All Placings for Dan Davin Literary Foundation Awards 2022
2022 winning entries
Nikita Diprose - 1st Place
Junior Students Creative Writing
Plague
Thursday 6th of February 1665
There's been rumours of a disease going around. They call it the Black Death. The physicians say that it’s the deadliest plague yet. People lock themselves in their houses.
Wednesday 13th of February 1665
The rumours have been confirmed. The Black Death is upon us. Fifty people have already died from it in less than a week! I hope this will pass quickly, but cases are rising steadily. We have barred our door from the inside. And we’re living on stale bread now. Even the rats have left our house. There is nothing for them to eat.
Friday 15th of February
500 cases and 200 deaths! People are starting to panic. We all know what sickness is. We have all had the common cold, but this is different. People are afraid to leave their homes as it is spreading quite quickly.
Monday 18th of February
Meg, my younger sister, had a fever last night. Father went out to find a Physician but did not return. Mother asked me to go to the Apothecary’s house to get medicine. Usually, I love getting out of the house. Sitting inside reading, sewing and studying is awfully dull. The Apothecary’s doors are locked and barred. Noone will answer my cries. I see a doctor rushing past with a lady holding a cloth against her nose. In his hand was a mask with a beak which looked like a bird. Frightened, I rushed home. I had to admit to Mother that there was no medicine.
Thursday 22nd of February 1665
Father has still not returned. All week, Mother has been with Meg, mopping her brow and giving her sips of water. The house is silent other than Mother’s whispered prayers. So far, there is no sign of any black lumps on Meg’s body. We have no food left. I must go out again to find something for us to eat.
Thursday 1st of March 1665
Meg’s fever broke. She has survived. I am busying making bread because Meg is hungry again. Our neighbours were kind enough to give us a bag of flour last week but would not let me inside their house. They are terrified of the plague. Mother looks very tired and has gone to bed.
Wednesday 7th of March 1665
I have no words. Mother is gone. I tried to look after her, mopping her brow as she had done for Meg. The black lumps started appearing on Sunday, the Lord’s Day. I prayed harder than I had ever done before. But it was no use. At first, she forbad me from entering her room. Then she became delirious, crying out for Father. I tried giving her sips of water. But is was no use. She died on Monday. I wrapped her gently in her bedsheet. I have been comforting Meg since then. Yesterday I heard men walking down the street with a horse and cart and ringing a bell calling “Bring out your dead”. The cart was full of people their eyes rolled back in their head, and black lumps could be seen where bare skin was showing. It was horrible. I had to let the men into the house, and they took Mother’s body away. There is no sign of Father. I had to tell Meg that we might well be orphans now, and that we must look after each other. Once Meg had cried herself to sleep, I went in search of the coins that Mother hides in the kitchen. I must be Mother and Father to Meg now. We will need to buy ourselves some food. The flour supply is almost gone.
Monday 12th of March 1665
I had to venture back outside today. I made Meg promise that she would not leave the house. She was crying and moaning as I left. Poor Meg. But I must find us some food. There was no response from our kind neighbour today. The woman across the street leaned out of her window and told me to go home, and that everyone was dead in my neighbour’s house. I was appalled and rushed back home. Meg and I just drank water that day, pumped from the well behind our house. I will try to find food again tomorrow.
Friday 16th of April 1665
Good Friday. Bells tolled from St Clemens’ Church. Normally our family would attend Mass at 3 o’clock, but today, no one ventured outside. Death is everywhere. Good Friday is a day of fasting. This year, there is no food anyway.
Sunday 18thof April 1665
Easter Sunday. And it is truly a day of resurrection!
