He noticed her voice first. It was calm, assured, unhurried, a voice that did not ask for attention because it expected it. Only then did he see her. It was his first evening at the screenwriting workshop. Yvonne sat at the head of the table, composed and immaculate, her gaze resting on the group as if she were already familiar with each of them. “Welcome,” she said. “This is a professional space. We work seriously here.” Yvonne ran the workshop. She was the gate. Kenny felt the words settle inside him like a hand on the back of his neck. When it was his turn to speak, she watched him closely. She did not smile or frown. She simply measured him. “You have something,” she said. “It's raw and promising. With guidance, it could become publishable.” Guidance became a hook. Later that evening, he stopped at a pub nearby and ordered a Kilkenny. The beer was dark and smooth, bitter at first and then unexpectedly sweet. He liked the name. Kilkenny. It sounded final. Yvonne filled the room week after week. She spoke of discipline, market expectations and correct structure. She insisted that talent meant nothing without control. “Freedom is overrated,” she said once, smiling faintly. “Most writers ruin themselves with it.” Her feedback was precise, almost intimate. She praised his dialogue and then suggested changes that shifted the story away from him and closer to her way of seeing. “You're too attached to your perspective,” she told him. “Let me show you how it should breathe.” He followed her advice. Soon there were checklists, then private sessions, then paid programs. She framed them as opportunities and privileges. He complied. Around her, his body reacted in ways he barely questioned. His chest clenched. Heat settled low in his stomach. He went still, like prey that doesn't run. A rabbit under a python's gaze. Danger hovered, and he remained, suspended in a strange, aching pleasure. He stopped noticing other women. In cafés, on the street, in reflections of shop windows, faces passed without leaving a trace. Desire narrowed until it focused entirely on one point, on Yvonne's voice, her approval and her measured disapproval. Arousal and fear braided together. At night, working on his script, he ran on exhaustion and a strange alertness. His sexuality felt borrowed. It seemed to belong somewhere else. As if desire had been reassigned. That was when something began to feel wrong. Then it happened. After class, they discussed his script alone. When he said goodbye, he misjudged the distance between them and leaned in to kiss her. She pushed him away sharply. “What do you think you're doing?” she snapped. Shame flooded him, hot and immediate. Night stayed awake. The feeling was old and familiar, something he had buried and hoped never to encounter again. With Yvonne, he had returned to an old attachment, the same hunger wearing a different face. The script had shifted without his noticing. The protagonist was a man involved with a powerful woman, a mentor and a gatekeeper. He earned affection through obedience. She promised access, success and validation, and slowly she rewrote him along with his work. Kenny stared at the screen. The man in the script lived only under her gaze, hollow without it. He mistook surrender for intimacy and control for desire. He remembered his first love, older and dominant, and how she had taught him to want what erased him. Leaving her had nearly destroyed him, and it had saved him. Different country. Different woman. The same pattern. Something loosened in his chest, as if a long-held tension were finally releasing. It was not mysticism, only the body recognising safety for the first time in years. He could no longer adapt, and he no longer wanted to. At the next session, he spoke. “I want to keep the script as it is.” Silence filled the room. Yvonne looked at him with calm curiosity. “Kenny,” she said, frowning slightly, as if he were a careless teenager, “you're resisting growth. That usually means fear.” “No,” he replied. “It means recognition.” After a short pause, he added, “I see it for what it is.” Her smile tightened. “Without my framework,” she said, “there will be no publication and no agent. I can't support work that refuses direction.” He felt the familiar pull and the tightening in his body. Then relief followed. “I understand.” That night, he returned to the pub and ordered a Kilkenny. As the foam settled, he watched the dark liquid steady itself in the glass and thought of the name again. Kilkenny. It was not just a drink. It was a warning. She had not wanted to shape his script. She had wanted to kill Kenny. The cycle had run its course. He drank slowly. The future remained uncertain. The script was unfinished and the path unclear. Desire had returned to his body, and his voice had returned to his hands. That was enough.

Kia ora! As a migrant writer from Uzbekistan living in Aotearoa for over 12 years, I write to honour the invisible threads between places, languages, and lives. Written fifty years ago, this poem still carries the spirit of its time, a quiet resilience, a journey through tempests, and the laughter of birds in flight. Like the shuttle itself, it has travelled across decades to find a place of rest. Let it be a lighthouse for anyone still searching for their own safe harbour. Mā te rangi, mā te whenua, ka hoki ngā kupu. (Through sky and land, the words return in Māori language). Wooden Shuttle Across the ocean's sleepy grin, A wooden shuttle spins within. Through storm and tempest, wind and wave, It sails in search of something brave. The sea, a frowning endless ring, Laughed at this wooden, fragile thing. But on it bobbed, the waves its dance, Its voyage owed not just to chance. Perched upon by birds in flight, They gathered 'round from left and right, Chirping tales from distant lands, Mocking waves as rivals to the sands. “Oh, gather round,” the seagulls yell, “We'll leave our mark, a tale to tell!” The shuttle sways, it moves along, Their quarrels humming through its song. By dawn their voices meet the light, Assured that all will be alright. The king of seas, the storm's grand rage, The shuttle bows and takes the stage. At night, the moon in muted grace, Gazes on through drifting lace. This journey now has lasted long, Endless waters, silent song. The lonely shuttle, old and wise, Bears its tales beneath the skies. One day, revealed, a cliff appears, A rocky face through salt and years. The winds conspire, pull away, But the cliff stands firm “Not today!” Still on it floats through silver foam, A tiny island carving home. Adrift, like us, I might surmise, With hopes to reach the shore, the prize. Its rudder cuts the water's glass, Reflecting days long gone and past. The birds return, they know the plan: To spread the tale of this wide span. Despite the sea's loud, jealous roar, The shuttle lives to glide once more. It spins and laughs like life itself, A weathered book upon love's shelf. With hair of cloud and beard of mist, The sea now knows it can't resist. This wooden thrall, gypsy of gales, The sea's own bard with sailing tales. And so, it dances far away, It laughs, it sways, it has its say. A tale of wander, deep and wide, The wooden soul, the ocean's pride. Through laughter, quarrels, storms, and moon, The world's own waltz-bard sings its tune. A thousand verses won't suffice, This shuttle's song is beyond all price. May this little wooden soul whisper something true to you, too. Ngā mihi nui, thank you for reading.

