La Rochelle Yearbook 2022


Budding authors

In my sub-conscious state I realise that I have encountered yet another nightmare. This time, a black so pungent dedicates itself to my thoughts and from it, an even darker noir seizes my defenceless mind. How is it that my battle must be fought in the weakest, most unaware way? How can my soul command rest over itself, when it faces a battle with only weapons unseen? My lips, limbs and ligaments are dull, so I must rely upon the only Help I can silently cry out to. While grotesque faces haunt what could have been a beautiful dream, I toss and turn ceaselessly, like a boat in violent waters. A melody rises from within my soul, a welcome reprieve, like a mountain stream to a parched soldier. As the darkness increases in power, so too does the beautiful refrain of hope and joy. Ironically, the more powerful the dense fear becomes, the more alive and present the song becomes, leading to a climax of epic proportions. Then, just like the impact of a nuclear bomb, the darkness disintegrates and instead of leaving desolation in its wake, the melody’s volume escalates. It retracts for a brief moment like the dramatic pause before a powerful crescendo. Just as quickly, the melody ripples vigorously across the plains of soul and spirit, into every hidden crevice. Silence ensues. It is whole and comfortable, immediately soothing my entire being. I open my eyes. For as long as I can remember, this war has been at work in me. I have not done anything to cause this outbreak, but everyone has their fight to face. We have invisible boxing gloves; we are in the ring for the fight of our lives. The opponent is bulky, overwhelming and wicked, but some of the greatest battles are not rooted in size, but spirit. I have learnt that a true melody is a true remedy. It enters from a mysterious opening and quickens the break of dawn in a night so frigid and long. And once that realization strikes, the powerless feeling has no hold – no home. For a house without strife is peaceful and at rest. A fireplace burns within, spreading warmth to every room, until the noir departs. Ha n n a h K r u g e r ( G r a d e 12 ) O U T S I D E T H E W I N D OW Through the iron bars and the grimy windows that are nailed shut, the desert beneath us lies barren. The blood of prosperity and glowing futures of the thousands who scream and beat the solid walls run like rivers. Yet, our society – your society – turns a blind eye and listens with deaf ears. From the moment our families abandon us in the clutches of white-coat-wearing men with their stained knives, needles and countless brown bottles filled with mysterious liquids, until the day that we vanish, we are just a number. The same bed, the same chair, the same time – it becomes our graves and we are buried with the rest of our hopes, dreams and individuality. That which remains of our cognisance is erased by electric shocks and unorthodox operations. Question after

O U R N EW H OM E When humans arrived in “Our new home”, which is what we call the planet we moved to after destroying Earth, we noticed something very strange. There was no more colour. The sky and grass were dull and grey, the new towns we built looked lifeless, and conversations felt colourless too. The strangest part was that the only vibrance that could be found, was from people with strong emotions. As their moods change, their colour – we call it their “glow” – changes too. We call ourselves the new rainbow nation, with no reference to South Africa. Red shows anger, green is jealousy and yellow is joy (we do not see much yellow anymore). The most common glow is a dark, sombre blue. This blue indicates longing. Longing for the Earth we once had, the family left behind on that forever-rotting planet, the familiarity that we will never get back. Our new home is not much of a home at all – it is a large house filled with empty picture frames and soulless people. For some or other reason, I do not produce any colour. My mom thinks it is because of all the antibiotics I take to help my lungs adapt to the new oxygen levels, but I think it is because I simply just have not been feeling anything since we arrived here. I feel completely and utterly numb. Looking around our new home, for me, is like looking into an endless pit, in the dark, with a blindfold on. I do not see anything. Of course, there are the buildings that we made in an attempt to remind us of Earth. There are the blue people who are too depressed to move, and the red men who lost power over things. The children live in a mustard yellow glow (ignorance), and their parents in purple (wishing to be as ignorant as their clueless offspring). But it is all a lukewarm pool of nothingness. No trees or birds or libraries with grumpy old librarians who make you wonder how they can possibly hear your whispers at their age. My imagination has crumbled, my will to find joy on this pessimistic planet no longer exists. I look at my hands, they are greyer than ash. I am greyer than the floor I am sitting on and the ceiling I am looking up at. Maybe grey is my colour. Maybe I belong here more than anybody. Maybe this is just my new home. De e n a F o u l k e s ( G r a d e 12 ) H OWE V E R L O N G T H E N I G H T , D AWN W I L L B R E A K An eerie silence thumps along with the only other sound audible: the pounding of my restless heart in my ears. It is a troublesome feeling when one cannot sleep, but even worse, (if there is such a thing) is the ability to sleep… frightfully.


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