Yesterday morning, I woke up with a splitting headache. I could feel it thumping on the back of my eyes as though someone was pounding on the door trying to get out. I started sweating. Pain stabbed through me. I rolled again trying to get in a position to soothe the pain. But it did not stop. It came in tidal waves crashing into my body. I could not keep still. I rolled over and tangled myself in the bed sheets. Meg tried to calm me, her face as white as a ghost. I told her to fetch me water. Then I must have slept because I remembered nothing else. Until this morning, when sunshine filtered through the shutters of my bedroom’s window. Meg was sitting beside me, her head resting on the foot of my bed, fast asleep. I felt tired but the fever had broken. Like Meg, I had survived the plague that had taken our mother, and probably our father as well. I prayed a prayer of thankfulness.
Sunday 4thof April 1666
It has been a whole year since I was sick with the Plague. I stopped writing my diary because I have been so busy, away from our house. On that Easter Day, Meg and I wrapped ourselves in shawls and ventured out to Church to thank God for our lives. The vicar met us and, having heard that we had both survived, begged us to tend to the sick and the dying. He had set up a hospital in the Church. With no Father or Mother, we were allowed to sleep there too. Within a few days, a kind woman, whose children had both died of plague, took us home to her house in Pudding Lane, and has been looking after us ever since. Her husband is a baker, and we have been helping to bake bread for all those who survived the Black Death. Remembering our childhood home on this Easter Day, I asked if we could return to find this diary. And now I can begin writing again.
Tuesday 6th April 1666
Early this morning we smelt smoke. People say that there is a fire burning down our lane. We must leave now…….
Junior Students Creative Writing
Plague
Thursday 6th of February 1665
There's been rumours of a disease going around. They call it the Black Death. The physicians say that it’s the deadliest plague yet. People lock themselves in their houses.
Wednesday 13th of February 1665
The rumours have been confirmed. The Black Death is upon us. Fifty people have already died from it in less than a week! I hope this will pass quickly, but cases are rising steadily. We have barred our door from the inside. And we’re living on stale bread now. Even the rats have left our house. There is nothing for them to eat.
Friday 15th of February
500 cases and 200 deaths! People are starting to panic. We all know what sickness is. We have all had the common cold, but this is different. People are afraid to leave their homes as it is spreading quite quickly.
Monday 18th of February
Meg, my younger sister, had a fever last night. Father went out to find a Physician but did not return. Mother asked me to go to the Apothecary’s house to get medicine. Usually, I love getting out of the house. Sitting inside reading, sewing and studying is awfully dull. The Apothecary’s doors are locked and barred. Noone will answer my cries. I see a doctor rushing past with a lady holding a cloth against her nose. In his hand was a mask with a beak which looked like a bird. Frightened, I rushed home. I had to admit to Mother that there was no medicine.
Thursday 22nd of February 1665
Father has still not returned. All week, Mother has been with Meg, mopping her brow and giving her sips of water. The house is silent other than Mother’s whispered prayers. So far, there is no sign of any black lumps on Meg’s body. We have no food left. I must go out again to find something for us to eat.
Thursday 1st of March 1665
Meg’s fever broke. She has survived. I am busying making bread because Meg is hungry again. Our neighbours were kind enough to give us a bag of flour last week but would not let me inside their house. They are terrified of the plague. Mother looks very tired and has gone to bed.
Wednesday 7th of March 1665
I have no words. Mother is gone. I tried to look after her, mopping her brow as she had done for Meg. The black lumps started appearing on Sunday, the Lord’s Day. I prayed harder than I had ever done before. But it was no use. At first, she forbad me from entering her room. Then she became delirious, crying out for Father. I tried giving her sips of water. But is was no use. She died on Monday. I wrapped her gently in her bedsheet. I have been comforting Meg since then. Yesterday I heard men walking down the street with a horse and cart and ringing a bell calling “Bring out your dead”. The cart was full of people their eyes rolled back in their head, and black lumps could be seen where bare skin was showing. It was horrible. I had to let the men into the house, and they took Mother’s body away. There is no sign of Father. I had to tell Meg that we might well be orphans now, and that we must look after each other. Once Meg had cried herself to sleep, I went in search of the coins that Mother hides in the kitchen. I must be Mother and Father to Meg now. We will need to buy ourselves some food. The flour supply is almost gone.
