Boishaaier 2024

Creative Writing

Fictitious letter from Christoff Prins (grade 10) to his brother, wherein he tries to convince his brother to accept an unwanted family heirloom. Dear Christopher I am writing to you to bring you very exciting news! I believe you should have Grandpa’s most beloved ring. I am talking about the one Grandpa wanted for years and paid an outrageous price for. It is also extremely rare, as you probably know, and it was Grandpa’s last purchase, thus he would have definitely wanted it to be passed on to someone in the family.

Now, you might have heard stories from family members saying it’s cursed, but the two of us don’t believe in such things. It was merely by chance that Grandpa died the day after wearing it; Grandpa was old and dying anyway. And the fact that Uncle Christo was run over the same day he received it, was just bad luck. I know it was originally passed down to me, but I feel you should have it, considering you were Grandpa’s favourite grandchild. I hope I hear back from you soon. Please just confirm where you would like to have it dropped off. Kind regards Christoff

A night at the symphony

Matthew Lamprecht, grade 10

As my heart jumped up and down in anticipation, a lithe gymnast contorting and convulsing in beautifully strange ways, I stepped onto the path adjacent to the hall. With my mother by my side, a faint floral sweetness accompanying our banter, we slowly ascended great granite steps and approached two doors of deep, dark oak. Welcomed by the soft glow of meek, yellowish light we entered the bustling edifice. My breath left me, and my eyes could find no steady place upon which to rest. Washed with lazy light were people of all sizes and colours; sanguine lips and billowing gowns of emerald, violet and blue – all emanating a sense of grandeur. My feet no longer in control, my eyes guided me towards a dark nook where I found a sight of absolute splendour – a massive window of stained glass depicting a young woman holding a rose the colour of dark blood. The moonlight projected the harrowing illustration onto the opposite wall, granting it a softer tone, smooth as silk. So, having explored cavernous rooms and long, winding staircases, Connor Fields sighed in relief as he exited the doors of the dingy school building. For something that was supposed to benefit him, school was an awful bore. His face quickly brightened, however, as he strolled down the familiar streets up to Mr McCarthy’s dilapidated cottage. Despite its outward appearance, Mr McCarthy’s cottage was home to a wonderful assortment of paintings, artwork and all sorts of foreign collectables. Daily after school, Connor would walk past this legendary collection and drink in whatever sights were to be seen through the large French windows. This was a rather nerve-wrecking and discreet process because, almost as legendary as the collection itself, was Mr McCarthey’s volcanic temper. If ever he caught anyone so much as stealing a glance at his prized paintings, Mr McCarthey’s face would turn tomato-red and steam would practically pour from his ears. The only other person permitted within a hundred miles of his collection was Ivy – the effervescent maid who kept everything spick and span. As Connor approached the cottage, he noticed something was amiss. The cottage door, usually closed and forbidding, stood wide open! As he crept nearer, his mouth fell open in wonder. Abandoning all caution, he gawked at the resplendent myriad of colour that splashed across the walls. Splatters of blues Stolen glimpses

my imagination excited and in a frenzied state, I moved through great, looming arches towards my place in the main hall. I listened to the chaos of an orchestra tuning – the mellow oboe, lonely and isolated, the catalyst of this dissonant clashing of strings and winds, my excitement peaking and reaching a zealous zenith. Silence. The tension of anticipation was palpable. Then, with the first chord, I slowly floated away, transported to the bells of St Sophia’s that echo hauntingly, the initial sounds prolonged by sweet overtones. With the progression of the piece, I was transported throughout space and time in a sweet, viscous flow of memories and dreams, and with the dying away of the last chord, my heart having swollen beyond its size, it all came to a surreal end. I smiled then, welcoming the familiar sense of having experienced something exquisitely precious – that fleetingly delicate, yet empty, sense of satiety. and hues of pink and green adorned the far corner. It was magnificent. Hearing no one, Connor entered the cottage. He marvelled at the paintings surrounded by swirls of colour. He stared openmouthed at the statues of ancient Roman emperors until he nearly forgot to breathe. And, right in the center of the room, head held proudly, stood a life-sized Turkish Ottoman. The slam of a door brought him back to his senses. Connor froze. Slowly and quietly he slipped behind the door, praying he wouldn’t be caught. His heart pulsed like a frightened rabbit’s and he couldn’t seem to keep still. He peeped around the door. Standing with a comically-confused expression was Mr McCarthy himself. Mr McCarthy froze, catching sight of Connor. His face began to transform and steam began to fill the room. Connor bolted. Ignoring the livid screams and infuriated demands he stop, Connor sprinted from the cottage. Abandoning the schoolbag, he made it to the haven of home in record time. Connor sighed and shut his eyes in relief. Some things in life were worth a bit of a scare. And a stolen glimpse of Mr McCarthy’s collection? What a story to tell his friends! Daniël van der Merwe, grade 12

BOISHAAI 156 YEARS 105