
Tomorrow was my birthday, and I couldn't wait to see what Dad had 
got me.  I tossed and turned then lay down and screwed my eyes 
shut.  I was finally starting to drift off to sleep when I heard 
something.  
I sat up in fright – heavy footsteps were pounding past my window.  
I jumped out of bed and pulled back my curtains just in time to see a 
shadowy figure leaping our front fence.  When it ran under the street 
light, I could see that it wasn't someone I knew.
In the hall, I heard Dad struggling with the chain on the front 
door.  
"He's gone down Rochester Ave!" I yelled.
Dad took off.  I grabbed our cordless phone and raced outside 
after him.  Someone had to keep an eye on him, but I wasn't going 
to be silly about it.  If I was going to help, I had to keep myself 
safe.  
I sneaked to the end of the drive and squeezed into a hidey-
hole in the hedge.  That way, I could see the whole street without 
anyone seeing me.  I was still crouching there, clutching the 
phone, when Dad came back. 
"Did you see him?" I called. 
"No sign," said Dad.  "Are you sure he went that way?"
"Positive.  He's probably hiding in someone's garden."  
"Hang on," said Dad, "here come the cops."
He stepped back onto the kerb as the car pulled up, but the 
light on top said "Taxi", not "Police".
"Did a young fulla just tear through here?" asked the driver.
Dad nodded.  "He ran through my backyard.  I chased him onto 
the street, but I lost him."
"He's a jumper," said the driver.
"A jumper?" I asked.  I didn't have a clue what that meant.
"He ran off without paying his fare," said the driver.  "I nearly 
got him, but he disappeared into your place."
"Must've climbed the fence," said Dad.  "C'mon.  Let's see if 
he's holed up somewhere."
They started walking, one on each side of the street, peering 
into gardens as they went.  I stayed where I was for a while.  Then, 
just as I was thinking about going back to bed, something struck 
me as odd. 
"Hey, Dad!" I called.  "Mrs Emerson's security light's on!" 
Dad had helped install it last weekend.  It turns itself on if 
someone moves in front of it.
Suddenly, everything was happening at once.  Dad and the taxi 
driver started running, and the jumper bobbed up from a shrub in Mrs 
Emerson's garden.  He didn't have time to get away, so he stood right 
where he was and tried to act tough.
"You just do a bunk from a taxi?" I heard Dad ask.  His voice 
was calm but serious.
"What of it?"  The guy was loud and angry.
"You ran through my property, mate.  Scared my kid."
The jumper went crazy then, yelling and swearing.  It didn't 
seem to matter that Dad wasn't yelling back or that lights were 
going on up and down the street.  He  wouldn't calm down.  The taxi 
driver said that maybe they should call the cops – and that was when 
it happened. 
One minute Dad was looking at the taxi driver, and the next, the 
jumper had thumped Dad one and was running like mad along the 
street.  Within a second or two, the taxi driver was after him, with 
Dad not far behind. 
I couldn't believe the jumper had smacked my dad.  I had to do 
something.  I took a deep breath so that my hands would stop 
shaking and pushed 111.  My heart was pounding as I asked for the 
police, but I knew that I had to stay calm.  I concentrated really hard 
on speaking slowly and clearly.
"My name's Rangi Jones, and I live at 7 Paradise Road," I told the 
operator.  She made me repeat that bit.  "My dad's just been 
punched by a guy who was running away from a taxi driver."
"Is he hurt?" she asked.
"I don't think so.  He chased the guy up the road, but I can't 
see them any more."
"All right, don't worry.  Someone's on their way to you now.  
Are you in a safe place?"
"Yep, I'm fine."
"Good.  Now tell me the whole story."
By the time I'd finished, Dad and the taxi driver were 
marching back along the street with the jumper.  Once I saw them, I 
felt a whole lot better.
"What's happening now?" asked the operator.  "Is the guy still 
angry and shouting?"
"No," I told her. "He's calmed down.  Dad's got his arm round his 
shoulders, like they're friends."
"The police shouldn't be far away now," she said.
