Page two 0 Page 1 , PSS LITERATURE CLUB ANTHOLOGY ONE ILLITERATES IN THE JUNGLE WITH A FOREWORD BY O.H. Heinrich STORIES BY SALOM É BRAND ___ LIAM LABUSCHAGNE ___ LOUISE GARO Ë S RUFARO MARINGA ___ JAYDEN PAULSEN ___ RODERICK DAUSAB KATJA KLUGE ___ NAHENDA NASHANDI ___ BIANCA KLUGE LINA GARO Ë S EDITED BY Amit Van Wyk Cai Page two 1 Contents Foreword ___ : __ _ 2 GHOST FOREST SONG Curiosity killed the City __ _ : __ _ 5 Jayden Paulsen, 10A Voices of the Dead __ _ : __ _ 8 Rufaro Maringa, 11A The Boy W h o S ang to Ghosts __ _ : __ _ 10 Nahenda Nashandi, 9A Howls of the Forest __ _ : __ _ 1 2 Katja Kluge , 10A Ghosts of my Past __ _ : __ _ 14 Bianca K luge, 11A The Cold G reeting __ _ : __ _ 1 6 Liam Labusc hagne , 11A Me lody of P hantoms __ _ : __ _ 1 7 Roderick Dau sab , 11A EXIST EN T IAL CRISIS For a Mind to Wander __ _ : __ _ 20 Louise Garoës , 11A P ondering... __ _ : __ _ 2 2 Lina Garoës , 1 1A Summon the Co uncil __ _ : __ _ 23 Roderic k Dau sab, 1 1A N othing Ever Happens Here ... __ _ : __ _ 25 Salomé Brand, 8A Page two 2 Foreword When the literature club of Private School Swakopmund was founded, it was with a profound mission: to train the understanding of human nature through the imagining of how characters would act in the situations the writer provided for them, given the hypoth esis that their pride in the believability of their stories would propel their self – improvement. Hardly any highschooler is a credible authority on human nature – they only guess it’s a good thing to have their head around, and that guess was probably put into them by their parents, who talk about other unsurefire things, like car insurances and neckt ie patterns. In Private School Swakopmund, the students are no more or less clever than those in other places, and that is withstanding the truest notion of all: that everything is individual, and that those same unsurefire parents could also be the reason their child shines high and brightly above their peers, in the understanding of human nature and more. And what actually is human nature? It is not a definition printed in a particularly legible colour on white. It wasn’t just a fancy casus belli with whi ch to start the club, either. It is greed or envy or lust or none or all of them or everything in – between – i t is the master of everyone’s life, it is vague like a weasel, and it never wants to stay still. No author, amateur or professional, starts writing for the goal to understand it. But seeing this group go forward now holding that in mind is an affectionate and fortuitous sign indeed. O.H. Heinrich August 2022 Page two 3 Every two week s the members of the club receive a prompt A prompt is a topic; it can be a word, phrase, or string of dialogue What they then write can relate in any little or large way to that prompt This anthology is a collection of those stories Page two 4 A depiction of a zombie at twilight in a field of sugarcane in Haiti by Jean – Noël Lafarge , date unknown PROMPT ONE “GHOST FOREST SONG ” Page two 5 Curiosity k illed the City Jayden Paulsen , 1 0 A Kenny enjoyed spending time outdoors. Especially forests. They held so many unknowns. So many mysteries. Anytime he came across one of these mysteries, he would snap a picture. He liked photography, the same way he liked the outdoors. Kenny always made sur e to never take the same route twice. He never liked taking the same photo twice. Kenny liked the woods for many reasons. He felt at home there. It filled something within him that urban life never would be able to do. His plan was to eventually own a cab in in the forest, but for now his life wouldn’t allow it. He liked the organized chaos that the forest provided. Plants overlapping each other, fighting each other for territory over the ground they occupy. Moss covering every surface it possibly can. The trees dance with each other as their branches intertwine slowly over time. Here time slows and worries melt away. Kenny feels like a cliqué when thinking about it, but it’s the truth. With time he learnt how to move more stealthily. Avoid branches snapping under his feet. He always felt bad when he stepped on a branch and disturbed the birds, or foxes he regularly took photos of. On this particular day, urban life really got to him. He was annoyed beyond belief. The cars, people, shops, even his apartment c overed with plants on every surface to try and mimic the effect of the forest, got to him. With immense frustration, he grabbed his camera and started walking to the only place he felt welcomed the true him. On this particular day, he didn’t even start wi th a trail. He walked into the untamed forest. Walking on he gradually felt the tension release from his shoulders. Once again getting high on the pure oxygen. On this particular day, Kenny felt more connected with the trees. With the moss. With life itse lf. It was almost as if he could hear a song. Ringing out in the depths of his soul. He did the only thing he could think of doing; he followed. Although he heard the song come from within himself, the deeper he went into the trees, the louder it became. T he trees became taller. More dense. Kenny was oblivious. He was fixed in a trance, finding the source of the song was the only thing he could think about at that point. It was his only concern. After walking for what seemed only to be 5 minutes, when in re ality it had already been two hours, he came to