Latin: /'vɒks pɒpjʉliː/ VOICE OF THE PEOPLE

It's Winter and we're Migrating

Exciting web developments are allowing us to migrate to an independent page of the school website within the month.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "Forever"

How much does a man live, after all?
Does he live a thousand days, or one only?
For a week, or for several centuries?
How long does a man spend dying?
What does it mean to say "for ever"?

He told me to swallow the fear. So i did.

He told me to take a deep breath. So I breathed in, once.

He told me to close my eyes and to think of a happy place. To think of a far-off country that I have never been to, that I did not even know existed. So I did.

To the best of my ability, I did.

He watched me as he slowly chewed his food, mashed it between his perfect row of spotless teeth. Pearls, he called them. Personally, I thought of them as proof of his narcissim. He watched me as I cut the bread, each slice a centimetre thick. No more, because we could not afford it. Not after India lost her job. So I cut, with my tongue between my coffee-stained teeth. And the least he could do was watch and wait to pounce on me when I went out of line. Because he knew that sooner or later I would cut a larger slice for myself to enjoy later in the darkness of my room. Old Mr Pearls just knew.

The waxy pale light's dancing on the back of my palsm. I can see it waltzing with the veins and the mountainous ridges, highlighting my bony knuckles and repulsive fingernails in the darkness of the room. And the crumbs at the foot of the desk, they're accusing me of a guilty addiction. Of numerous addictions, in fact. I don't know how, and I won't know why, but I find myself as a worn woman with nothing to do except to eat, drink and smoke. And to sit still in the confinements of this room during the darkest hours of the world, when all are dead and quiet. I've resined to the fact that I have forgotten what it's like to dream. I can barely remember the days when I'd close my eyes and open them as if eight hours had been miraculously shortened into the space of five minutes. I can't understand anymore why I'd wanted the night to be longer. It's the darkest time of your life, when ghosts come out to haunt you. My ghost is sitting here, in this room.

My brother died on a cold Wednesday night. Thursday's morning sky was of the clearest blue imaginable; of the bluest poppy you can imagine. And there I was, oblivious to nature's wonders, reading his words on my lap as he faded with each line that I read. In the short span of a few minutes, he was gone from this world. A handwritten note was all that he left behind. I crumpled the letter that same night and fed it to a hungry gas stove. I ahd my first cup of tea in many years, and my last. I have regretted that cup of tea to this day; but the letter is gone and no matter how much I want to see it again, my brother's thick, bold writing will be lost for ever.

He's over there, on the bed, playing with the stitch work I tried to finish with my arthritic hands. He's undoing it, working to hard to undo the work of years. He doesn't have much time, I can feel the dawn coming like I can feel my bones creaking when I shift in my seat. Poor old soul. He watches me as I rip off a piece of bread with my teeth, as I work my jaws like a cow chews on cud, as I gulp it down with milk, and as I scramble to repeat the process again. He's tireless and patient this time. he knows it's nearly time. Old Mr Pearls just knows.

I let him out a few hours ago. He's been my loyal companion ever since Landon walked out of my life, but I had to make him go. I couldn't bear to let him see me stretched out like this. India will take care of him; she loves him just as much as I do. So there you go. I'm hearing the wind rush through the treetops, as full of life as once I was too. Leave me in peace to take my time to reach that door I can dimly see. Let me remember those words I burned long ago, to see the smudged ink as he wrote out his last words to me.

He told me to swallow the coward's fear of happiness. So I did.

He told me to take a deep breath. So I breathed in, just once.

He told me to close my eyes and think of a happy place; to remember it, because I would find myself there one day. So I did.

To the best of my ability, I did.

WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "Butterflies"

"Look! See how it's pretty and innocent, how it's sunbathing in the morning light... Look at it, look! Oh! ...It's taken off. We scared it. It's gone. But wasn't that marvellous while it lasted? Just purely beautiful. Did you se?"

"Follow the light and don't let anything stop you. It's so important that you get there, do you understand? Listen to me, please. Whatever happens make sure you get there before morning, before the light is put out and you're lost. Do you see?"

"I had a dream last night," I said quietly to my plate of eggs, "about Anna." I heard a fork clatter to the ground and somebody apologising profusely, while the rest of the table was drenched in silence. I felt the sweat trickle down my temples, but did not dare wipe it with my fingers. My heart beat louder with each tick of the grandfather clock, and my cheeks burned holes through my face. And suddenly, the room filled with noise again, just as it was before. Just as if I had never spoken. I left the breakfast table as quietly as I could in the ensuing chaos, but I felt their gaze on my back all the same.

Anna often visited me in my dreams. I never told anyone of our encounters, mostly because my family simply did not want to know, and also because she was not part of our family anymore. In my opinion, she never was a Cutmore in the first place. She was born with a perfectly angelic face, unlike any other in our family, but she was given a curse. While others could marvel at her lovely appearance, she would never know the extend of her beautiy. She would not know the meaning of colour. She would not know the importance of a mirror. She would not know the trick of a gallgown. Her green eyes would never be put to use.

The reason for my conduct that particular morning was desperation. The moment my eyes had opened after that dream, I had known that a certain finality had come upon her. Whether Anna was alive I did not know. But it was absolutely that I would never see her again. And that broke my heart.

There was once a land of thorns far away. The skies were grey and cloudy, and it rained all day. The palaces and towers were all deserted, except one. A lonely woman lived, ugly and angry. She lived simply and picked berries from low bushes and mushrooms from the damp ground. She despised people and chased travellers away, whipping them, cursing and hurling names at them. One day while she was doing just the same to a little girl, she stopped. She saw a white butterfly rest on the girl's hair and fly away. She helped the girl to her feet and fed her, nursed the wounds of her own whip.

The woman changed into a better person with the help of the little girl. The girl grew into a young woman and fell in love. The ugly woman, an old and blind woman now, made her a delicate dress out of thorns and prepared her for her new life. Before the girl left, she told her to be careful when she walked between the thorns to arrive at her new home before dark. They embraced one last time before the girl walked into the maze of thorns.

After a while, the woman realised that the girl was actually her daughter, the daughter she had had before she was ugly and angry. The daughter she had seen walk into the thorns one day many years ago, and never come back. Her eyesight returned with this revelation, but it was too late. She searched day and night for her little girl who was not a little girl anymore. She asked the boy, hoping against hope, if her girl had reached his house. After many months of searching in the thorn-infested land, she had no choice but to return to her tower.

As the old woman slept that night, she saw her daughter in a dream. She was sitting barefoot in her dress of thorns at the centre of a lush garden. She had berries in her lap and she was laughing and pointing at the flowers, exclaiming over one that had turned into a butterfly and had flown away. She turned her emerald eyes on the woman, and smiled. "Did you see?"

But, as I said, it was only a dream. Just a simple, little dream.

WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "Dreams"

I never wanted it to be like this.

Never would I want harm to befall my friends. They are my 'safe house' -my haven.

Monday morning. The frigid wind biting at my trench coat. This was it. This was my time to prove to the world that maybe, just maybe, I could do something noteworthy and take my place in history.

I entered the dilapidated ice rink to the sound of Kyle's voice.

"James, over here."

Advancing to his position I quickly recognize Tom and Bover. Standing huddled against the pallid wall they spoke in hushed voices.

"We can do this." I said nervously.

Bover leaned over and picked up a St. Anne's sport bag. Quite ironic in this situation. In the bag there lay to AK 47's, two 9mm's and four masks. The masks were abominable, a glance would send shivers down your spine.

