Boishaaier 2025

Creative Writing

Please Don’t Smile

Avin Trytsman (12A)

I remember my time at the shop vividly. It was a truly bizarre place. A small corner store, just like any other internet café or barbershop. It was the service we offered that made it special. I worked there for two years as a… what would you call it? An overseer? No. That makes it sound too important. It was like any other part-time job; pushing buttons and dealing with customers. Operator? Let’s go with that. I put them under. That’s what we called it. I do not know the specifics so rather not ask me. I just put them in the chair and pushed some buttons. “Memory recall.” That’s what the IT guy told me when I asked about it. “We access their latent memories and replay it to them. The science behind it is excruciatingly complicated.” I was never good with science so I didn’t pursue it any further. I never tried it either. A good dealer never gets high off their own supply and all that. In all honesty, I was scared. Scared of what I would see. Scared I would not want to come back. “Please don’t smile.” If there was any training I received, it was those three words. I repeated them hundreds, thousands of times. Even now, I catch myself mumbling it like some satanic chant. Even if they did not smile, they all cried. Every last one of them. It was guaranteed. It was the sudden burst of emotion

that overwhelmed their brain. Customers would walk in with full wallets and walk out with swollen eyes. Our service was not cheap. There was this one poor soul I remember. Pretty sure he was homeless. His jacket had so many holes, it looked like he worked as a target at the firing range down the street. He reeked of poverty. It was not surprising when he asked for a discount. The crumpled change he pulled out of his pocket was not even enough to buy a decent coffee, and we did not do discounts. He came a few hours later, right before closing. Suddenly, he had plenty of cash. Do not know where he got it. I was not paid to ask questions. I told him not to. “Please don’t smile.” I told him so many times. Such a simple instruction. I knew his type. The kind who had lost it all. The kind whose past was all they had. The kind who smiled. I was waiting for it, my hand resting on the emergency stop lever. The tears flowed like rivers. The machine whirred fiercely. And… it happened. The corners of his mouth rose, forming a beautiful bowl, as if to try and catch the falling droplets. I pulled the lever back as quickly as I could, bending the shaft in the process. It was too late. What little life was left had vacated his eyes. All that was left was a shell.

A Memory Etched in the Mountains

The Scale of Things

Chris Nel (11G)

Christoff Prins (11G)

As the orange sun paints a silhouette of the mountain crest, the cold, crisp air burns my nose and lungs. I stay focused. The sound of my dad’s footsteps, while he gently places them between twigs and leaves, harmonises with the cracking tree stumps. My steps follow in his. Our eyes are glued to the ground, tracking our prey’s every move. In the frost I see the outline of footprints made hours ago. Wandering over crests and through valleys, every step proves more difficult, every hour drains more energy. The sun beams beat down on us, yet the birds are still singing, harmonising with the small waterfall in the distance. Glancing through the deep valley with the spotting scope, the antlers of the forest king stare at us, knowing our presence. With the wind in our face, covered by the thick layers of trees, we start our stalk. Slowly, step by step, my dad leads me through the unknown. The orchestra has quieted down, setting a tense atmosphere. Each step moves slower and slower as we draw near our target. All the pain, heat and suffering are forgotten. We slowly peek around a bush. We lock eyes with the king. Horns growing in each direction. So chaotic, yet so majestic. I line up my shot, my hands shaking, feeling the wooden grip as my hands grow tighter and tighter. As the shot echoes through the valley, the mountains seem unphased. Then the birds start singing, the trees start swaying and the faint sound of a stream reappears. All sing in harmony as if the mountains are leading them like a conductor of an orchestra. Walking up to the carcass, my young-self wanting to cry, my dad explains that this is the circle of life.

I reach the top of a mountain. My breath is heavy and my body is numb. I fall to the ground, which is covered in snow, to rest. But as I lie on top of the world, I stare at the ocean above, and the occasional wave that passes, and while the wind whistles in my ear and I feel my jacket’s heat flowing over me, I start to look further. I go past the water on the surface and dive into the deep blue. There I look upon the planets, greeting one another like co-workers. I gaze in awe. Then, in the corner of my eye, I spot a meteor walking by, and as I touch its rocky surface, I read the ancient scrolls etched into its minerals and I can slightly taste the dust it brought along from other galaxies. Suddenly, a wave of heat gracefully passes over me, and I watch the sun gift us his life and light, which he will keep on doing until he dies because of it; he is like a king looking over his people. Then I travel deeper onto the ocean floor. Here I am memorised by the galaxies being displayed like art in a gallery, with all their different parts, no matter how small, adding to the beauty. But slowly I start to float back to the surface and I give one last look at it all before finding myself lying on the mountains and feeling the ice-cold touch of the air once again. Finally, I hear the birds chirping, all singing together. I realise that we are all cords insisting on playing our own melodies, while all of us are meant to be parts in a symphony.

BOISHAAI 157 YEARS 95