a clearing. There Kenny saw what he could only describe as strange. The clearing itself was massive, enough to have a cabin and a small garden for a few vegetables and maybe a fruit tree. In the middle there was a door. The grass around the door was yellow. Dead this however didn’t pique much interest at first. What was curious about the clearing Page two 6 was the perfect circle made by the aged oak trees. Even their branches didn’t pass the invisible line. The door wa s a typical front door, yet something seemed off. Maybe it was the chipped white paint. Maybe it was the tiny tilt Kenny noticed after ages of staring. Maybe it was the broken hinge, or the dull golden shine of the doorknob. The moss covering the bottom of the door and frame was an unnatural dark green. Almost crossing over into an obsidian black. It gave Kenny the creeps. The moss made it seem as if the door came out of the earth, an extension to the dark pits of the world. He took almost a hundred picture s with his camera. Breaking his rule of never taking a photo twice. He needed to know he wasn’t imagining things. Kenny knew, with every fibre in his body, that he shouldn’t open the door. Nothing good happens to people who open strange doors in the woods. That’s how idiots die. But Kenny had to know who was playing the song, and he knew it came from the other side of that door. The song was not really one, but it was a calming melody. Most likely one designed to put him in his trance. With each hesitant step, Kenny slowly snailed over to the door. Coming closer he could see the door was rotted where the moss had taken over. He gripped the doork nob firmly, it was hot to the touch. Almost searing his skin. Without a second thought he turned the knob and pushed the door open, but not stepping through. Nothing. There was nothing on the other side. The song had stopped playing too With a sigh of r elief he slowly backed up, half expecting a horror version of Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole. But as soon as he turned around to walk away, he found himself facing the door again. Confused, he turned around and saw the door again. With each turn it appe ared right in front of him. Kenny was now frantically trying to search for an opening. He tried to run backwards, keeping his gaze locked on the door. As soon as he thought he was in the clear he turned around and without time to register what was happenin g, he ran through the door. He looked back at the door he just ran through. It was closed. He could now turn around and see a normal forest. Kenny was spending a second more with the stalking door, and started running the way he had come. Moving closer to the city he felt a strange change in the atmosphere. The city was much more dormant than when he left. Which was concerning since he left around one o’clock and it was now supposed to be the five o’clock rush. Kenny was standing in a ghost town. There was nothing. Not even birds, or dogs. He was utterly alone. Another thing he only noticed now: everything was overgrown with vines, and that same green, almost black, moss. Page two 7 This was almost a dark twist on his wish of nature and solitude. He was alone like he wanted. But this is not how he wanted it to happen. He didn’t want to kill off every person in the city, that is if they are dead. But that’s what happened. On this particular day, Kenny found himself utterly alone in his deserted city. And for what woul d be the first time in Kenny’s life, he wanted the annoying city to come back. Page two 8 Voices of the Dead Rufaro Maringa, 11A Come... The voices whispered yet again. Come little children I’ll take thee away Into a land of an enchanted Come little children, I’ll show thee the way into my garden of sorrow The Elven warriors drew their bows and arrows, ready to aim, fire and shot. Blue mist – like figures swirled around the m. Although they knew what inhabited the forest, they had chosen to take the risk of walking it as it was the shortest route to their destination. The children they had been sent to protect were paraly s ed in fear. Fear of no longer existing as a breathing and living being. Fear of becoming one of the dead voices. A large gust of wind blew as a melodic voice heard yet again. Come little children I’ll take thee away Into a land of enchantment Come little children I’ll show thee the way into my garden of sorro w. A black haze of smoke materialized from thin air. They all knew the story a little too well. Once upon a time, Elvira had been an Elven sorceress, but fell from grace when her child was taken away from her in this very forest. In an instant, a sense of vengeance surged through every fibre of her body. “I’ve come to collect my children”. A sweet smile was plastered on her face. Majority of warriors lowered their weapons at the site of Elvira. No one could deny her beauty. It was alluring ... almost hypnot ising. “Stand your guard my warriors! Do not let her beauty make a fool of you!” Simon’s voice was loud and commanding. As if being broke being broke from a daze, they assumed their previous formation, tightening their hold on their weapons. “Oh Simon. Why must you always ruin my fun? Let my children and I be once and for all”. She reached her hands out. “Come to me, my children”. “These children do not belong to you, Elvira! These children have mothers...families waiting for them. You have no right to