Tom led the way to the grey and decrepit van. As we got in, we put on our masks avoiding the opportunity for suspicion. Kyle drove to 4th and Abbey, while in the back, we silently checked and rechecked our firearms.

This was it.

We jumped out and darted for the doors that were slightly agape. Out of the corner of my left eye I observed Kyle, spinning on his left hell and discharging three cold bullets into the security guard. Opposing my instinct to freeze I kept on sprinting to the vault. Bover was there already, emptying substantial amounts of newly pressed Benjamin Franklins into his gaping bag. I got to work hastily and efficiently, grabbing all I could and shoving it into my own brown bag.

Running of the bank we were confronted. Rapidly we pulled out our firearms and began firing deadly bullets towards them. The flashing blue and white lights of their cars obstructed our shooting and movement, making it difficult to concentrate.

I heard this cacophony of bullets and stun grenades. I saw Tom, stunned, stand up. A bullet pierced his bald skull, silently to me, and he dropped to the hard floor.

I dashed to him; ducking and diving trying to not get hit by the shots. He is gone. But I already knew that. The thought was just impalpable.

Putting aside my feelings of grief and sadness, I got back to work. It was me, Bover and Kyle. kyle and Bover were side by side emptying their AK ammunition clips into the waiting officers. Kyle dropped his last ammunition clip onto the pavement. Leaning down to pick it up, he was exposed through a tiny gap betwen a cop car and a large blue post box. To my horror I witnessed one round get through the opening and hit him square in the chest.

Bover exclaimed loudly and rushed over to Kyle's position. Kyle, still conscious, threw his AK, with the ammunition clip, to me. I grabbed it and ran to them to cover for them. Bover was distraught. Kyle had been his mate since they were in primary school.

Fuelled by anger and vengeance, Bover grabbed the AK out of my hand, put it into his left and then took his own in his right. Shouting, he jumped up and fired the last of the bullets into the crowd of policemen.

Staring at him in total shock I tried to pull him back down to the ground. It was too late. One shot after the other struck his bloodied chest.

It was over. I knew it was.

I rose from my hunched position with my hands in the air. The firing ceased. Scores of people sprinted towards me.

I never wanted it to be like this.

WRITING COMPETITION: Poetry "The Beast Within"

It sits and hides, waiting

Its faint snarls can barely be heard
It quietly watches the world,
While it falls to pieces,
Not daring to show itself.

Hitler condemns the Jews
And the beast lifts its head
The atomic bomb explodes,
And the beast straightens out its back
Rwanda goes up in flames
And the beast opens its eyes

But yet it still sits and hides, waiting

It shakes its head knowingly
Wondering where it all went wrong
Looking at this path of destruction
Created by the sufferers themselves

The twin towers crumble in vain
And the beast smiles smugly
A hole forms in the ozone layer
And the beast clenches its fists
The world turns a blind eye to this horror
And the beast gets ready to attack

The beast stands proud and tall
And stares human kind in the face
It laughs mockingly, "Look at me,
And see what you have created."


The way they look
Deeply into the others eyes
The smiles they give
That light up the sky

The gentle summer breeze
By a picnic on a river
How the guy gives her his jacket
When she starts to shiver

The way the stars
Light up the night
The way her hair
Reflects the light

The way the birds
Come out and sing
How it's all so perfect

Then the first kiss
So soft so quick
All the joys of love
It makes me sick!


Crisp smell of morning air
countless scents enveloping me
Running through the long wet wheat
Dew dripping down racing legs
blissfully unaware
of the world

Purple blur soaring through the air
Touching the softest clouds
Dipping, diving
Shadow on my head
As the eagle calls

Heat of the day creeping
Closer on what is mine
Tasks await to be completed
The urgency of it all returns

Wakening me
to reality


A barrier that deflects pain
Always surrounded by fences
Physically, Mentally and Emotionally
It is the devil's beady eye, searching for a halo in between the mesh of lies
Useless and disappointing
It is a rose, people think it's there for a good purpose, security and beauty,
but then you take a good close look and the thorns prick you.
Dichotomizes beauty from pain

It is the structure that ends the so-called unlimited freedom
It keeps those unwanted secrets hidden beneath the surface
Hard to find and hard to release
A fence may be a sense of security
One step out of it and you are exposed
Everyone knows you, they know your history
And yet, people always want what they know they can't have.

An infatuation
People longing to be on the other side, where the grass is much greener.
False hope
It is a body with no soul
An abandoned baby
A heart with no life

An idealogical divide between right and wrong
Love and hate
Life or death


He finds it amusing you see,
a game for his ingenious mind.
All the drinking, smoking, partying,
a mere activity for a bored soul.

"I'm a true lad," he'll try telling you,
"a rumpus young Pom!"
His exterior will fit this definition perfectly,
like a key in the right lock.

But, if you apply this word "lad" to his interior,
you will find that not only does the key not fit,
but there is more than one door.

This "lad" is not nearly,
as simplistic as the word suggets.
This "lad's" interior is a maze of passages and alleyways.
This "lad" likes to read, has a brain, has a hert.
This "lad" is not what he seems.

So finally the question is raised.
Is he- a lad that cannot be tamed?
Or is he a lad at all?

Monday, March 7, 2011

Die Rol Van Vroue In Die Samelewing deur J Lategan

In ons moderne samelewing is die vrou selfstandig, selfversekerd en sy bevorder haar loopbaan. 'n Paar eeue gelede sou 'n vrou ween die vrye denke as hekse vermoor word.

Vroue het 'n spesifieke rol in die wereld gehad. Een van die vrou se rolle was om kuns te inspireer, om 'n muse te wees. Die bekendste is sekerlik Beatrice Portinari, die vrou wat Dante Alighieri se lewenswerke - La Divina Commedia en La Vita Nuova - geinspireer het.

Dante het Beatrice die eerste keer gesien toe hy nege jaar oud was. Hy het haar eenmaal aanskou en was op haar verlief. Dante het sy hele lewe lank vir Beatrice byna aanbid. Volgens La Vita Nuova het Dante Beatrice net drie keer in sy lewe gesien.

La Divina Commedia is begin toe Dante tussen 35 en 40 jaar oud was. Selfs toe het dit vir Dante gevoel asof beatrice hom dophou en geestelik lei. Sy moes dus 'n enorme impak op Dante gehad het, dat hy haar so onthou het.

Die feit maark Beatrice onmiddelik anders as ander muses. Gewoonlik is die muse se enigste invloed 'n Latynse "illa" voor die gedig; of 'n "laat ons begin, volgens u wil" aan die begin van 'n epos. Maar beatrice was meer as slegs inspirasie. Sy word die onderwerp van Dante we werk - veral in La Vita Nuova.

Dante se sogenaamde aanbidding van Beatrice word in Paradisio, die derde deel van La Divina Commedia duidelik. Beatrice lei vir Dante na God. Dit word beskou as 'n metafoor wat daarop dui dat Dante God gevind het deur sy liefde of agting vir Beatrice.

Die kwessie is dan dus: wat was Beatrice se rol as muse en waarom het sy Dante so sterk beinvloed?

Alhoewel Dante voor die Nederlandse digter, Jacques Perk geleef het, beskryf Perk die Muse in sy gedigte baie goed.

Perk roep na Skoonheid en se dat haar naam heilig is. Perk haal dan die Bybel aan en beveel dat Skoonheid se wil geskied en dat haar heerskappy kom. Die opsomming van hoe die kunstenaar die muse beskou, word aan die einde van die derde strofe gestel; hy se dat, in vergelyking met die Skoonheid, aanbid die aarde geen ander god nie!