"The jumper's telling Dad that he didn't mean to hit him.  He 
says that he only ran from the taxi because he didn't have enough 
money to pay."  I stopped talking to listen some more.  "The taxi 
driver's telling the guy that he should have said so.  They could've 
sorted something out."
"Dead right," said the operator.  "Listen, I want you to stay on 
the line until the police arrive, so keep telling me what's 
happening."
"Everyone's standing by the mailbox now," I said.  "Dad's telling 
the guy that he's cross with him for hitting him, but he doesn't 
sound cross.  He sounds kind of sad.  The guy says that he's been 
drinking … and that he's sorry.  He's calling Dad 'sir'!  I think 
he's scared."  
I was surprised at that.  The jumper had been acting so tough 
that I never thought he might be scared.
"Now the guy's starting to look sad too … Hey, the police are 
here." 
"Well done, Rangi," said the operator.  "Time for me to go.  Over 
and out." 
I pushed my way out of the hedge as a man and a woman in uniform 
got out of the car.  The man loaded the jumper into the back seat 
while the woman walked over to Dad and the taxi driver.
"I just want the fare," said the driver.  "I don't want to get the guy 
into trouble."
"Same here," said Dad.  "I don't want to press charges.  The kid's 
had a big enough fright as it is."
Dad was calling the jumper a kid, but he looked pretty grown up 
to me.
"He'll get a fright all right," said the officer.  "We're taking 
him home to have a serious talk with his parents.  Tomorrow, when 
he's sobered up, he'll be round to the taxi office to pay up, and he'll 
be apologising to both of you."
"Rather him than me," I thought. It's bad enough having to 
apologise to Dad for being cheeky, let alone for belting him!
We headed inside then so that the officer could take down some 
details. 
"You know," she said when we were all standing in the kitchen, "if 
you see a prowler or anyone acting suspiciously, the thing to do is to 
stay inside and phone the police.  Never try to deal with it yourself."
"Hmm," said Dad, rubbing the bruise on his cheek, "I guess you're 
right."
"And one other piece of advice," smiled the officer, looking Dad up 
and down.  "If you do have to go down the street at night, think about 
what you're wearing."
Dad went kind of red and moved behind a chair.
For the first time since all the excitement had started, I took a 
close look at him – and grinned.  For the last half hour, my dad had 
been running around our neighbourhood with bare feet, wearing 
nothing but a T-shirt – and undies!  
I was in for a hard time at school tomorrow, birthday or not!

Invasion of the Insects 
by Deidre Eichler

They were lurking everywhere that summer, green and menacing, waiting 
for their victims.  Matthew hated the praying mantises.  His little 
brother loved them.  Earlier that morning, Carl had caught another one 
for his collection.
Matthew knew the mantises weren't really praying.  What they were 
doing was preying – on him; watching him with those bulging, green 
eyes.  Just like little green aliens, they appeared from nowhere, 
grabbing at him with their twiggy forelegs as he walked by.  Or dropping 
on him from the ceiling, sending him screaming from the room.
Carl was putting his latest find into an empty jar on the kitchen 
table.  He'd finished letting it walk up his arm.
"Mum, tell Carl to take that thing away while we're eating lunch," 
said Matthew.
"Put it away, Carl," said Mum.
Carl left the room with the jar clasped in his hands.  A few moments 
later, he returned with a smirk on his face.
"What've you done with it?" asked Matthew.
Carl munched into his sandwich. "Nothing," he mumbled.
"You'd better not have."
"Scared of a little bug?" asked Carl.
Matthew didn't reply.
"I like bugs," said Carl.  "When I grow up, I'm going to be a bug 
scientist."
"You'll bug scientists more likely.  They'll probably want to study 
you."
"That's enough, boys," said Mum.
Matthew finished his lunch in silence.  He tried not to listen as Carl 
described to Mum how he saw a praying mantis make a meal of a 
monarch caterpillar; how it had sucked the insides out of the caterpillar, 
leaving its skin shrivelled and empty like an old striped sock.
"And yesterday I saw one eat a bumble bee.  It ate the legs off first, 
Mum, and it was still alive – still buzzing."
