B.

Ringmaster: Stories from the Christchuch Art Gallery was a writing competition that we ran for school students between the age of 8 and 18 years old.

They were asked to select a work of art from our online collection and use it as inspiration for a short narrative or poem.

Here are the pieces that won in their age group or received a commended prize.

My Nana’s truly amazing garden!

My Nana’s garden is truly amazing. It’s filled with pink-blossomed trees, overgrown vines that twist around the old wooden chairs and daffodils forming a small path through the garden.

As I keep skipping through my Nana’s stony driveway I spot a monarch butterfly fluttering through the trees. I run to follow the beautiful creature. I skip past the blooming flowers trying to keep up with monarch. I stop to a halt, to find the butterfly weak and bruised on the ground. I go to it up but I’ll hurt the fragile creature. I call out to my Nana for help, hoping she’s sitting, watching me from the verandah. There’s no response. I forgot about the butterfly and run as fast as I can, following the path of daffodils back to the verandah. I walk through the tiny cottage calling for my Nana. I usually see my nana sitting on the park-like bench, but she’s not there today. I walk into her room and all I hear is silence.

I suddenly hear something driving towards the house. I ran outside crying and jump into my Mum’s arms. I tell my Dad what had happened and he ran inside to my Nana’s room. In memory of my Nana I planted a path of daffodils. Now in the summer when the trees blossom, I run through the beautiful flowers to remember my Nana’s truly amazing garden.

By Laura Penn

Roly roly coaster

Going up and down

Getting dizzy, getting fizzy

Don’t look down.

By Jordyn Hawker

The Fall of Icarus

At midnight they gathered, robes rustling as they flew into the trees.
Some hung from damp branches by their long, muscular arms, water droplets from the nearby falls glistening on their curved beaks.
Others stood, leaning on tree trunks. Wings pressed flat against their backs, the dredda-beaks gazed at the grey sky, unnaturally silent.

White clouds parted to reveal a glowing moon - a deeper silence fell over the feathered creatures. Light shone onto the falls and a trickle of silver
leapt into a pool between the trees.
As the pool began to fill, the trickle grew brighter, until the water was a gleaming white. Clouds approached the moon again, and the dredda-beaks
sprang into action.

They dove to the edge of the pool, flapping their wings at the very last moment to hover above the rocks. Slowly they dipped their beaks into the water and
drank carefully. When they were done they stepped back and watched as the silver light gradually faded from the pool.
Their blue wings rose and fell as they flew to their home in the trees.

Near the very top of the trees the emperor, Daedalus, was putting his son Icarus to bed.

"Dad, why do we drink from the pool?" Icarus asked, curling up under a pile of leaves and reeds. Daedalus knelt by his son. "When the pool turns silver the water becomes magical.
Drinking it enables you to fly." Icarus stretched his wings. "Well, what if we went swimming in it? Would that make us even better fliers?"

Daedalus' voice grew serious and low. "Icarus, you must never swim in that water. Magic can be powerful and dangerous too. It is possible that your
flying might improve, but other things may happen too."

That night Icarus dreamed of being the fastest flier in the sky. His father probably just didn't want to be slower than him. That was all, he thought.

The next full moon Icarus stood on a branch next to Daedalus, right in front of the waterfall. They watched as the clouds slowly slid apart. Once again moonlight
burnished the pool.

One by one, the elegant dredda-beaks dropped to the waters edge to drink. Icarus took a deep breath, and dove from the branch. Too late, Daedalus realised what his
son planned to do. He watched in horror as Icarus vanished beneath the waters surface.
Silence fell. The birdlike creatures searched for any movement. Icarus burst from the pool. Several dredda-beaks leapt back.
Spiralling across the sky with ease, Icarus cried out in delight. Suddenly he began to slow down, his wings flapping heavily. Water had saturated his wings.

He paused in mid air then plunged into the water once more. This time he did not resurface.

The dredda-beaks carved a feather out of silver and laid it on the rocky shore as a warning. No one ever did more than drink from the pool again.