Dit is presies hoe Dante oor Beatrice gevoel het, maar hy stel nie eksplisiet dat beatrice aantreklik of slim is nie. is dit dan blote toeval dat Perk deur Mathilde Thomas geinspireer is? Perk het tog meer kontag met Mathilde gehad as Dante met Beatrice - dit verduidelik moontlik waarom hy eksplisiet oor haar skoonheid en wysheid skryf.

Dante word beskou as een van die wereld se beste skrywers en die Divina Commedia as sy heel beste werk. Dit is duidelik dat Dante die Commedia nie sonder Beatrice se inspirasie kon skryf nie. Mens kan dan aflei dat die muse se rol in die samelewing een van die heel belangrikstes is. As Dante nie sonder sy muse kon skryf nie (en Perk ook nie), sal daar dus sonder muses absolutt geen goeie en hoe kuns bestaan nie!

Een van die belangrikste elemente van enige kultuur is hul kuns. As 'n kultuur bestudder word, word die kuns ook bespreek. As kuns 'n fundementele deel van kultuur is, en as kuns nie sonder 'n muse kan bestaan nie, is dit dan vanselfsprekend dat 'n kultuur - 'n samelewing - nie sonder 'n muse en dus vroue kan funksioneer nie.

In die bekende Engels- en Nederlandstalige skrywers, Shakespeare en Nijhoff, se werke, word daar nie na 'n muse verwys soos in Dante en perk s'n nie. Maar tog is daar wel 'n vroulike invloed in party van hulle sonnette. Die sonnette handel oor die ordinere, nie-goddelike vrou as muse. Die werke herinder mens aan die feit dat Beatrice en Mathilde ook maar normale vroue was. Dante en Perk het die vroue, hul muses, in hulle literatuur verhef tot goddelikheid.

Die vrou, selfs die ordinere vrou, speel duidelik 'n groot rol in die samelewing. Kuns en literatuur is vandag in ons post-modernistiesie wereld nog steeds relevant en die vrou se invloed dus belangrik. Daar is tog agter elke man...

Christendom En Islam deur J Lategan

Christendom en Islam is albei gelowe. In ons moderne samelewing is die geloof in God, of 'n god, as argais en irrelevant beskou; en tog is die grootste invloed op ons lewe, die Verenigde State van Amerika, 'n trots Christelike land. Veral na die elfde September 2001 is Islam in Westerse samelewing as 'n "boosheid," 'n "contra-Christelike geloof" of "terroristiese groep" beskou. Moslems is dus, ongelukking, aan stereotipering en diskriminasie blootgestel. In hierdie opstel word die feit dat Christendom en Islam eintlik baie eenders is bespreek.

Die sentrale idee, of "vereiste" vir albei die gelowe is dat mens in God glo. Vele mense is van die mening dat Christene in God glo en Moslems in Allah of 'n "ander god." In alle werklikheid is Alla die Standaard Arabiese woord vir "God", die selfde God waarin Christene glo.

Daar is vele Christelike denominasies en daar is wel verskille in wat hul glo en hoe hulle kerkdienste verloop. maar alle Christendom is in 'n paar konsepte gebaseer. Die konsepte word in the Geloofsbelydenis van Nicea uitgele. Die eerste, en sekerlik die belangrikste reel is: Ons glo in een God, die almagtige Vader, die Skepper van die hemel en aarde, van alle sigbare en onsigbare dinge.

In die Inleiding tot die Koran staa: Alle heerlikehid aan Allah die Allerhoogste, (hy is) vol gendade. Alles is deur hom geskape. Allah word ook in die eerste dele van die Koran nie "Allah" of "God" genoem nie, Hy word na verwys as "Onderhouder van die werelde," "Heer" en "Skepper" -byna die selfdeas in Die Bybel.

Die hoof verskil tussen Christene en ander gelowe, insluitend islam, is Jesus Christus, waarvandan die woord "Christen" kom.

Christene glo dat Jesus "deur die heilige Gees uit die maagd Maria vlees geword [het]: Hy het mens geword." Moslems glo ook dat Maria maagd was toe Jesus deur God se woord aan haar gebore is, maard ie dat Hy die Seun van god is nie. Beide gelowe stel dat Jesus deur God gestuur is om Sy woord aan Israel te verkondig en is die vermoe gegee om wonderwerke uit te voer.

Volgens Christen tekste, is Jesus "vir ons gekruisig; Hy het gely en is begrawe," en die heel belangrikste, "op die derde dag he Hy...opgestaan en na die Hemel opgevaar."
Moslems glo dat Jesus nie gekruisig is nie en dat Hy nie eers dood is nie. islam tekste stel wel dat Jesus hemel toe opgevaar het en dat hy nog steeds lewendig was toe dit gebur het.

Vir Christene is Jesus die Verlosser en God se Seun. Volgens islam was Jesus niks meer as 'n profeet nie. Daar word baie in die Koran na Jesus verwys, en al kon hy wonderwerke uitvoer, glo Moslems dat Hy maar net 'n man was. Mohammad is Islam se hoof profeet.

Mohammed het openbaringe van God ontvang en dit neergeskryf. die skrifte is die Koran en islam is deur Mohammad met die Koran gevesting.

Die Koran is nie, en mag nie, vertaal word die - nie eers in die moderne Arabiese variante nie. wanneer Moslems bid gebruik hulle Klassieke, of "Koraniese", Arabies. Dit is amper presies die teenoorgestelde van die Christen Bybel. Die Bybel is nie deur 'n enkel mens geskryf nie en nie in een enkel taal nie. Die Bybel is 'n versameling tekste wat in Latyn, Grieks, Aramees en Hebreeus geskryf is en is vandag die mees vertaalde boek.

Tenspyte van die ooreenkomste tussen die twee gelowe, tenspyte van die feit dat albei gelowe in die selfde God glo, is daar eindloos konflik tussen Christene en Moslems. En tog staan daar in die Koran dat "almal wat in die Koran glo, en diegene wat Joodse skrifte volg, en Christene en Sabiers - en enige iemand wat in God glo...sal vanaf God hulle belonging kry; en hulle sal geen vrees he nie."

Was Apartheid A Holocaust by N Smith

The word Apartheid is an Afrikaans word directly translated into the concept of 'separateness'. Apartheid can be defined as a policy or system of segregation or discrimination on grounds of race. This is similar to ehd iscrimination that happened against the Jews, homosexuals and other discriminated parties in the Holocaust.

The National Party in the 1948 election adopted "Apartheid" as a slogan. A slogan is a phrase used in advertising to catch attention, like the Nazi's used propaganda to sell their ideas to the German nation and divert the mindset of the public. Is this not similar to what happened in South Africa?

Human rights commission reported to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission submitted in 1977 that 7 000 people of colour died during Apartheid. From 1990 to 1994 14 000 people of colour died. A fruther 17 4220 died in relation to Apartheid from 1994 to 2000. Even though Apartheid had ended.

Juliette Pieres found similarities between the Holocaust and Apartheid in her new book. A few examples of the Apartheid legislations that are parallel to the Nuremburg laws are as follows:

Marriages between Jews and Germans were forbidden as it was in South Africa with the mixed marraiges act that stated that white people were not allowed to marry people of other races.

Although the NP did not envisage a specific hair and eye colour and physique as the perfect race like Hitler envisaged the Aryans, it is apparent that this law expressed the NP's feelings that they felt that white people were the perfect race and that people of colour were inferiour.