Matthew couldn't take any more.  He had to leave the room.  He 
walked down the long hallway to his bedroom.  He knew what he'd do – 
the same thing that he always did when he wanted to escape from Carl.  
He'd get out his sketchbook and draw some cartoons.  He wanted to be a 
cartoonist more than anything in the world.
He opened the door to his room – and stood dead still.  There on the 
dresser, right on top of his sketchbook, was the jam jar with the praying 
mantis inside it.  
At the other end of the hall, someone giggled.
"Why don't you do some sketching?" asked Carl, crumpling up with 
laughter. 
"Get it off there!"  yelled Matthew.
"Make me," said Carl, coming up behind him.
Matthew picked up a book, ready to throw it at the mantis.  Just as 
he was about to, Carl dashed into the room and grabbed the jar.
The boys faced each other across the room.  Without taking his eyes 
off Matthew, Carl ripped the paper cover off the jar. The rubber band 
zinged through the air.  He reached into the jar and pulled the insect 
out.
Matthew froze.  He held his breath.  He could feel his heart 
pounding against his chest.  His pulse throbbed in his ears.  
Slowly, Carl moved towards him, the praying mantis poised on his 
outstretched forefinger like a loaded pistol.  
"Run!" screamed Matthew's brain.  "Run!"  
Suddenly he sprang to life, crashing out into the hallway.  Too late!  
Carl was right behind him.
"I'll put it down your neck!" yelled Carl.  He caught at Matthew's 
shirt.  Matthew could feel the mantis on him.  He screamed.  It was 
inside his shirt.  He slapped frantically at his chest.  The room was 
spinning.  He was suffocating.  He tore at the shirt, ripped it off, and 
tossed it onto the floor.  
The praying mantis limped across the carpet.  Carl stooped to rescue 
it, worried now that his creature was injured.  
Matthew ran back into his bedroom.  He slammed the door behind 
him and threw himself, sobbing, onto his bed.  After what seemed like 
ages, he rolled over onto his back.  His sketchbook and pencil were still 
sitting on top of the dresser.  He stared at them for a few minutes.  Then 
he knew what it was that he had to do.  He reached out for the 
sketchbook and flipped to a new page.  He picked up the pencil and 
began drawing.  
It was hard at first.  He had to make himself do it.  He drew the long 
wings, the upright head, and then the ugly, bulging eyes.  He drew the 
back legs and the hideous, praying arms.  When he had finished, he made 
himself trace the outline of the drawing with his fingertip.
"I'm not scared of you," he shuddered.
He drew another insect after that, and then another.  He filled page 
after page with mantises.  "I'm not scared of you," he said, more 
confidently to each one.
Then he started turning the drawings into cartoon characters.  On 
one mantis, he drew a white cape.  He gave the creature an armoured 
chestplate with a big letter "M" on it.
"You're Mantis Man," he said.
He drew a man; a grown-up Carl working in his laboratory.  In a 
speech bubble coming from the mouth of a mantis on the same page, he 
wrote "Save us from the bug scientists, Mantis Man."  On the next page, 
he drew a giant Mantis Man chasing a tiny, frightened bug scientist.
Matthew smiled.  At last he was beginning to relax.  He drew for a 
few more minutes and then closed his sketch book.  It was as he was 
putting the sketchbook back on his desk that he saw the insect, another 
praying mantis, a real one, perched on the inside of his window ledge.  
He tensed.  Then he relaxed, just a little.  He picked up his pencil 
and slowly walked towards the window.  As he did, the door to his room 
opened.  Carl stood there, with Mum behind him.
"He wants to say he's sorry," said Mum.  "He knows that things have 
gone too far this time."
Matthew didn't answer.  Cautiously, he pushed his pencil towards 
the praying mantis.  It was watching him.  He edged the pencil closer.  
The creature climbed onto the end of it.  Matthew's hand shook a little 
as he lifted the pencil up to the open window.  Carefully, gently, he let 
the mantis fall into the garden.  Relief flooded through him.
"I'm not scared of you," he said shakily to the insect.  Then he 
turned towards his brother.  "I'm not scared of you."


