Heading Deep Into Headland
As a third-year creative writing student at Massey University, I’m drawn to the craft behind the stories we read. Dismantling the journey of an author’s words not only reveals the choices, rhythm and hidden layers that shape meaning, but also strengthens our own writing. I invite you to linger with the stories that spark something in you, and dig a little deeper until you uncover the flame at their core.
One of my favourite things about reading stories side by side is the way they talk to each other. Tōrea Scott-Fyfe’s Hira Walks Quietly (issue 21) and Briar Lawry’s Augury (issue 22) do just that. One is lyrical and mythical, following a woman walking the coastline; the other is contemporary, where the relationship of two sisters guides the tone of the story.
Hira Walks Quietly moves with its protagonist, slowly and intentionally, as Hira’s emotions guide us down a path laced with ancestral ties and memories. The story takes on a cyclical rhythm that mimics wandering, where her inner world is externalised through the land around her. A kahikatea tree standing against the wind, the return of the tītī, and a juicy tomato cradled in Hira’s hands embody nourishment, papatūānuku and ancestral connection. Scott-Fyfe’s lyrical third-person narration is alive with sensory and tactile detail, and repetition is threaded in like the pulse of a heartbeat that drives Hira towards what she longs for most: human connection. In this way, Hira Walks Quietly is more about the presence, positioning Hira as a quiet listener and observer of the natural world as it moves alongside her, taking up as much space as she allows, and we are willing to see.
Augury—its title a clever play on foreshadowing—offers a sharp contrast, where the story is grounded in the mundane and confined to the linear progression of a single day. Here, the relationship and playful chatter between sisters Nik and Lana carry the tone. Their teasing words over coffee and casual debate on magpies build an atmosphere of familiarity and comfort, yet usher in an airy sense of disconnect. Told in a close third-person through Nik, Lawry relies on dialogue and details to navigate emotions and anchor us in realism. Even the sisters’ decision to bring their own coffee provides a sense of control that lulls readers into a sense of segregation. Inconveniences like bad internet, magpies, and the wait for Aunt Kathy centre readers’ attention, which mimics the sisters’ attitude and tints the shock of blood and feathers with disconnection.
Side by side, Hira Walks Quietly and Augury portray contrasting means of human connection, using the protagonists’ relationship with the world as a guide. Hira’s external environment is lonely and unpredictable, yet she remains grounded through land, ancestors and memories—a gentle whisper follows her. Nik’s world, by contrast, is warm with connection but fragmented, with unease and disconnection from her surroundings. These contrasting perspectives offer readers continual tension—softness versus sharpness, trust versus suspicion. Hira Walks Quietly and Augury remind us that our perception of a story, like our perception of the world, is shaped by our inner world, and words layered with meaning can only exist in the parameters of a reader’s interpretation.