Monday 12th of March 1665
I had to venture back outside today. I made Meg promise that she would not leave the house. She was crying and moaning as I left. Poor Meg. But I must find us some food. There was no response from our kind neighbour today. The woman across the street leaned out of her window and told me to go home, and that everyone was dead in my neighbour’s house. I was appalled and rushed back home. Meg and I just drank water that day, pumped from the well behind our house. I will try to find food again tomorrow.
Friday 16th of April 1665
Good Friday. Bells tolled from St Clemens’ Church. Normally our family would attend Mass at 3 o’clock, but today, no one ventured outside. Death is everywhere. Good Friday is a day of fasting. This year, there is no food anyway.
Sunday 18thof April 1665
Easter Sunday. And it is truly a day of resurrection!
Yesterday morning, I woke up with a splitting headache. I could feel it thumping on the back of my eyes as though someone was pounding on the door trying to get out. I started sweating. Pain stabbed through me. I rolled again trying to get in a position to soothe the pain. But it did not stop. It came in tidal waves crashing into my body. I could not keep still. I rolled over and tangled myself in the bed sheets. Meg tried to calm me, her face as white as a ghost. I told her to fetch me water. Then I must have slept because I remembered nothing else. Until this morning, when sunshine filtered through the shutters of my bedroom’s window. Meg was sitting beside me, her head resting on the foot of my bed, fast asleep. I felt tired but the fever had broken. Like Meg, I had survived the plague that had taken our mother, and probably our father as well. I prayed a prayer of thankfulness.
Sunday 4thof April 1666
It has been a whole year since I was sick with the Plague. I stopped writing my diary because I have been so busy, away from our house. On that Easter Day, Meg and I wrapped ourselves in shawls and ventured out to Church to thank God for our lives. The vicar met us and, having heard that we had both survived, begged us to tend to the sick and the dying. He had set up a hospital in the Church. With no Father or Mother, we were allowed to sleep there too. Within a few days, a kind woman, whose children had both died of plague, took us home to her house in Pudding Lane, and has been looking after us ever since. Her husband is a baker, and we have been helping to bake bread for all those who survived the Black Death. Remembering our childhood home on this Easter Day, I asked if we could return to find this diary. And now I can begin writing again.
Tuesday 6th April 1666
Early this morning we smelt smoke. People say that there is a fire burning down our lane. We must leave now…….
Ruby Hickey - 1st Place
Senior Students Creative Writing
Reflection
The lift comes to a sudden halt and the lights flicker out. My finger, still hovering over the tenth circular button, begins to tremble. The glow of a pixilated red seven above the lift doors allows me to see the shadowed faces around me, all so official, so tense, so intimidating. Lawyers. They let out a unanimous groan. The shuffle of papers, leather and fabric fills the air as the tense men ruffle through their briefcases in search of their phones. Several profanity-filled calls later and the intercom crackles on, “Do not panic folks, help is on the way, please remain cal-” the buzz of the intercom cuts out with a piercing screech. Well, I guess we wait.
I slide down the wall and curl my legs up to my chest. Staring at the dated linoleum floor, I try to block out the harsh lights created by cell phone torches. Whoever suggested putting a courthouse in a high-rise building is my number one enemy right now. My mind starts wandering and I picture my destination, floor ten. A floor where I spent so many months recounting stories and reopening scars, whilst staring into the eyes of the two people who broke me. The floor on which a single decision has the power to turn me into just another statistic. A floor where I could mend the wide-open gash of a broken childhood with the word “guilty” acting as a sticky plaster. But first, I've got to get out of this damn lift.
Just as I stand up, I hear a soft cry. My eyes dart around, and that's when I see her. Through the crowd of polished shoes and black suits, I spot a small girl no older than three. A slight smile escapes my usual stone-cold expression as my eyes lock on the girl in the corner. In her arms, she clutches a tattered pink blanket. Her short blonde pigtails tied with coloured elastic bands, mismatched stained pyjamas and bare feet, feel oddly familiar with my own childhood.