deprive them of that”. Page two 9 She let out a bitter laugh. “Right? Where was that right when my child was taken away from me?! Tell me, Simo n!” Simon kept quiet, not knowing how to respond, for he did not know the answer to that question either. “I too lost a child, Elvira. She was our child!” “Yet you mourned her as if she was nothing to you. As if she had been one of your fallen warriors. Yo u are a man, therefore I would never expect you to understand the pain of a mother losing her child”. “Elvira...” “Simon dear, I do advice you and your warriors to stand back. That is if you do not want to become one of my companions for eternity.” Page two 10 The Boy Who Sang to Ghosts Nahenda Nashandi, 9A Peter clutched his jacket tightly against his chest as a freezing breeze brushed by. Only the moonlight aided his sight, but that too brought him immense fear. With every tree looking like it would swallow the little raven – haired boy, Peter knew for sure he would never run off into the woods at night again. Warily, he stared around, trying to find an escape route, but that was in vain. Tears welled in his eyes as his knees buckled, making him c rash to the leaf – cladded floor. He sobbed into his frigid hands, yelling out, “Help!” so anyone could rescue him, but no – one came. Resting his back against a dormant tree, he hugged his knees closer to his chest and sobbed till he ran out of tears. He rec alled his mother’s words: “Whenever you are scared, sing to your heart’s content.” With that, he stood and started singing, anything, as long as it distracted him from his raging thoughts. He trotted through the woods, all his fears slowly disappearing. He jumped in fright as a loud rustling of trees played out in front of him. Shutting his eyes, he kept on singing, trying to ease his racing heart, but the rustling continued, this time even louder. He gulped in fear as he felt his arm being lifted up. Using all his strength, he tried to force it down, but unfortunately, it would not give. His other arm was also lifted, making him rise off the ground. Confusion as well as fear settled on his face. What? why? and how? were floating around his head. Still in a daze, he did not realise when the invisible figures started dragging him off to an unknown location. He thrashed and screamed in their hold, but they would not budge. Tears started running down his pale face. He just wanted to go home, but he knew that t here was a zero – point – one percent chance of that happening. Suddenly, the figures threw him to the ground, his skin burning from the harsh contact with the damaged wood. From the corner of his eye, he could see the small strands of his long hair being lift ed. The unknown contact made him flinch. “Don’t worry, my friend,” a soft voice whispered. He automatically stilled, the hairs on the back of his neck rising up. Peter questioned his sanity at this point. Thinking it was just the voices in his head, he bru shed it off. Page two 11 The swinging of the window and loud banging of the door was resonating. Peter knew he could only do one thing to calm himself. He started to sing; singing to his heart’s content. Again, he was picked up and was swung in a circle, and this tim e, he heard the voices loud and clear. “Sing, sing for us!” the invisible figures shouted. “Who are you?” Peter rushed to ask, his eyes bulging out of his head in shock. They replied, “We are the ghosts of Thepotilia, we heard your singing and we were amaz ed.” Then they pleaded again, “Please, sing for us.” With a simple shrug, Peter continued singing, till the sun rose. From then on, he was known as the boy who sung to ghosts. Page two 12 Howls of the Forest Katja Kluge, 10A The sun just peeking through the trees of the forest, there was a cold breeze that morning. Oscar had been walking all night looking for his dog Sandy. She was nowhere to be seen. Oscar had lived in the forest with Sandy for many years which made this situ ation very strange. For the past few years this was the first time Sandy had gotten lost. Since Oscar had been looking for Sandy all night, he decided to take a break sitting down under a tall pine tree. He closed his eyes trying to convince himself that e verything would be alright soon. The early morning breeze calmed him down. It wasn’t just the fact that this was the first time Sandy got lost, but everything else had started becoming slightly off. Occasionally there were these strange sounds – almost a howling sound – that he would hear during the night. There were no wolves in this area nor any animal that could howl other than Sandy, but Sandy didn’t howl. As he felt the heat rise, he brought himself back from his thoughts. I should be focusing on why I’m here in the first place, he told himself. Oscar stood up and looked around, and then it occurred to him when last he did see Sandy. Was it only last night or the day – before – yesterday? He was feeling slightly disoriented at this thought but chose to shr ug it off. I’m probably just tired and thirsty, he thought to himself, as he started to make his way home hoping Sandy went back too. The sun at its peak was luckily blocked out by the trees. The forest could be very hard to navigate even for someone who l ived most of their life there. Then movement came from somewhere nearby in the trees. Oscar went to go check out what was it that he heard but was disappointed; it was only some