The group areas act brought about physical separation between races by creating the homelands whereas the Nazis placed Jews and other discriminated groups in concentration camps.

People of colour and Jews were both exempt from public beaches, benches and voting. They were not allowed to go to the same schools and unviersities as Aryans or white people. People of colour were only seen as fit for labour that does not require any skill. The same was principle was applied to the Jews, as they were exempt from the workforce.

Juliette Peires states that ther was no attempt "to impose anything like a final soclution" during Apartheid. One can say that less people were killed in the Apartheid than in the Holocaust but is that not all due to the leader? A strong leader like Hitler was able to get the public rearing for action with his strong speeches whereas the NPs leader was not as strong as Hitler and not get as far as quickly. The mere fact that Apartheid took so much longer to bring down that the Holocaust and that Hitler went so much further than the NP shows that Hitler had the support of nations to put his laws into place and murder 6 million Jews.

Although more people were killed in the Holocaust it does not mean that this even in History was more devastating than Apartheid. The principle of both Apartheid and the Holocaust remains the same; two government bodies desperate for power and recognition from the public.

Think of all the people who didn't die in Apartheid. Do you think life was easy for them? And what about the generations to follow? To this day we still suffer from the effects of Apartheid. Mass deaths may sound a lot more threatening but surely living in torture is far worse? Because of one decision gnerations to come will pay for the mistakes that were made.

Valentine's Dance Feb 2011 by A Hess

What a night of Romance, Dancing and very loud pumping music bursting out of every speaker, the Valentine's Dance was a night of dry ice and flashing lights to remember.

From the romance of Thursday's balloons and flowers being given out all the way back to the distance memory of the Bachelor and Bachelorette competition on Tuesday, the week of valentine's was a week of love. At the dance the visuals were amazing, you walked through the white arch entrance with little red hearts all around it all the way along a red carpet that made you feel like you were walking into an exclusive club. Then you got to step into the dance area, a wave of music hit you, the DJ was up on the stage controlling the music for the dancers below in the dry ice. The tuckshop was constantly bursting with people who wanted something to drink after jumping and dancing around for a good hour.

In the middle of the night the Bachelor and Bachelorette were announced. As Daniel baker and margaret Scott got their pink, fluffy light-up crowns they desceneded onto the dance floor for a spotlight dance to some slightly softer, more romantic music that soon all other couples join in. The hall was no longer our school hall but a ballroom where a mass of couples were spinning eacho ther around gracefully to music. A fairytale. The girls were dressed beautifully in a variety of colours and styles of dresses and even the guys dressed up for the evening. The entire room was filled with princes whisking their princesses away to happily ever after as the couples continued to dance.

The night ended with a room full of bodies moving on what seemed to be a floor made of clouds, lights dancing around them.

The Sentence by N Smith

Burning tongues of fire lick at my feet,
I turn my head to the quickening beat.
Cold fingers of ice caress my knee,
I look down, but there's nothing to see.

The feathers of touch tickle my soul,
Aroused I inquire; the beats grow weary.
Softly and quickly my arms turn to lead,
I ponder over all that I've said.

Questions and statements all mixed in with hate,
Depressed and disheartened I embrace my fate.
Moments of silence creep in with the cold,
While fiery glares keep my life on hold.

With desperate pleas I lay down the truth,
I slowly bring forth the sickening proff.
Sadly, alas, the gesture's too late,
My life has been captured by sugary bait.

WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "The Dream Giver"

I spend my time swooping over rooftops, through bedroom windows and down chimney pipes to get to you. I climb slowly towards your head, carefully, with anticipation. Who knows what I will find, if I manage to find anything at all.

Your minds work in mysterious ways, ways that I will never understanding even though they are part of my daily life. Although, i do not think you could say that I am really alive, I would say it is more of an existence. I live an exciting and invigorating existence but an existence all the same. You on the other hand life a full and adventurous life. You wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night. You get to eat meals and use the bathroom. "What?" you are probably thinking, "Our lives are much more exciting than that!" But you see when you cannot perform these strange acts, they start to fascinate you.

I am what you call the 'Dream Cather', but I see myself as more of a 'Dream Giver'. I visit you at night to sift through your thoughts until I come to the one which has subconsciously been occupying your mind. I then gently coax it forward into your conscious thoughts, where I let it take on a mind of its own, as it forms a dramatic and fanciful dream. These dreams can range from nightmares to the stuff that daydreams are made of but for me the most rewarding dreams are those that make you smile in your sleep. To see a tickle of a smile creep across your face until it is a fully-fledged grin is something to behold, something I am blessed enough to see often.

I take pride in the fact that I do not get attached to the humans I visit, I do my job and then I leave. That all changed on a dark, starless, Winter's night. I had struggled to get into the man's head because he had obviously not wanted visitors that night. He was trying to shut out the bogeyman. This is the only downfall of my job; I do not get to choose what people dream about and yet I have to watch their pain through the nightmares. This particular man had had a hard life filled with turmoil and now he had found hismelf in an old, rusted warehouse, all alone. his anguish and pain was evident on his face as his nightmares played out in his mind. I sifted though his thoughts, desperately, hoping to find that he had a happy memory to use as his dream, but I could not find one. All I found was despair and turmoil. A pot of mashed up emotions and terrifying experiences!

And I wept. For the first time in my existence I bowed my head and wept. As I looked at that poor man I felt that there was only one thing to do and that one things broke all the rules. I sifted through my bank of memories from people's minds all over the world until I came to one filled with hope and love, and then I did the unthinkable, I planted it in his mind. I put it right there in his dream space and stood back and watched as it flitted across his vision. And then it came, the best part of all, the smile.

I still do not know if that was the right thing to do, if it changed his life for the better or not but all I know is that for the first time, in a long time, he had a moment of calm in the storms of his life.

Sins Of Us by S Swart

With the way the world turns, the way that it's spun
I fear for the lives of everyone the way it's done.
We had the wisdom of what to come it was said,
Natural enemies' fire and ice become surrounds for our bed.
If we burn in the fire of the sun or drown in melted ice, it's the sins of us
If we die from under a gun or starve from the dry earth it's the sins of us.
GOD save us from what I've done we're just waiting for the ends
Where we go next is Your choice it all depends.
We suffocate from air that once was so pure some of us tried,
But they wouldn't face the truth they just blocked and lied.
For the last time our leaders will speak and recount every war
The earth's beauty was not to be taken for granted or fought anymore.
The ocean is now as dry as rust
No such life from the sins of us.

Freedom by S Storey

Five hundred years of stone-faced wall
Always new rules to install
Soffocating my smothered soul
I want to fightthe curbed control

But I cannot find the strength
I am weak from the restraint
my heart beats faster
my spirit is pale and faint

i stand on the loose bricks
twenty storeys high
wind rustling my hair
i take the plunge

the fall is my last
sense of

Boarders Get It Right by P Viljoen

This is indeed a year for breaking the old and moulding the new, here at Somerset College we have a long-standing opinion which never publically voiced: Day scholars are actually amazingly jealous of the Boarders.

Now if you ever say this in front of said "day scholar" you will be given plenty of arguments and reasons as to why this is absolutely not true (denial0, and for most of their reasons I would agree, being a boarder sounds like a hard life, but they never mention the one resounding fact which makes a boarding house that much more appealing.

It is the fact that at the end of your five years at college you leave the school, taking with you whatever you have gained (if anything) from your five years of education. The question never answered by day boys and girls is "What do I leave behind?"