I gaze up beside her at a man wearing a fancy black suit and a Mickey Mouse printed tie. He’s the type of man I recognise all too well. The type of man who had taken me out of class, so we could have a friendly chat about the bruises that covered every inch of my tiny malnourished body. I try to convince myself the man is her father and not one of the welfare workers I have so much experience with. But I guess it's true, it takes one to know one, and by looking at this familiar sight; I know that nameless little girl better than anyone.
The lift jerks. The men fall silent. My focus returns to the teary-eyed toddler and instinct takes over. I rush past the frozen shells of the men that were standing here a few seconds prior and over to the little girl. Now crouched down in front of her, I whisper, “It’s okay.” She drops the blanket and wraps her tiny, frail arms around my neck. I’m fixated on the sound of her soft sniffles and accelerating heartbeat as the shakes become more and more forceful by the second. My eyes screw shut and everything else fades away.
A blinding light switches from eye to eye as I regain consciousness. One small click and the light disappears. Hesitantly, I open my eyes. A woman wearing a green uniform holding a small silver torch lingers above me. She pulls out some type of medical ID badge and begins her scripted “I’m here to help” speech. Disregarding her, I survey the surrounding room. By the number of lunch breaks I've spent wandering around this building, it doesn't take me long to realise I'm lying on the hard marble tile of floor seven’s hallway. Guess we made it out of the lift. We. Every ounce of air is sucked out of my lungs as the image of the little girl comes flooding back. “WHERE IS SHE?!” I yell.
A loud chuckle erupts from my left. I whip my head around to see the group of men from the lift gathered a few metres away. They look... amused? “Crazy woman,” one mutters under his breath, “Should've seen her in there, literally talking to the walls,” another says whilst nudging a second woman wearing a green uniform. Huh? Dizziness hits me like a truck as I rush up to my feet. I stumble over to the lift. Men in hard hats carrying tools stand nearby arguing. After shoving my way past them, I stare in disbelief at the empty elevator. No tattered pink blanket, no man with a Mickey Mouse tie, and no little girl.
Where could she have gone? My body goes into autopilot. I don’t have the slightest clue where I am going, but that has no effect on my sprint down the crowded hallway. This is the type of action that would lead to a tearful therapist visit fuelled by embarrassment, but if the defence is right, and I'm delusional, nothing else matters. A small glimpse of someone in a window stops me in my tracks. I turn and stare into the old glass pane. The woman looking back at me resembles the little girl in every detail. Only older, with large under-eye bags and sandpaper-like skin. Bewildered, I press my head against the windowpane.
Any sense of reality has vanished by the time I notice a hasty click of heels from down the hallway getting louder and louder. “There you are!” I hear my lawyer call out in the distance. She struts over and comes to a standstill behind me. Her beige acrylic nails dig into my forearm as she tries to drag me down the hallway. Yet I stand with my feet frozen in place. I pull my forehead off the window and take one last look at the not so little girl staring back at me. I hope she's loved. I hope she's at peace. Above all, I hope she is happy. My lawyer sighs, “Quit looking at yourself, Stella. The jury's ready.”
Senior Students Creative Writing
Reflection
The lift comes to a sudden halt and the lights flicker out. My finger, still hovering over the tenth circular button, begins to tremble. The glow of a pixilated red seven above the lift doors allows me to see the shadowed faces around me, all so official, so tense, so intimidating. Lawyers. They let out a unanimous groan. The shuffle of papers, leather and fabric fills the air as the tense men ruffle through their briefcases in search of their phones. Several profanity-filled calls later and the intercom crackles on, “Do not panic folks, help is on the way, please remain cal-” the buzz of the intercom cuts out with a piercing screech. Well, I guess we wait.
