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Competitions Results

The winning stories in What's Your Story? Flash Fiction competition, part of the New Zealand Post Children's Awards 2012 Whangarei Festival.
Updated: 17/02/2021 4:32 p.m.

New Zealand Post Children's Book Awards 2012 Whangarei Festival

What's Your Story? Flash Fiction competition winners

Flash fiction is a very in the moment, short story. They require imagination, focus and a commitment to put thoughts on paper.

We would like to congratulate our winners. Please enjoy reading their stories.

If you are interested in trying to get your work noticed then check out the Flash Frontier website:
Flash Frontier 

1st: Jessica MacMenigall


The Wreckage

It all happens so quickly; when you least expect it. One minute, you're laughingat some lame joke your Dad told, next thing you know, you're lying under the wreckage of what used to be the families car.

Your fate is unpredictable; uncontrollable. It cannot be prevented. So as I lay dying, I think of my life, the moments I spent with friends, with family. Times I was happy, or sad. What has been and what has yet to be. Moments I shall treasure; forever.

So I lay peacefUlly, letting the inevitable sink in I think of everything I did. My good deeds, my bad deeds, things I regret, things I thought should of happened, and of course, things that I'll now never do.

My last breaths come and go. When I blink my eyes, I see the light that beckons. I need more time. I go over small, unimportant matters, which now seem unnaturally large. So many apologies, a large amount of thanks to give, it just seems like too much.

My eyelids grow heavy, the lights brighter now. It reaches out to me, calling my name. I scream at it, trying to buy myself some more time; but to no avail. It reaches me now, clasping my face between its gentle touch.

A sense of tranquillity overwhelms me and I realise I was wrong. I need not worry about forgiveness, or thanks. For this life is now at its end, and in its place will be a new one. One that will make its own mistakes, have its own problems, and when its time comes; let go.

So here I am, letting go. My story ends now, as all stories must. An adventure waits, and an untold story is started; as I leave this world for a new beginning.



2nd: Yasmeen Musa 




She lies in an hospital bed. Lying between the world of the living and the world of the dead.

Two hours earlier, she arrived at a party, she is 16. Almost immediately she is greeted by a beer and a herd of intoxicated people. Friends. She wants neither, but she is a chameleon. She drank. She doesn't want to, she knows she doesn't, but she has no choice and at least the alcohol will dull her seemingly endless pain. She is a chameleon.

She is hazy. Everything, a blur. A joint was passed around. A line of cocaine drawn. She puffs. She snorts. Ecstasy. Joy. Mind numbing pleasure, the likes that she has never experienced before. But through her delirious happiness she knows that this is wrong. But she was so happy; for once she was so happy. Pain. She falls into darkness.

The doctors, I hear then talk. Good family. Nice neighbourhood. An unfailable recipe they say, for success. What a shame.

But what they don't know is that her father drinks. A lot. Abuse a constant in her household. Parents fight. Curses exchanged. Words that no child should ever hear. Doors slam shut. A trip to the bar for her father. The mall for her mother. And she is left to her own devices. Too fend for herself in their marble floored home. For behind the beautiful architecture and the luxury. No we. No us. Just selfish I's fuelled by resentment. The doctors, they don't know. They are all chameleons.

Her parents stand around her, mother and father weeping. Begging her. Begging the doctors. Begging god, to save her. He will.

Her chest rises and falls. Her heart is slowing, beats further and further apart. She is my past. My present. My future. She was . . . she is, me.

Light, a hand reaches for mine and I will take it. I reach out, slowly and all I can think of is that my parents wish is being fulfilled; finally they will both be free. God has saved me. I just wish I could go back and . . . our hands meet. 


3rd: Vaanipriya Diwan

Cross My Heart


I smiled as the first drop of rain landed on my nose. I looked up to see seven colours merged together, flowing from one end of the sky to the other. I could see the sun sinking behind the hills, and dark clouds sprinting into the endless sky. I could feel the wind cold against my hot skin. I could hear the tall, fearless trees whispering back. Whispering back to me.

"Michelle," I heard a mournful whisper.

"Who i . . . is it?" I worriedly replied.

"Michelle," a familiar voice whispered again.

I looked around and saw nothing but fog. It had started to rain harder. I could hear nothing but the split, splat of the rain splashing on the hard ground. The wind started to grow wilder.

I spun around again and again, my feet splashing the muddy water. Suddenly, something brushed my tall, skinny legs. I froze. I froze like a dead fly on the ground. Something brushed my legs again. I realized I had stopped breathing. Despite the cold wind, I could feel my face growing hot.

I took a deep breath in, and slowly let it out. I bent down to feel the rough, overgrown grass surrounding me.

"Where am I," I asked myself. The rain started to slow down and the fog was disappearing away. I blinked a few times to get a clear picture. I saw a full moon right above me.

It took me only a few seconds to realize where I was. I opened the rustling door and stepped inside as if it was calling me. As if it wanted to tell me something. The moonlight casted shadows on the tombstones, the rusty hinges on the gate squeaked as the wind took speed. Some of the gravestones were covered in moss.

Then I saw it. Tanya Cook. 1992-2009.

The same graveyard my sister was buried in. I sat down in front of her gravestone. Tears came rolling down my cheeks.

"Michelle," I heard the familiar sound again. It was coming from Tanya's gravestone.

"It's me, Tanya, your sister."

"Tanya. You are dead. How can I be talking to you?"

"Look, Michelle. I have very less time. I want to tell you a secret."

"A secret? What is it?" I asked, wiping my eyes.

"A secret about how I died. No one knows. Do you remember Cody, my boyfriend? He killed me. He killed me for money. Do you promise to take revenge? Please. For your sister, please. Take revenge. I love you, little sister." Her voice died back into her gravestone.

"Yes, I will take revenge. I promise I will. I love you too."





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