“She's sick, surrounded by hypocrites, her life is a tragedy.” “A tragedy? Spare me. Does she even have a heart?” “Right — and only you do...” The women spoke loudly in the crowded bus, oblivious to everyone else. The passengers looked away, each hiding behind their own indifference. I glanced at them, trying to escape my spiralling thoughts. Rain trickled down the window. Grey coats, grey faces. A dreary world soaked in hopelessness. It had been a month since I shut down my company, a draining and disappointing grind that barely paid the bills. I was exhausted from doing work I didn't love. Trapped in a life that felt like a dead end. I felt more ghost than person, each day blurring into the next, numbed by regret and fatigue. “Don't crowd at the front!” called the conductor. “Next stop: Railway Station.” As the bus slowed, a man at the back suddenly shouted, “Open Sesame!” What a charming soul, I thought, and smiled. Open Sesame. The magic phrase that unlocks the cave of treasures. Who knows what's waiting just around the corner? What surprise this gloomy April day might bring? Yes. I would carry with me that phrase. My personal spell. And of course, I would go to Shanghai. To hell with fear. I was going. A flicker of light warmed my chest. The fog inside me began to lift. “Achoo!” sneezed a little boy from the front seat. Thank you, little one, for the blessing. I got off the bus early and walked home through the drizzle. With trembling fingers, I turned on my computer and wrote to Trevor Wilson: “Yes. I'm coming.” Trevor was a New Zealander, a university lecturer teaching English as a second language in China. We had met through an online forum connected to my now-defunct training company. We communicated through Google Translate, as I spoke no English just the remnants of the German I had learned at school. He had offered to pay for my travel and invited me to visit. I wasn't sure... until that moment. Something unseen was pulling me east. In my imagination, Shanghai shimmered with Chinese gondolas, fragrant gardens, and birds singing freedom songs in vibrant colours. The air smelled of mandarins and mangoes. I could almost hear the bamboo flutes. Trevor booked me into the Howard Johnson hotel, an elegant, sunlit place where I felt like a visiting queen. The lobby smelled of citrus and wood. The sheets in my room whispered with freshness. Each evening, we dined somewhere new. Trevor's eyes sparkled with gentle mischief as he introduced me to dishes I couldn't pronounce, patiently repeating their names until I could say them with confidence. He was kind and generous, romantic in ways I hadn't expected. The city stunned me. Skyscrapers and neon nights loomed above unfamiliar streets, yet something tugged at me. It was as if I had lived here before, left, and now, somehow, was finding my way back—to this city, to Trevor, to myself. English was my only obstacle. Trevor helped me through it. His encouragement dissolved my fear. I spoke with clumsy courage, and to my surprise, people listened. I began to feel I belonged. At the hotel, I met a Japanese receptionist Emiko, graceful, and bright. She carried the patient grace of someone who believed that every conversation, no matter how halting, was a small bridge across the world. Warmly, she encouraged me to visit Buddhist temples and shop for silk and spices in the old town. There was something familiar about her — the eyes, the gestures, the quiet way her smile lingered. Then it came to me: Julia Roberts. It amazed me how someone from a different world could resemble the American Cinderella from Pretty Woman. I found excuses to talk to her. Emiko patiently corrected my English and repeated difficult expressions. One day she asked, “What's your native language?” “Russian, like most Soviet people, regardless of ethnicity,” I replied. She smiled, intrigued. The next morning, my hotel phone rang. I picked it up. A bright voice with a strong accent said, in Russian, “Good morning, madam! Are you awake?” It was Emiko, my Julia Roberts. She stretched every syllable like a singer, filling me with joy and sending me into helpless laughter. In that moment, the once-distant world opened its arms. And it spoke my language. Now, more than twenty years have passed. I have become an author, writing historical novels and nonfiction books — in English. Recently, I published my first book on Amazon — a little guide to personal growth, illustrated with my own drawings. And I am writing this story with heartfelt gratitude and tender memory of that Open Sesame moment…for my husband Trevor, although he won't be able to read these lines while he is still alive. His love was the first page of the story I was meant to write. Because the magic of that day lives on—in my words, my journey, and in the love that opened every door. Some treasures, once found, remain forever open.