I slide down the wall and curl my legs up to my chest. Staring at the dated linoleum floor, I try to block out the harsh lights created by cell phone torches. Whoever suggested putting a courthouse in a high-rise building is my number one enemy right now. My mind starts wandering and I picture my destination, floor ten. A floor where I spent so many months recounting stories and reopening scars, whilst staring into the eyes of the two people who broke me. The floor on which a single decision has the power to turn me into just another statistic. A floor where I could mend the wide-open gash of a broken childhood with the word “guilty” acting as a sticky plaster. But first, I've got to get out of this damn lift.
Just as I stand up, I hear a soft cry. My eyes dart around, and that's when I see her. Through the crowd of polished shoes and black suits, I spot a small girl no older than three. A slight smile escapes my usual stone-cold expression as my eyes lock on the girl in the corner. In her arms, she clutches a tattered pink blanket. Her short blonde pigtails tied with coloured elastic bands, mismatched stained pyjamas and bare feet, feel oddly familiar with my own childhood.
I gaze up beside her at a man wearing a fancy black suit and a Mickey Mouse printed tie. He’s the type of man I recognise all too well. The type of man who had taken me out of class, so we could have a friendly chat about the bruises that covered every inch of my tiny malnourished body. I try to convince myself the man is her father and not one of the welfare workers I have so much experience with. But I guess it's true, it takes one to know one, and by looking at this familiar sight; I know that nameless little girl better than anyone.
The lift jerks. The men fall silent. My focus returns to the teary-eyed toddler and instinct takes over. I rush past the frozen shells of the men that were standing here a few seconds prior and over to the little girl. Now crouched down in front of her, I whisper, “It’s okay.” She drops the blanket and wraps her tiny, frail arms around my neck. I’m fixated on the sound of her soft sniffles and accelerating heartbeat as the shakes become more and more forceful by the second. My eyes screw shut and everything else fades away.
A blinding light switches from eye to eye as I regain consciousness. One small click and the light disappears. Hesitantly, I open my eyes. A woman wearing a green uniform holding a small silver torch lingers above me. She pulls out some type of medical ID badge and begins her scripted “I’m here to help” speech. Disregarding her, I survey the surrounding room. By the number of lunch breaks I've spent wandering around this building, it doesn't take me long to realise I'm lying on the hard marble tile of floor seven’s hallway. Guess we made it out of the lift. We. Every ounce of air is sucked out of my lungs as the image of the little girl comes flooding back. “WHERE IS SHE?!” I yell.
A loud chuckle erupts from my left. I whip my head around to see the group of men from the lift gathered a few metres away. They look... amused? “Crazy woman,” one mutters under his breath, “Should've seen her in there, literally talking to the walls,” another says whilst nudging a second woman wearing a green uniform. Huh? Dizziness hits me like a truck as I rush up to my feet. I stumble over to the lift. Men in hard hats carrying tools stand nearby arguing. After shoving my way past them, I stare in disbelief at the empty elevator. No tattered pink blanket, no man with a Mickey Mouse tie, and no little girl.
Where could she have gone? My body goes into autopilot. I don’t have the slightest clue where I am going, but that has no effect on my sprint down the crowded hallway. This is the type of action that would lead to a tearful therapist visit fuelled by embarrassment, but if the defence is right, and I'm delusional, nothing else matters. A small glimpse of someone in a window stops me in my tracks. I turn and stare into the old glass pane. The woman looking back at me resembles the little girl in every detail. Only older, with large under-eye bags and sandpaper-like skin. Bewildered, I press my head against the windowpane.
Any sense of reality has vanished by the time I notice a hasty click of heels from down the hallway getting louder and louder. “There you are!” I hear my lawyer call out in the distance. She struts over and comes to a standstill behind me. Her beige acrylic nails dig into my forearm as she tries to drag me down the hallway. Yet I stand with my feet frozen in place. I pull my forehead off the window and take one last look at the not so little girl staring back at me. I hope she's loved. I hope she's at peace. Above all, I hope she is happy. My lawyer sighs, “Quit looking at yourself, Stella. The jury's ready.”
