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ABOUT BERNARD BECKETT
Bernard Beckett is one of New Zealand's most successful writers. His novel Genesis won the 2010 Prix Sorcières for young-adult fiction in France, the Esther Glen Award, the NZ Post Young Adult Fiction Award and was longlisted for the Guardian Children's Fiction Prize in the UK. Genesis has been published in over 20 countries. His new novel is August.
Bernard Beckett's Story Starter You lift your head. Your vision is blurry from when your nose slammed into the ground. You haul yourself up to sitting. It feels important not to stay down. That would be giving in. You can hear their footsteps growing distant beyond the closed door. They've taken the handcuffs off and you rub your wrists, feeling the red rawness through your shock.
The room is large. Longer than a cricket pitch, with a high dark ceiling. A single naked bulb struggles to push back the gloom. There's only one door. You heard them lock it on the way out. You see a wooden ladder built into the wall, leading up to a narrow wooden walkway. The light comes through its slats, making bars against the wall. That's when you notice him.
His hands are chained above his head and he swings forward on them. His feet are chained together too. The cold grey metal looks odd against his boyish pyjamas; purple satin with a turtle print. He's too old for them, you think. Seventeen perhaps. Your age. He's grinning at you. So what? Some sort of lunatic? 'You're a very good actor,' he says. His voice is high and eager.
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ABOUT BELINDA JEFFREY
Belinda Jeffrey's first novel, Brown Skin Blue, was inspired by a croc-jumping tour in the Northern Territory, and was shortlisted in the 2009 Western Australian Premier's Book Awards. Her second novel, Big River, Little Fish, was inspired by summer holidays spent at her father's shack on the Murray River in South Australia.
Belinda Jeffrey's Story Starter Tamin decided to take the low road that twisted, snake-like, through the tangle of bush alongside her back fence. Stopping to close the gate, she looked towards her house and almost went back inside, but she didn't. She had come this far.
Tamin zipped her parka up to her neck against the cold, rubbed her gloved hands together and watched her breath form fleeting white clouds in front of her as she walked. Her footsteps seemed louder in the winter stillness; her boots crunching on the gravel at first, and then mulchy undergrowth as the road ended and a dirt path completed the distance to the river. Tamin's thoughts were louder, her heart was louder. Her breathing determined.
There was always something washed up in the river, caught in the bramble of stones and sticks that clumped together where the river narrowed into the slip of water forming Haggarty's Creek. A dead dog, dissected parts of an old refrigerator; leftovers and lost things. The river, and the creek the river turned into, was part of Haggarty's attraction to the wider world. Her waters were deep and dark and mysterious, and rumours and myths about her secrets were passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, neighbour to neighbour. But it was Tommy who shared the secret with Tamin, which had her taking the low road to the river. Tommy who said he'd meet her there.
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ABOUT MICHAEL PRYOR
Michael Pryor has published over 25 fantasy books and 40 short stories. He has been shortlisted six times for the Aurealis Awards, nominated for a Ditmar award and five of his books have been CBCA Notable Books. His most recent series are The Chronicles of Krangor for younger readers and The Laws of Magic for older readers. He is currently writing the final book in The Laws of Magic series.
Michael Pryor's Story Starter After dinner we retired to the drawing room, adjusted the gaslights and sat in front of the fire. It had been a splendid meal. Major Clennet was in fine form with his stories of India, while Professor Maxwell shared hilarious tales of university life. Lady Stimson entertained us with her African exploits and showed us one of the tribal idols she'd been given – the rest having been presented to our good Queen Victoria. Then, as was customary, we moved to the telling of ghost stories. In turn we told stories that chilled the blood – until one guest was left. 'Jamieson,' I said, 'what about you?'Rupert Jamieson was a young friend of Professor Maxwell's. I didn't know him well, but the professor had vouched for him, saying that his radical theories on high-energy wireless electrical power were dangerous but first-class. The professor confided that Jamieson hadn't wanted to come to dinner – he'd virtually dragged the lad from the laboratory where he'd been working so feverishly since the death of his fiancée. Jamieson stood and it was then that I noticed he was trembling. 'I appreciate the invitation, but I really must get back to my work.' Naturally, this prompted a chorus of good-natured disapproval. A round of ghost stories simply can't be left incomplete. Jamieson subsided into the armchair. He glanced at his pocket watch and then the window. 'It's probably too late, anyway,' he muttered - and he laughed unpleasantly. 'Alright, then. How would you like to hear something really frightening?'
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