ENGLISH - CREATIVE WRITING
Ceasefire John Mckenzie Writing Competition Winner
My grandfather and I were as opposite as men ’ s thoughts and the words they spoke . If I was heaven , then he was hell . Gruff and unapproachable , he was the 100-year-old cranky maths teacher who everyone avoided . It was impossible for us to not butt heads . We quarrelled at the dinner table , bickered at lunch , and would refrain from speaking during dinner - only if to please my mother . He never took an interest in me , apart from his daily reminders of the extreme disappointment I brought to his life . As he put it gently , he despised my ‘ lack of commitment ’. Yet it was my duty , as my mother put it , to leak a little life into the old curmudgeon , to ‘ brighten his days ’. A hero of our country , he is guaranteed a get-out-of-jail free card for being the most unpleasant coffin dodger alive .
A floundering one-legged chicken , my grandfather wobbled everywhere . He trudged along like a flickering lightbulb as if his body glitched with every step . Our family didn ’ t own an alarm clock . We didn ’ t need one . Every morning at 4:00 am he would trudge , tap tap tapping on the floorboards with his ratty oak walking stick , complaining about why I was yet to fix the old humming air conditioning unit . After participating in his first round of critiques , he would fetch his small bronze medallion and secure it on his left breast pocket each and every day . Each night it slept in a miniature tea pitcher , resting unassumingly under the picture of my grandmother and beside the photograph of my Dad . I was bewildered at why he treasured it so dearly , the medal was rusted , the ribbon was dirtied and torn , and the pin hung half loose , clinging for dear life to the scratchy fabric of his vomit green jumper .
Each week he would hobble into town , spitting a variety of dry insults at the neighbours , making it virtually impossible for me to show my face in public . Our family had developed quite the reputation . From the upkeep of the lawn in Mr . Madden ’ s yard to the paint quality of Mrs . Whitlock ’ s ageing picket fence , my grandfather felt morally obligated to share his opinion on just about everything . It was the unfortunate Friday on which his target was poor sweet Ms . O ’ Connor , who had been experimenting with a new makeup routine at the time .
“ Oi Margret ,” he screeched . “ It looks like your face caught on fire and someone tried to put it out with a shovel !”
Ms . O ’ Connor and I both turned the same shade of brilliant scarlet .
My grandfather was the ocean , and I was constantly battling against the waves , simultaneously managing a washed-up warhorse while attempting to keep our family afloat with the little money I made working down at the butcher . It was abundantly clear he did not appreciate my source of income , from the unapproving looks to the dirty side-eye glances when I arrived home late . But I know it can ’ t have been easy . His kind was all but gone from this world .
That day it was hot . Swelteringly , blisteringly , uncomfortably hot . The kind of hot where clothes were no longer garments of fashion . They were merely pieces of limp fabric plastered across the body . The click-clack of his walking stick echoed down the hall , the usual array of gruff mumbling particularly pronounced . I sat silently on the couch , the old worn fabric moulding perfectly to the outline of my frame . Wrinkled with the lines of age and experience , he reached his hand into the jug on the mantle , pulling out the small medallion , letting it rest gently in the folds of his palm . The bronze metal , usually dull and rusted , shone brilliantly in the morning sun , accentuating the velvet green ribbon dangling off from the side . The pin sat prominent in his hand , a glittering dazzling silver .
“ Happy Birthday Grandad .”
He lifted his small grey head , staring at me intently as if it were the first time he had ever seen me . For the first time in my 19 years of existence , he looked at me properly , inhaling my lanky figure , faded auburn hair , and muddy green eyes . Time seemed to halt , our jagged breaths the only sound to be heard for miles . As quiet as a heart that has ceased to beat , I held myself still , too scared to break the delicate silence .
“ Still haven ’ t fixed that air conditioning unit I see . You tryna boil me alive or something boy ?” But his eyes smiled in a way they had never done before , glassy with appreciation and clouded with memories from a time that I would never know .
Monet Maugham , Year 11
“ Rest ” Room John Mckenzie Writing Competition Runner-up
As the door opens And opens further Your lungs engulf that putrid smell The floor is unsteady with an uncertain oil That makes you second guess
As the door captures you and traps you in The announcer states his presence with these words : “ You have ten minutes remaining ” As erratic music is overlaid over his alarming voice
You stand there alone feet together hands apart eyes weary Mind racing
As you take a step Certain you will slip You spot yourself You freeze
Your heartbeat pulses to the music as you stare
The reflection seems eerie Unlike anything you ’ ve seen Something you can ’ t comprehend
You stand there While the music is piercing your brain You can ’ t handle it You would rather hold it in
You rush to hit the red button But before the doors open He states his presence once more Mocking you with :
“ You ’ re welcome .” Kauri Hema , Year 13
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