Sandra Lock 1st Place
Adult Poetry
The Places We Are From
My first breath
Was on Bluff Hill
Motupohue
In the delivery room
Winter harbour air
Medical smells
And Bluff wairua
Filled my new born cry
Lit up my lungs
Melded with respiratory branches
And fed oxygen into my red blood
Forever after
Part of my dna
Adult Poetry
The Places We Are From
My first breath
Was on Bluff Hill
Motupohue
In the delivery room
Winter harbour air
Medical smells
And Bluff wairua
Filled my new born cry
Lit up my lungs
Melded with respiratory branches
And fed oxygen into my red blood
Forever after
Part of my dna
The Dan Davin Literary Foundation Annual Writing Awards
Open: Please Note: Registration and Entries are not being accepted at this time.
Deadline: By 5 pm, Friday
Judges: To be announced
Categories:
Students: Creative Writing of your choice: Entries may be up to a maximum of 1,500 words
Senior Students: Under 19 (as of the 31st December 2022) and Year 11 - 13 secondary students
Junior Students: Year 7 - 10, studying at a secondary school
Each Student may enter up to a maximum of three entries of different genres.
Adult: Short Story (Up to 3000 words maximum)
Awards: First Prize in all categories: $250
Second Prize in all categories: $150
Third Prize in all categories: $100
Conditions of Entry:
Format:
Winners will be announced at the Awards Ceremony -
A requirement of submission of an entry into the Dan Davin Literary Awards, the entrant understands and consents to the publishing of their poem/story/creative writing in news/media publications, in relation to the Dan Davin Literary Awards.
The entrant agrees to publication of their poem/story/creative writing in future Dan Davin Literary Foundation publications. (e.g. 34 Short Stories)
Deadline: By 5 pm, Friday
Judges: To be announced
Categories:
Students: Creative Writing of your choice: Entries may be up to a maximum of 1,500 words
Senior Students: Under 19 (as of the 31st December 2022) and Year 11 - 13 secondary students
Junior Students: Year 7 - 10, studying at a secondary school
Each Student may enter up to a maximum of three entries of different genres.
Adult: Short Story (Up to 3000 words maximum)
Awards: First Prize in all categories: $250
Second Prize in all categories: $150
Third Prize in all categories: $100
Conditions of Entry:
- Entries must be original and unpublished.
- Writers must live in or have a home address in the Southland province, or in the Queenstown, Glenorchy, Arrowtown, Tapanui and Heriot areas.
- Writers must register to enter. Please fill out the REGISTER form at the bottom of this page, and then email your entry to:
- dandavin1913@gmail.com by 5 pm,
- There is no entry fee for students. Maximum of three entries of different genres, per student.
- Adults must pay $5.00 per entry. Maximum entries of up to three p.p. Please pay by Internet Banking to 03-1746-0078140-00 REFERENCE: Initial and surname. A post office box number is available: Box 29, Invercargill 9840.
- Entries must not defame any person or corporate body, nor infringe or breach any rights of copyright.
- The Dan Davin Literary Foundation reserves the right to publish any place-getting writing entered into the competitions.
- The judges decisions are final, no correspondence will be entered into.
Format:
- Your entry should be completed as a with double line spacing, and in a clear 12-point font.
- Do not put your name on the document.
- Please retain a copy of your submission/manuscript. These will not be returned by the Foundation.
Winners will be announced at the Awards Ceremony -
A requirement of submission of an entry into the Dan Davin Literary Awards, the entrant understands and consents to the publishing of their poem/story/creative writing in news/media publications, in relation to the Dan Davin Literary Awards.
The entrant agrees to publication of their poem/story/creative writing in future Dan Davin Literary Foundation publications. (e.g. 34 Short Stories)
