The winning story was about one woman's last week of life. Photo / 123rf
The open section of the annual short story competition run by the Northland branch of the New Zealand Society of Authors was once again popular.
The competition is open to all New Zealand residents aged 17 years and over. The competition was judged by local writers, Sherryl Clark and Coo Harkens.
The 2025 winner was local writer Michael Botu for his story One Week to Live.
The judges said it was a pleasure to read the entries and to have so many great stories.
“It’s not easy to write a complete, satisfying story in 1500 words or less, let alone include layers, good characterisation and a strong, but not predictable, ending.
“‘One Week to Live’ stood out from the start, with a great voice, fascinating concept and a character who was alive on the page. Every time this story was re-read, we found new things to enjoy and think about.”
1st Place
One Week To Live
By Michael Botur, Whangārei
MONDAY
You stop the nurses at reception. Take them into a meeting room and lock the door ’cause you don’t want any of the other teachers to know you’re sick.
They’re appalled how long you’ve left this. How many appointments missed, results unopened. Aren’t you in agony, honey?
Maybe, yeah, true, but you’ve been too busy to face it. Just kept running red lights.
The bruised-beasting-blob pressing against your collarbone. Your left nipple a pink jellyfish throbbing every morning, like, Hey, get up, you have to check your lesson plan and get out the door at 7.20. For 18 months, you drowned the ache in Panadol and Tramadol and alcohol. Washed blood from breathable bras stained with balms that did nothing. Kept a T-shirt over your swimsuit. Stopped being naked round Sammy.
Acted too busy marking and moderating to see your GP and vent how bad everything hurt.
Avoiding things is how you’ve coped since Mum went back to that biker bastard and you ran away. Ran for the next 18 years. Ran past the lumpectomy, the laparoscopy, the lymphoscintigraphy. Couldn’t face the icky ultrasound gel, being left alone in a cold gown in a dark room while they hummed over your scans. Couldn’t handle pushing a sample of clay-white poo into a plastic cup, a sign you can’t produce bile, WebMD told you. That’s what happens after it metastasises to your liver.
I really don’t have time for this, you grunt, signing the nurses out.
They insist that if you’re not coming to the clinic, they’re coming to your house later. They have a duty.
Fine, whatever, you tell them, spinning round and plunging into four frantic English periods and gate duty and the all-staff after-school hui in the wharenui where a carved god stares down, paua eyes judging.
*
The nurses arrive at 4.45, tutting at the mountains of school work, petting Roxy.
They bring the oncologist. Some hippie, barefoot, wearing a poncho.
We can phone around your whānau for you, honey?
Nah, I’ve been a total arsehole to my mum, you tell them, pulling a framed photo of her from under a textbook, wiping the dust off.
Mates, then?
None, really.
As a teacher, you gave up everything outside school. Life became a tunnel. Eleven-hour days, sports trips, HOD management, all so you could pay down your student loan, your car. Friends weren’t on the timetable, nor were Mum or Sammy.
The dam bursts. You lose them in a hot pink salty haze.
But they’re not done.
You need to take this breast cancer far more seriously, darling, because the way these results look? You have one week to live, max.
She pushes a brown paper bag into your hands.
There’s a book inside by Oliver Burk-someone. Corners crumpled – it’s not even new. The fuck?
There’s a counsellor’s card tucked in it. Talk to her anytime.
Thanks, you say, pushing them out. But I’m not very good with my words.
TUESDAY
You set them both free.
Roxy is taken by the SPCA.
You also set free Sammy, your partner, lover, man-who-tolerated-your-angst, whatever his title is.
He’s kind-of known for ages, ’cept he stopped trying to help last year after you snapped at him, threw the teapot against the wall. He pulled back after that. Been watching you wince as you put your bra on every morning. Listening to you sob in the bath.
Sammy is six-foot-two, 120 kilos, but he’s a giant sensitive pussy. Way too loyal. Used to cry after sex. When you tell him you’ve got one week to live, he punches the wall then sucks his knuckles.
Takes four hours of wet-eyed confessions on the Monday night to get him to accept he’s done enough.
Insurance’ll pay back the bank, pay off my credit cards, the rates, the funeral. Seriously, Sammy.
It’s not you. I’m just fucked up. I come from a long line of women that never showed weakness. See where that’s got me.