Those privileged enough to say they are from Somerset College boarding houses can tell you the answer. Of course each boarder leaves behind a puzzle piece of this legacy but this year's matric boarders are paving the way for setting new and wholesome traditions and raising the standards to new, even more yellow, heights.

The first weekend of term saw the matrics and grade 8s spending a whole weekend together where mentees were shown the ropes. Much bonding took place (helped along by the duct-tape in the three-legged race). Never before in my five years in these houses have I seen a grade 9 and matric group interact so closely -we warn the school that this is a grade 8 group to keep your eye on for great things.

The boarders are doing things right and as testimony to this Helderberg is already working towards winning their spirit for the grade 8 gala, the interhouse athletics overall as well as the interhouse tennis.

The boarders are not only creating tradition and pride in their own house but challenge the rest of the school to follow their example... if they can.

Valentine's Day by N Smith

Crowds of anxious girls huddle together in small clusters, united for one sole purpose. Suppressed feelings bubble to the surface and boil over at the anticipation of what is to come; the thought of a gift from that special someone, a friend, a loved one, a secret admirier. For a second the crowd is hushed while they await the first receiver, and then from there on the procedure continues like clockwork.

We've all witnessed it, been subject to its wonders, but has Valentine's Day gotten out of control? No longer is it just a day to celebrate our loved ones, but also our friends and those we desperately wish to impress in the hope of starting new friendships, and that is all okay, but it has gotten out of hand and is now just a day to show off our wealth, whether financial or in the nubmer of friends we have.

People prance around in their pinks, reds and whites, fallen into a love coma where all sensibility is lost to the antics of Valentine's Day. And what about the cost? Is your love or friendship worth more if the price tag is more impressive? What happened to simple cards with words of affection? The truth is that the effort is simply non-existent. Why waste your time spending hours making cards for your friends and lvoed one, when you can flash your cash in their faces?

It's okay to spend money and appreciate your loved ones, but please, get your motives straight! On a whole we have become too wrapped up in materialistic possessions, cold, hard possessions that neither love nor feel emotion. The best path to take to impress someone is not via your wallet. It comes straight from the depths of your heart.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

What A Woman Needs by S Linkov

Diamonds are forever
They cut her and they burn,
Singe unwanted wishes,
Spear what dares to yearn.

A necklace is a noose
She fits around her sin
So that when it tightens
It will not spoil her skin.

Dresses twist her figure
Into something more
A goddess or a sinner
Whichever they ask for.

A handbag is a darkness
A darkness she can tame,
So that when they purge her
She may keep the blame.

Shoes train her to stand
When she wants to fall
Blisters keep her ready
To stand against them all.

Make-up covers bruises
Mascara catches tears
Varnish soothes bitten nails
And love, it kills the years.

Love by A Hess

The way they look
Deeply into the others' eyes
The smile they give
That lights up the sky

The gentle summer breeze
By a picnic on a river
How the guy gives her his jacket
When she starts to shiver

The way the stars
Light up the night
The way her hair
Reflects the light

The way the birds
Come out and sing
How it's all so perfect

Then the first kiss
So soft so quick
All the joys of love
It makes me sick!

Dead Girl To Dying Girl by S Linkov

Still your voice in asking where I speak from
What skies are here, is not for you to know.
What depths below, and what the kingdom
That bids me lay this rose upon your woe?

Your fallen tresses' gentleness of rose-gold
The ash a mourner scattered on your shroud.
These ivory lips, jewel-houses weeping sold
Unto Her, Whose scythe shines darkly proud.

And even in your cradle, you were weeping
A woman's passion bound with baby's cry.
Father's hoary head, and Mother sleeping,
A candle to kill moths, and a Bible to deny.

And Youth had not a garland to beguile you,
And the clouds had not a single drop of rain.
Your tears fell, and mistaking them for dew
You sprouted, blossomed in the soil of pain.

You sang where every voice was screaming,
You danced, obscured by cruel electric light.
You may forget how you fell into dreaming
Still you rose, and in your heart the fight...

And on this whitest altar you fell daunted
The worm he smiled, and laid disease's pall
On the heart unloved and shadow-haunted,
Your feathers fell, and Winter smothered all.

So take this hand and wander into stillness
For there, we know, the great is not in vain.
There we wait to wash your wings of illness,
For She has come to reap Her tainted grain.

A Love Song by S Linkov

Follow me tonight.
Let us flow through backwater streets,
Where lampposts spill puddles of light,
Where the longing heart silently beats,
Let us find an empty cafe,
Order a corner table.
Let us shelter ourselves there, till day
Leads our woes back to their stable.
Let the lurid signs burn away,
Let the voices throng through the cable
Of the two-penny telephone.

We have, in our time alone

Rehearsed our birthdates and names,
Learnt to wear our faces in frames,
Trained our hellos and goodbyes,
Dug graves for the world in our eyes,
Cast locks and keyes for our tongues,
Cut them safes in between our lungs,
Sewn bullet-proof vests for our hearts,
Poisoned the tips of love-darts...

We no longer pose a danger to society!
Come evening, dear, they're setting us free!

Yet we rise with so little time!
Our lives are nothing but dust.
Dust that loved, that paid a dime
To clean old shackles of rust.
When we are gone
Still the lampposts will bleed
Light where the day is done,
Still the seas will recede
Then bring in our sorrows again.
This city will always exist,
Morning and night will remain.
Was there something we missed?
Is there anything left to achieve?
Who have we killed, and kissed?
Are there any lies left to believe?

Will I fall as a queen or a slave?
Answer me in dew on my grave.

But life is not over yet!
We have time to love and to hate.
Time to remember, time to forget.
Time to pray and time to wait.
Time to watch time fly.
Time to live, and time to die.

Time to fight like dogs over our daily bread.

There are places where we do not dare to tread
Around the edges of a bright new world we toil
Fear-maddened animals, forever ready to recoil.

Duckling by S Nakada

He never knew why,
'cause others saw.
But why should he know
when it didn't do difference?

But as time ticked and flew-crawled by; he
uncovered the core of
acapella life.
With waves of emanating-dislike
-for himself- society and himself-enormous-
he buried himself alive.
No more to be.

Now he drags and lurching-crawls,
longing-long love, longing-long life,
realising abrupt time.
Now he knows better than
listen himself-society talk,
when himself-miniscule knew truth.
Beauty is inside.

His Walk by S Nakada

The white lillies yield to the wind and hang their heads, acknowledging the passing of a hero. They seem to want to scatter as strong gusts overwhelm the wreath, and as it finally takes off only to land some footfalls away, the sweet scent envelopes me. Farewell, my senses hear. Joy be unto you. I begin to hear the first chords of a forgotten melody, the lyrics beckoning me to a life not unknown.

My father once told me to think of life as a bridge that we all must cross, that even if the crossing is painful and long, the banks of the river on the far side gets closer with each step. He told me to look back once in a whiile, to see the progress I have made. I remember that night as we sat on the roof and he told me never to forget my past and the roots from which I came. I listened quietly until he made me promise.

"Do you understand, Margarid? Our people have been persecuted since the dawn of Christianity because we were the first to accept what others would not. Your grandparents were murdered for belonging to the motherland. Promise me, promise me you'll never forget who you are." He sang me a song afterwards. He was an excelled singer, his tongue expertly rolling the words in his mouth, taking me to that strange land in the East. I have not set foot on my father's beloved country to this day, yet I feel as if I belong to its intricate story.