people who appeared to be having a small party. He hadn’t even noticed before that he was near the lake which happened to be far away from his house. Finally realising that he had been walking the wrong direction the whole time, Oscar approached the group asking from which way they had come from and if they could help him with direc tions, but they did not answer him. He assumed they could not hear him well since he was still too far away. The group moved to swim by in the lake before Oscar could reach them. Why aren’t they noticing me? he continued to wonder as he got closer, but the n heard a peculiar sound. But there was nothing there or at least he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The sun was near setting and the weather was cooling down. Not sure how far he was out in the forest, Oscar went only feeling as though he was g etting lost deeper in the trees. When it became too cold to walk further, Oscar decided to sleep on a patch of ground surrounded by some rocks which made it feel safer. As he dozed off, he began to think of the missing gap of time. How long had he been in the forest and where was the home he wanted to return to? The people he tried to speak to were the first he Page two 13 remembered talking to in a while. What if they weren’t real? he questioned himself, or maybe he just needed some sleep. Nothing really made sense ri ght then, everything felt as though it was a dream to him, the world was like fuzz in his mind. Oscar’s head wondered through scenarios of what could have been happening, but the more he thought, the more it felt as thought there were a blank space in his memory. What if, he wondered, what if , but he stopped in the middle of his thoughts shaking it off. Howling arose, startling him. Oscar sat up on edge trying to make out his surroundings, but he couldn’t see anything in the dark. He could only hear the how ling; howling that sounded almost like a familiar song. Page two 14 Ghosts of my Past Bianca Kluge, 11A People often ask me if there is a memory I just cannot forget. Many people may think it was something pleasant; like the day I graduated from school, when I returned from the war or even the day my daughter was born. It was nothing like this. I remember it as if it had only just happened, still freshly seared into my memory like a nice steak of tuna. It ’ s something I will never be able to forget no matter the time that has passed. Sometimes I wish for nothing more than the memory to disappear. Vanish as if it had never happened at all, yet it is still here taking up precious space in my mind. Perhaps I deserve to choke on its memor y, drown in it until there are no more bubbles. I often find myself wondering what I did to deserve it. Was I a bad person? Did I do something to offend the celestials who watch over me? Or was it that I simply shouldn’t exist in the first place. No amount of contemplating and reasoning would ever justify my experience, or so I think. After I returned from the war in 1918, I never fully felt the same. I felt as though part of my soul had died. Or perhaps all of it did and I was simply a hollow shell of a pe rson, a puppet with no master. I felt as though I was simply existing, not living. It was though I lost the purpose of my existence and I was no longer present. My family noticed it too. They knew that, although I returned alive, I had died in that war jus t like so many others did too. People say that if you send a boy to war, he will return a man. I was sent as a human being and returned a ghost. My transition from war to home was rough. I know it broke my mother to see. Every morning I woke up screaming in a cold sweat, unable to be consoled. Sometimes it would be violent, other days it would feel like I never woke up at all. My family tried to he lp as much as they could, to make my life easier but it wasn’t possible. I had seen things in the war, things no one should have to see. My father would tell me that it had made me stronger, made me tougher, but maybe he would just say those things to make himself feel better about losing his son. I could never bring myself to tell my parents about it. The incident. Perhaps talking about it would have helped then, but I’m not here to dwell on what could have been. I’m here to tell you now. To tell my story. It was three days after my eighteenth birthday, when I was drafted into the war. I did not cry, although my mother did. I told I would fight for her, fight for our country and return home the same as I had left. This was not true. The things we were taug ht were inhumane, so were the things we did. Not every aspect was so terrible. I made many dear friends, who kept me going, kept me sane. In many ways they saved me, if only I could have done the same for them. In the week of the incident, my platoon enter ed with 50 soldiers but only left with one. Page two 15 While in my camp, to keep busy on an odd night, we would sit around a campfire and share stories. Tales of elven kingdoms, dragon – slaying knights or what they would do with their lovers if they returned home. Mo st stories were light – hearted, merely told to pass time. Pierre Argent was one of my friends, the best even. He was a special boy. Very quiet yet intense. Pierre was unusual, he noticed things we did not see. Page two 16 The Co ld Greeting Liam Labuschagne, 11A On the lookout for the American occupiers, Panyung sat all