Look, following me to my grave is just stupid. Go be gay, Sammy. Don’t be like me, don’t bottle things up. Text that Tyler guy at the bar who likes you.
And he does.
Tyler picks him up in 20 minutes.
Sammy looks back as he battles his bag out.
It’s fine, honestly. Go.
*
Third period, Phoenix won’t get off his phone. You’re about to shout when, instead, you pull him aside.
Phoenix: if it’s about your dad getting sentenced and that: just go call him. Take the day, if you want. Family’s important.
Stunned, he begins dialling as he leaves. Looks at you like a dog suspicious of a treat. Even says Thanks, Miss.
The class, silent, watches him slink away.
They look back at you. Tilt their heads to try see what’s different.
WEDNESDAY
You give your car to that homeless woman outside Savemart. Walk to school instead. Listen to the wind. Smell the sunlight. Stop to stroke a pūriri tree. Watch a woman in a wheelchair feeding ducks.
You get to school late. Tell the class to tear out everything they’ve written about Romeo & Juliet.
4000 Weeks by Oliver Burkeman: the book the oncologist left you. Monday night, after Sammy left, you read it till dawn, then ordered a class set. Eighteen-hundred bucks to get the books couriered to school overnight.
Do the math, you guys. Four thousand weeks is about 80 years. It’s about how life is short and you have to make it meaningful.
Read it overnight, okay. We don’t have long.
*
Dinnertime, you start choosing the final few words you’ll ever say to anyone. You tell friends on Facebook they should try more meat-free days. Eat ethically. Support local producers, refugee food stalls.
Then you close your laptop, open that graduation champagne, get Uber Eats to bring you a wagyu steak pizza smothered in bearnaise sauce. You scoff it in a bubble bath and suck your saucy fingers, moaning.
THURSDAY
Give your furniture to the Sallies. Put your funeral playlist on Spotify. Plant trees. Give blood. Donate eggs. Mend with Mum. So many things you want to do.
The SPCA phones to say a partially-sighted man’s adopted Roxy. They’re best friends, already.
You’re so happy that you buy a $7 coffee, let it cool then feed it to that purple begonia in the corner of the staffroom. The one that never asks for anything.
You admire the leaves while all the other teachers bitch about the price of butter.
*
Your Year 11s power through 4000 Weeks, the class silent as a church.
Here’s the starter for your responses, guys, you tell them, writing on the board:
Short story: Capture the meaning of life if you had one week left to live. 1500 words.
There’s a short story competition, too. I’m gonna enter everyone’s stories, mmkay?
Everyone falls into busy, quiet scribbling. Except Phoenix, gazing at the window, watching a bluebottle try find its way out.
FRIDAY
The kids get the message of the book – Drop some things so you can do what really matters – and they follow the author’s advice.
Wiri asks out Mel.
Sione says sorry for calling Tevita a fag.
Jackson quits the First XV to dance in Showquest.
They nominate Phoenix to ask: What’s been up with you, Miss?
They’ve noticed you sitting down to eat the school lunch with them, sharing laughs about the shitty meatballs, mocking Principal Karen. Playing on the bars with the Year 9 girls. Letting them braid your hair. Tearing up uniform passes, sprinkling confetti.
You on crack or somethin’, Miss? Phoenix asks, No offence or whatevs.
Ohhh, I’ve got some interesting chemicals in me, you laugh, stroking his curls. Don’t worry.
At 10 past three they all say, Later, Miss.
You tell them, Goodbye.
SATURDAY
You budget 45 minutes for Public Trust. Take care of your funeral instructions, your estate, your will.
Then you login to Google Classrooms.
A lot of the kids stayed up late Friday night, filed their stories about the saintliest way to spend their time if they only had one week left.
One’s written a plan to reverse global warming. Another wants to eliminate racism. Clean rivers. Ban greyhound racing. Adopt refugees.
None mention taking care of your health. Getting boobs and ballsacks and bumholes checked each year so you can actually live long enough to do all of the above.
You’re about to start marking when there’s a knock at the door. Two Jehovah’s Witnesses.
You keep them for two hours until they beg to move on.
You give them Mum’s address, and a letter they agree to pass on, sealed with a chapstick kiss.
SUNDAY
With your last 50 words, you write about a woman who’s wasted her life.
Send it off, before bed, to that short story competition, hoping it wins, gets published.
Hoping it inspires thousands to look hard at how many of their 4000 weeks they’ve used and how few are left.