He was one of the lucky ones. I think it was partly his stubbornness that kept him alive. After all, he was only a teenager who wanted to see the world and live. He wanted to be a musician and travel the globe with his friend. He wanted to know what being rich felt like, wanted the experience of spending money on useless objects just because he could. He wanted to see tigers in India and the bull fights in Spain. He wanted to learn to swim. But I think it was mostly the will to see his father again that kept him walking. The possibility of seeing those wise eyes woke him each morning and allowed his legs to move forwards, although it seemed to him as though he was floating above the sand rather than dragging his feet. By the time he reached Aleppo his mother's body had long been left behind, as so many others' had. His sister Anahit - to whom, according to my father, I am identical - died three weeks after their arrival. And afterwards, when he did not find his father's name on the list of survivors of those who were deported to Turkey, he was forced to learn the fact that his life had been changed drastically and that nothing would ever be the same. He grew harsh and cold living with his aunt during his last years in Armenia.

He stepped on a boat on a cold, foggy morning of 1920 after a breakfast of porridge and stale bread. He and his cousin Hagop both kissed his aunt goodbye and left Armenia behind without a backward glance.

I watch as one of the lillies frees itself from the tangle of leaves and stems. As I bend to pick it up, somebody gently rests their hand on my back. It is my mother, a pale woman by nature, but all the more paler today. Not a single teardrop has escaped her eyes, she shed all of hers a week ago. She is responsible for breaking my father's cemented shell, for teaching him to be what he forgot to be. I stand here now, facing her, and see her pain-filled eyes, but also a sense of serenity and acceptance. I give her the lily and she holds it with both hands.

I look back before closing the gate behind me. I see the shiny granite, smooth and cold. In my mind I read its inscription: Aram Dorian 1900-1978 Loving husband and father. And underneath in tiny letters, Enjoy the walk. Standing beside his words, I glimpse my father waiting for me on the other side of the bridge.

Driving by H Searle

"Welcome to the session, Bob." He said warmly. This was followed by the stereotypical chorus of "Hi Bob..."
"Would you care to tell us why you're here?"

I looked down at my very clean hands. I looked up and said, very slowly, "I have aichurophobia, ankylophobia, amaxophobia, belonephobia and dysteychiphobia."

The room silenced completely. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes. I squirmed in my chair. I studied my mahogany-brown shoes again. I prepared to leave. Someone said, "Is that all?"

I felt a smile of embarassed relief overwhelm my facial muscles and spread across my face.

He looked up at me kindly and said, "Now group, as usual, Bob is going to share his problems with us in more detail. He will also try to pinpoint the cause of the problems." He looked at me expectantly.

"Well..." I said, clearing my throat, "it all started when I got into a thing with wheels, steering wheel, break..."

"A car." He said. I winced.

"Yes. That. You know I heard a funny thing the other day to do with phobias."

"Great but we are really trying to-"

"It went like this: 'I'm afraid of grounds!'
'You mean heights.'
'I know what I mean! It's the ground that kills you!'"

"That was really funny, but you were saying..."

There is just no side-tracking some people.

"I got into a...car... And I drove. And as I drove, I became aware of a number of things. People don't realise it but driving is dangerous and complicated. We often get told, 'Oh, you know an aeroplane is safer than a car?' and our subconscious reply is, 'Yes I do, but my death trap has a stereo and private air conditioning'. Sure some people struggle with moving the flappy things by your legs, but there's more to it. What we are essentially doing when we drive is taking a metal cage of doom on wheels and driving it along a piece of asphalt. All, and I mean all, that sits between us and the next metal cage of doom on wheels is a little line. Not a wall, or a glass barrier but a little painted white line and the hope that the guy coming towards us at 80 kilometeres per house in a machine weighing over 400 kilograms will stay on his side. It's like fighting kids... 'This is your side, this is my side. So long as you stay on your side, we won't have any problems.' And I guess that's where most of my phobias come from. It asll started, I think, with dystychiphobia, the fear of accidents."

"I have that," said a brown-jacketed man to my left.

"Isn't it annoying?" I asked him.

"Yes, I guess," he replied, "but it's kept me alive up until this point. I mean, is it really irrational to be afraid of accidents?"

The doctor finally spoke up. "To the point where it inhibits your quality of life, yes. It is, however, good to be wary of accidents on the road and to do all one can to avoid them."

"Anyway," I said without a trace of annoyance, "that obviously lead to aicurophobia, the fear of being touched by pointed objects. If I'm in a... thing on wheels... and am in an accident, I will be touched by sharp objects, like glass or broken metal and probably die."

"I think that's a little extreme," a woman on my right said. "Many people drive daily without accidents. And impaling is not all that common in accidents due to the way the cars are designed. Crushing should be your main concern, as when a car collides with-"

"Okay I think that's quite enough Percilla."

"Yes doctor."

I continued, "Then if you're in an accident, you can't move. So that's where I got my ankylophobia from. What if I'm trapped and I can't move a joint? It'll be like not having an arm! It'll be so terrible, it'll-"

"Calm down, Bob, you're in a safe place." The doctor soothed.

"Alright. I'm fine." I said panting. "And obviously with that come belonephobia. I can't stand pins and needles, it-"

"Let's not go there today, shall we?"

"Okay. And I guess all of this adds up to my amaxophobia." I finished levelly.

"So you're afraid of automobiles because of all the other things you're afraid of. Not uncommon. Group, where do we usually start?" the doctor asked.

As one voice they answered, "What do you do as a profession?"

"Well?" he asked me, one word and a raise of eyebrow doing the job of a whole sentence.

"I'm a learner driver."

Dreamers of Tomorrow by A Hess

My head is spinning
My breath comes fast
Images are blurred
Future, present and past

A flash of light
The movement slows
What wonders what
This scene will hold

I see an ocean
Of dark red blood
A field of corpses
Left in the mud.

All these horrors
This pain and sorrow
Is this what's left
For the dreamers of tomorrow?

Crime and Punishment by H Searle

A person with an unpleasantly heavy black bag walked through the open door. The things the bag contained and who they were meant for, they would find out later.

In the passageway before the open door stood a confused man. "It doesn't have to be this way!" he said, a tear, like a silent raindrop, rolling down his cheek.
"It does." The man replied plainly, his drawn face set with resolution to do the deed. "A price needs to be paid. A crime cannot go unpunished."
"By why you?" the man pleaded, "You have never done anything wrong! Only good has come from your life!"
"I know the prisoner," the man replied, looking into his eyes. "I know what he has the potential to become if the price were paid."
He was silent.
"It is time," the man said, "for mercy."

The man in black fell on his knees and blocked it all out, covering his eyes.

He heard a gunshot.

Price paid, the prisoner stepped through the massive archway, in front of the man on his knees. Putting his knees into the damp dust in front of him, the prinsoner whispered, "Why me?"

I Wonder Why PART ONE by S Tinelli

I wonder why? I thought as I was running, but then my thoughts were pushed to the side as another bomb hit and I was thrown down by the force of the explosion. I lifted my body up as if I was a masterless puppet and pushed on. I am running from the German officers, my name is Katiana, it is October 5th 1939 and the war has just begun....

As I ran down Von Aldrecht Street, I thought of the day our house was bombed, I thought of Caris, Alexander and Silvia my two brothers and younger sister. My mind also happened to bring up my parents and grandmother. when the house was bombed I was downstairs, outside, and they were all insidetrying to escape, knowing that they might die any second. And at that moment it hit. The house crumbled and I lay under what was once my home, unconscious and unaware that my whole family had just been killed and were buried under our memories. And I am left alone.