alone in his foxhole. The forest was wet, and to make matters worse, it was getting dark. The darkness in the Vietnam forest is something everyone is scared of. The light fades away as if it opens the door for the new resident of the forest. The darkness creeps in like a thief in the dark, although he owns the place. Darkness is not the only thing that bewilders him, but also the sounds that come out of it. The frogs croaking or the fine dripping of water can be so peaceful to the ears, but once something snaps or cracks, Panyung will grab his Kalashnikov and point it to that direction. The seventeen – year old wished he could go back home and hug his mother. He never un derstood why they fought this meaningless war. The only thing he was told was to kill any American he saw. The sound of the fine dripping of water was interrupted by the sound of a man speaking softly. Panyung turned white in his face and froze. The sound of the man was coming from all directions and he didn’t know where to point his rifle. The man was singing an old folk song that was taught to him as a child. The folk song was about the children that got lost in the forest and never came back. The song’s purpose was to keep the children out of the forest when they got the opportunity to play. Panyung, not knowing what to do at this moment, decided to run for dear life as he did not know who or what was singing. He runs as fast as he can through the dense f orest, stumbling and slipping over the vegetation. He finally sees a light in the distance and the first thing that came to his mind was that his mother was there to rescue him. He approaches the light with open arms and with tears in his eyes but to his s urprise he was met with a Colt M16. Panyung was gunned down by the Americans. Through his lifeless eyes, he observed that the mysterious song came from the American speaker. Page two 17 Melody of Phantoms Roderick Dausab, 11A A beautiful melody whispers to me. It plays on my ears, slowly beating my eardrums. To the normal ear, it sounds like an unnaturally beautiful song. I, however, hear a cry. A cry from the dead. A cry for a new companion to play with. Someone is dying tonig ht... "Hey Lucas, how have you been? I turn my head to see who spoke to me. "Good day, Jennifer. All is well with me. How are you doing?" I reply. She giggles. "Yes! Got it this time. I'm well, thanks for asking. No Dad at home to stress Mom, so its goin g smooth." Her father is a violent drunk, so fights break out when he has drunk some liqo u r. Fortunately, he married a Karate Black Belt, so no GBV reports have erupted from their house. "That ’ s great to hear. Its quite rare to have peaceful nights, corre ct?" "Yeah, with all the murders and theories going around, a peaceful night is hard to find." Jonathan has been busy lately. Seems a cult has surfaced in Carrion. "Agreed. How is your parents divorce going?" Her mother has finally filed a divorce, but s he is tentative, because she still loves the man she has married. "Mom still thinks Dad deserves a... gimme a sec – 17th chance. But, for Max and my sake, she has to." "Very amusing. Did you actually keep count?" She probably did, considering her math e matical skill. But I would like to know the reason why. "Well, violence is a big thing for me, so yes. I did count." Yes. Her most attractive feature. A pacifist spawned from violence. I wish to keep her safe fr o m all harm, but I can't reveal that yet. " Pacifism. S o rare to hear of that these days." "I know, right? The human race is nothing if not violent these days." Peace treaties have been broken about 12 years ago. Wars have erupted and do not seem to die out anytime soon. "Apparently, there used to be peaceful times on this planet." "Yeah, the 2000s. Only threat to exist e nce was some disease. Covid, I think. I'd rather live there than in this blood – thirsty time period." A deadly disease. Modern medication crushes it though. Page two 18 "They probably believed they were in the so – called 'End of Times'. If only they knew." "It would be better for them to live in ignorant bliss. Anyways, I have to go. I was sent by Mom in the first place, so I must finish that. See you at school." She turns to leave. "Farewell, Jennifer." I head in the direction of the Forest of Fortune. I live in a tree house close to the thick sections of the forest. This forest is the last undisturbed forest in Imperius. Carrion was built for the sole purpose of keeping it that way. However, I received special permission from the Monarchy of Imperius to live in here, but I have to adhere and uphold the rules of the forest. That is my part – time job, since I am still a student. I do get paid for it, but another source of income has appeared rece ntly. I don't exactly know where it comes from, but it allows me to spoil myself. I climb up the rope ladder to my treehouse. The wildlife in here made me resort to building a secret base for a living space. I enter my home, remove my shoes and head direct ly to my bed. My day has ended, but Jonathan probably has something he would like to do. He hasn't spoken to me in a while. Hopefully he is doing well. My eyelids suddenly become heavy. Jonathan is about to surface. A melody plays onto my ears as I fall in to my slumber. It sounds... beautiful. Page two 19 PROMPT TWO “ EXISTENTIAL CRISIS ” ‘An Existential Crisis by Unfair Choices’ by J ames Huntley, 2018