By Tierney Reardon

The Great Falcon

A dark figure

Hidden in the sky

Wings outstretched

Flies through the sun

Then spots its prey

Wings tucked in

Tail pointed up

It focuses on the pray

And plummets to the earth

Diving, through the great sky

Striking its prey with razor claws

Then flies off

With blood on its golden beak

Death is in the air

There’s a smell of rotting flesh

As that beak breaks skin and bone

For the rich tender meat

Such a perfect design

Its dynamic body

Powerful brown wings

And talons that kill

A deadly combination

Makes the bird the rules the sky

Only bones left now

Nothing else

As that flying machine

Silently disappears

Into the sun

By George Lethem

Creating the Falcon

The class tries to imitate a falcon being silent and concentrating on trying to catch ideas out of the brain. But as each of the ideas is scribbled down on the paper the brain has to catch new ideas and most of the time it scurries away on the jungle floor like a mouse running from a falcon. Occasionally there is a little whisper around the class like little insects that the falcon is going to catch later. But in this case that is the teacher’s job. The bell rings stirring me from my fantasy and brings me back into the frozen portacom classroom on the early winter’s morning.

By Tom McGowan

Espritu del Toro (Spirit of the Bull)

The bull was dead; she watched with eyes that shone
The coat, the sword, he stood so tall before the beast whose soul was gone.

He saw her watch, eyes wide and brown,
Glossy locks in a twisted black crown

Again he saw the bull.

The meat was served; she smiled bright ruby red
The braided gold, the cape, he sat to eat the flesh of the dead.

He gasped; her teeth were ivory
Bright feathers, darts of tortured bravery

He knew he saw the bull.

The bones were left; she beckoned him to dance
Soft bowed shoes, fine face; he claimed its tooth a talisman of chance
He took her hand, shod with bracelets
Nimble feet stepped; there were no limits

Before him pranced the bull.

The head was stuffed; she rested on a chair
Sweating brow, shaking hands, he prayed it wouldn’t be there

He turned; her light snores a grunting beast
Now bare-arms, swinging black shawl, a tail deceased

He screamed, it was the bull.

By Phoebe Powell-Moore

Speechless

The tree stands proudly

Doing nothing but thinking

For a tree is not granted

Permission to walk

Or even to speak aloud

Just silent words locked inside

By Kristen Blaber-Hunt

A Wish

The world shook around me. I heard the shattering of broken china, the clashing of falling furniture and the echoing screams of terror.
I’m going to die.
The thought of death enveloped me, threatening to devour me whole. No, I thought, not now. I wouldn’t die like this, I couldn’t. But my hope soon gave way to helplessness and despair. I closed my eyes, waiting for the world to slip away from my fingers.

The shaking stopped, frightened sobs taking its place as people rushed out of the canteen. I joined the crowd as they swarmed out but all their voices and movements became an indistinct blur to me as I tried to refocus. I searched through my mind, trying to make sense of the meaningless pictures and noises that surrounded me. Suddenly, in my clouded mind became clear as a single word broke through the surface – Abby.

I remembered the prayer I’d muttered as I stepped into the sunlit morning, wishing that my little sister had never been born, that she’d never been there to lay her filthy little hands on my belongings. It had all started because of that disgusting moth she was trying to hatch, that yellow thing she called a butterfly. My cheerleading uniform had been a total disaster; I’d tried not to think of my teammates laughing at me when they saw the patch of dirt stained on my skirt – how embarrassing; and all because of her.

By Amy Huang

Night Robber

At night I feel like a burglar
of my own body.

I push myself, I tear
myself

down.

I crawl
in through my ear,
finding passages to my brain.
I map all the dying cells,
broken words, and memories
tangled in the webs
of my veins.

I take them, and
drag them back,
push
them

out.

I don't want them anymore.

Then I crawl back in,
scraping my knees on
disaster. I want to find
the infection. I want
to know
where I went wrong.

I want to be
catharsis, clean
of tragedy, clean
of myself.

By Hayley Russell

The Front Line

There is nothing
beautiful
about the ocean.

It is merely
reflections - colours
of the sky,
the mountains,
and fishing boats.

The lines are thrown
and the haul is

rasping scales,
haunting eyes,
a stench,
and the knife.

There is nothing beautiful
about baited hooks,
oil spills,
and lives taken
on the home
courts. The colour
of the sea-sky
should be red.

By Kristen Blaber-Hunt