I cleared my mind and tried to think of a place to hide that the Germans weren't already guarding. I saw two of the officers and I knew that they saw me, although I wished to heavens above that they hadn't. I tried to hide around the next bend but as I looked up to clear my surroundings they were there. I felt alone, out of place, I felt Jewish.

As I was carried away I tried desperately to fight my way loose but they were too strong for my weak body, I felt them put something or other on my ankle but before I could see it I was unconscious.

We were summoned outside by the loud, heavy voices of the German generals. We stood in a crows but it was not long until we were forced into a line. I drifted off, looking at a beautiful line of trees just at the end of the camp. And then I broke the silence in my head and carried on listening. they said to lift up our left sleeves. I was not looking forward to this, I already knew what they were going to do to us, but I wished I didn't know. As I looked at the other girls I noticed one, surprisingly gentle looking German officer, who was watching me. It was a relief to me, to see gentle but scared eyes and I could immediately see that he didn't have a choice in being there either.

The general took the branding iron out of the heated chamber and muttered something under his breath, in German, just so that the other officers could hear and we all watched as they laughed dangerously at what the general had said, only he didn't laugh. His name badge said his name was Heinz. I don't know why but every time I lay my eyes on him I felt a rush of adrenalin and reassurance.

I watched as the general walked down the row of girls, branding them. I knew that he knew that he was hurting them but in his eyes you could se that he didn't care who got hurt, just that they did. I couldn't image their pain and what made it worse was that my turn was still coming. As he pushed the iron into my skin I could feel the reaction of heat melting skin under the red hot sizzling surface. He lifted it off my skin but the pain lasted long after he had removed it.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

You're A Shooting Star by S Swart

You're just like a shooting star
And I can make a wish on you.
Even though you're really far,
I can see my wish coming true.
You started from the bottom up,
I was right behind you and watched.
Then I started falling down and hit the ground
While you drank victory out of a golden cup.
Now I watch you shine and I close my eyes,
Whisper my big wish; send it up to the skies.
You're so beautiful when you light up the night
When I watch you shine is when my heart shines bright.
Shooting stars go forever up and never stop
When I'm sith you in the night sky I'll never again drop.

The Real Fairytalesl: Snow White by A Hess

Chapter 1

"For the last time -I WILL NOT CLEANT HE HOUSE!" I yell at the dwarves.
"But the book-" Happy holds up a book called Snow White.
"-is just a book which is freakishly similar to my life!" I grab it from Happy and throw it across the room. "Now," I say, "I am a princess and I refuse to do housework. That is your job." I point at the dwarves.
"But in the story it says that once you are chased by your step-motheryou'll come here and clea-" Dopey begins.
"I WILL NOT CLEAN! And I don't have a step-mother; the person trying to kill me is my REAL mother. She thinks I'm stealing her beauty. So she wants to kill me so she can get her beauty back! Ha! That crazy old hag!" I laugh.
"You're..." Bashful says, "...nothing like the story Miss Snow Whi-"
"MY NAME ISN'T SHOW WHITE! I mean, what kind of idiot would name their child that?! My name is Amari!" I finish.
"Maybe we should have stayed in the mine." Grumpy mumbles.
"Mines?" I ask. Suddenly interested.
"Yes," Sleepy yawns, "the gem mines."
Now this is interesting! I think to myself.
"Why don't you get some gems to show me?" I say, putting on my nicest voice. The dwarves look at each other, then shake their heads.
"Okay," I say, "let's make a deal." I smile and grab an apple from the dusty counter. "If you boys can find a diamond as big as this apple, I will clean the house for you."

They huddle together trying to decide if it's a good deal. A moment later they turn around nod.

"Come on!" Happy instructs, "Let's go!" The dwarves grab their tools and head out of the door. I stand by the door until I see them go over the hill. Just as they go over I slam the door shut and laugh.
"HA! They'll never be able to find a jewel as big as this! The apple is bigger than both my fists put together! And if they do - I'm rich!" I stop my celebrations when I hear a knock at the door. I go and open it and standing in front of me is an old beggar woman with a basket of apples.

"Don't want any." I say as I slam the door in her face. She knocks again. Getting angry I go up to the fireplace and grab a fire prod then walk back to the door. "WHAT?!" I yell as I swing open the door.
"Do you want to buy an apple?" The old hag asks.
"We're in the middle of a forest, where there are HUNDREDS of apple trees. Think lady, use your brain if you have one!" I scream, rolling my eyes.
"Ah, but one of quality like these?" she asks.
"Wait," I say, really looking at the situation. "Why is there an arbitrary old lady trying to sell me apples in the middle of an apple forest...?"
"Um... well, er..." she mumbles.
"Now," I point the fire prod at her, "leave!"
"How dare you!" The old lady proclaims. "Do you know wh-"
"Just give me an apple!" I say, not caring what she wants to tell me. I take a good look athte blood red apple that she gives me and I open my mouth as if to eat it. I watch her open her own mouth in anticipation of my bite and in that instant I shove it in between her wrinkly lips and slam the door behind me. I turn and go upstairs to take a nap.

* * * * * *

The dwarves are hard at work looking for that one big jewel so Amari will clean their house.
"No," Happy says, picking up antoher gem, "not quite." He throws it behind him.
"Oi!" Grumpy yells. All the dwarves look at him. "What will hapen if she doesn't clean?"
"Theeeee -theeeee -theeeeen -then we force her to!" Bashful replies.
"But she's not the type of person who will listen." Happy says.
"Then we drug her." Grumpy exclaims. "And once she's out of it we dump her on the midnight wagon that comes every week. Thank goodness it comes tonight!" And just like that, the dwarves had a back-up plan.

* * * * * *

"Ah," I say as the dwarves open the door. "you DID come back!"
"We sure did!" Happy says.
"And look!" Dopey says holding up a diamond the size of an apple.
"Well," I say, grabbing it and my apple. "Let's see if it's big enough."
I hold up the jewel directly in front of the apple. Only a small outline of the apple is left.
"Sorry, it's just not big enough." I smile.
"But it is!" the dwarves yell.
"No, I still see some of my apple, ergo, it isn't big enough."
The dwarves all stare at me in disbelief.
"Now," I say, sitting back in a chair. "Go make dinner, I'm hungry."
With that they all slog off to the kitchen.

"Alright," Grumpy says, "get me the sleeping powder."
"Grumpy," Happy says, "this might not be the best-"
"-Shut up." Grumpy snaps. "Unless you want her to stay and boss us around."
And so the dwarves got to work. They chopped veggies, boiled water, got spices and made a stew. The dwarves got all the bowls lined up to receive the stew.

As Grumpy dishes out the stew he keeps thinking over his plan and smiling. When Dopey comes up with his bowl Grumpy says, "Dopey, can I trust you wih Amari's bowl?"
Dopey nods with such enthusiasm that his had slips over his eyes.
"Oh dear." Grumpy mumbles while rubbing his eye with the back of a hand. "Okay, all you need to do is put in the powder. I'm going to sit at the table. Be quick."
Dopey looks for the powder and sees it on the top shelf. He goes to fetch a stepping ladder and climbing up it he reaches for the powder but only with his fingertips just touching the bottle.
He reaches further and stretches far but knocks it over, the lid flies off and powder spills into the bowl on the counter below. Dopey rushes down the little ladder and grabs a spoon to stir the powder into the stew. All the while hoping that he wasn't making too much of a mess.

* * * * * *

"HURRY UP! I'm HUNGRY!" I yell at Dopey as he walks at a painfully slow pace, trying not to spill my dinner. He puts it down in front of me and runs to his seat. I pick up my spoon and start to eat.
"Hey, this isn't half bad." I say. Just as I am about to take another spoonful I feel a very large yawn stuck in my throat, moments before I black out.

* * * * * *

And before her second bite she passes out landing face first in the stew sending droplets flying.
"DAMN IT!" Grumpy says. "How much did you put in there?" He turns to Dopey.
At that moment there is a knocking at the door.
"Coming!" Happy calls out as he rushes to reach the door. In the doorway is a very handsome man.
"Hello little men, I am a weary prince traveling back to my home, my I please use your bathro-" he looks up towards the table and sees Amari, face down in her food.
"Could it be?" He walks forward, lifting up her stew-drenched face from the bowl. "Amari! My true love!" He sweeps her up into his arms. "Come my love!" He says to an unconscious girl with bits of vegetables on her face. "We shall go to my kingdom to be wed!" And with that he walked out of the cottage.

After a moment of stunned silence the dwarves all look at Happy.
"Well, that was random. bon appetit!' Happy says and the dwarves continue living in the little cottage, glad to be rid of Princess Amari.

The Nightmare by A Hess

A thousand doors
In a pitch black forest
Not a sound
As I lay my soul to rest

Between the leaves
No stars do shine
Only a moon
In the dark sky decline

A figure in the night
Comes to my hollow bones
A hooded man
Come to take me home

A presence like ice
With hands of claws
A clatter I hear
Of boney jaws

He tries to touch
With a skeleton hand
I shuffle back
And try to stand

This thing
In a sihouette of black
It's him
My nightmare - Jack.

Silent Runner by J Chambers

There's a boy I noticed at the beginning of the day running 8km barefoot on sharp stones and later, eating alone at break.

In the beginning, I thought he was, well, peculiar. Coming from the world I've grown up in I'm also sad to admit that the thoughts that ran through my mind when it came to this boy were ones that would have, in the past, have gotten me a severe telling off and threats of 'getting my mouth washed out with soap and water'. As he was different to me, I was, hesitant, about conversing with him or being seen anywhere near him.

At the end of a long school day complete with loads of stressful assignments and a fun break with the grils discussing our weekend plans and make-up ideas for Saturday night's dance (I'm going with Oliver!) I put my feet up and got straight onto mxit.

Within a few short texts I managed to uncover many stories about this boy and his bare feet; people didn't seem to be very positive about him. Nor were they bothered that we had never seen him before as he was not in or around my circle of friends and so I pretended not to be bothered either, for fear of people finding out that I was in fact bothered. Angry at myself for having been so shallow as to not venture out of my circle at all this year.

I was also intrigued by the way I had seen him running that 8km barefoot, being completely himself no matter what all these people had to say about him, the way he has never tried to change himself to fit in. I'm reminded of the fact that the only I time I ever feel completely happy with myself is when I look good on the outside, when someone tells me I look good, because then you are good... right?

Throughout the week I observed from my world and the realisation struck that although we are roughly the same age, problems that seem to me like the biggest issue in the world, don't even cross his mind. This made me wonder exactly how big of a deal my issues really are.

The more I sit and thinka bout all this now, the more I begin to understand that although I will never be the type of independent person who's completely unfazed and not worried by the social demands around me, I may have learned a valuable life lesson: I will never find contentment and pure happiness in running 8km barefoot; I must find what makes me happy and run with it, no matter what everyone else is doing. You should too.

Sleep by A Hess

I lay alseep unmoving
In a shallow pool of blood
My body is useless
After a violent flood

My lungs are lined with water
My mouth is hard and dry
I know I have been left here
Left alone to die

My eyes are now half moons
Closing against my will
My body feels so cold
I am left on the floor -still.

I am tired now
My soul is tattered and weak
It is now my time
To have eternal sleep.

Anger by A Hess

White hot anger
pouring through my veins
wanting to hit something
causing agony and pain

no calm breath
could sooth my raging soul
my heart has gone
now turning cold

no rational though
my mind no longer functions
only primal thoughts
thoughts of destruction

my eyes shoot daggers
my gut is wrenching
I only see my target
Alone in my mind, fenced in.

One Day by S Storey

I stand on
my two feet.
Shoulders back.
Head held high,
the sun melting
my determination
into a defiant grin.

Today is my day
and I will walk
into the sun
so that the
shadows fall
behind me,
unable to
swallow my

I will climb
every mountain,
cross every river.
No valley
will prove
too difficult
for me.
No ocean
will stop
my mission
for accomplishment.

It's the cost that counts by J Chambers

The idea of a gift at Christmas has become a how of much you love or care for somoene through the cost of an item.
Instead of the traditional idea of the giving of a small token to thank someone for being in or contributing to one's life. It is no longer the thought that counts, it's the price tag that comes with it.

A father once saved up a bit of his hard earned money each month to pay for a dress for his daughter at Christmas. The dress cost a thousand rand but he had found a shop in town that sold the exact same dress for half the price which, even though it was a lot cheaper, was still out of this man's budget for Christmas presents. When it came to Christmas time he paid for the dress, really happy that he had in fact managed to save up enough to buy something that meant a lot to his daughter. The idea of making his daughter happy, made him happy.

When his daughter opened the present on Christmas day, she was delighted and immediately ran to put the dress on.

Ten minutes later she arrived back with the dress in her hand and tears streaming down her face.

"Why don't you love me?" she cried.

"Honey, I don't understand, you wanted this dress..." he replied feeling awfully sad to see her upset.

"No. I wanted the real one! This one's cheap. I obviously don't mean very much to you!" She stormed out of the room.

I hope this story got the message out to you. A smaller price tag on a gift doesn't mean that someone loves you less, just as a higher price doesn't mean that someone loves you more.
One must realise that a price doesn't show the extent of a person's love for you, it's the fact that they wanted a gift for you whether it was made, bought or passed down, it's the fact that they thought of you that counts.

I See The Sky by S Swart

I see the sky, I see what tomorrow holds.
I see it fade and go thick like my blood.
I see the smoke, the way the heat moulds,
I see inside and wash away the painful mud.
I see that my heart is broken,
I see that I'll still have palpable feelings,
I see that it's better to be outspoken
But I know it' just the way of human beings.
I see the way that I'm going
I know that I must not break down,
Sometimes you go best without knowing
When you are going to get back your crown.
I know the way I'm going to be,
I know for sure, it's what I see.

Dark Side of the Moon - by S Swart

I see thee still
In dreams from a deep and heavenly bodied sky.
The moon, a lawful and universal eye,
Yielding the gulfing sea's storm
Bringing soothing silence to those who mourn.
As phases go past, it's the fullness that best glows,
Dissolvin my shadows when the night reaps what it sows.
The calmnes in the instant, my soul set to rest,
With its brightness in my life, i wish it to be blessed.
When luminous light dies and darkness pours in
Smokey shadows eclipse and grey clouds pin,
Night fades to day that comes too soon.
I ask myself why I stare at the dark side of the moon.

Dancing Night by A Hess

In the water
Alone at night
I dance to music
Below soft moonlight

Skimming the surface
Stars reflect against time
Tipping the balance
On a finely painted line

A foggy figure
From the water does rise
Appearing from nothing
Right before my eyes

A warm wind blows
As it smiles at me
Its partner appears
Now just as three

They embrace together
Now moving to the music
All of us dancing
To a night barely lit.