Creative Writing (9)
That Plant In The Garden of Angles Where Angels Fear to Tread
Written by Ryan Swano
It's going to be shown in the Botanical Gardens. Apparently you get Angles in Botany too. It's called an Axil.
Something to do with the angle at which a new branch grows from another branch...
Anyways... That probably doesn't even fit into any of this...
What I'm really excited about is that I will finally get to see the mystical Hypotenuse Plant growing in its natural state.
The Boy with the Buttons at the Bus-stop
Written by Robyn Jill Radcliffe
I was huddled at the bus stop, partially sheltered from the South-Easter’s icy fingers, as it fiddled at the crevice of my coat and pinched my cheeks playfully. Ominous clouds hung overhead, heavily pregnant with rain, an imminent birth soon to be unburdened from the heavens.
He appeared as if from nowhere, his expression as innocent as his clothes were threadbare. Dirty blue jeans, scuffed sneakers and a cotton sweater with the buttons done up wrong were his body’s only defence against the elements.
Daai dom skelm Jack het ôs dom kô maak.
Written by Frazer Georgio Barry
It’s mind-boggling to think that this scary sight is common-practise.
Some wanna-be ‘stuntmen’ literally hit the ground running as it slows down and is about to come to a stop.
Commuters waiting on the station have to take evasive action to avoid colliding with these almost out of control ‘stuntmen’.
The taxi is an old Toyota Hiace. The seats pinch and sting your butt.
When brakes are applied, it shakes like a junkie in need of a fix.
Alles vibrate… My tanne klap effentjies tien mekaa… My oë traan… Ek’s wakker nou…
Amongst all the choas with commuters ransacking stations because of train cancellations, now there are rumours that Metrorail workers are planning to strike.
I thought that they are always on strike and have been striking ever since I can remember. Let's hope that it's just a rumour...
The ticket-verifier at the turnstile stands with her hands in her pockets, the collar of her jacket turned upwards and her head covered in a beany.
She yawns as she gleans over my ticket. I'm not sure whether her eyes are open. I’m not even sure if she is registering the information on the ticket.
"All Trains are running 10 minutes late" Voicemail Lady announces.
We aren’t really paying attention. We are used to this. The train eventually comes rushing into the station, pretending to be on time.
The vibe on board is not too vibrant. Capetonians are affected by the weather and temperatures. Cold and overcast weather in the middle of summer does not encourage us to have spontaneous conversations. We usually become withdrawn on days like this, but today someone luckily breaks the silence.
‘Climate Change’; it is a term enjoying prominence in the last decade with Cape Town and its Mediterranean climate being the front-runner of this phenomenon.
It’s a sunny windless morning with the smell of perfume and cologne trying to overwhelm the senses; each one has its own character and charm.
“Wat klap soe?” a guy asks a group of three friends as the train makes its way to the next station.
“It staan soe” a guy from the group replies.
“Hosh” the first guy replies.
“Gaan ôs soe dala my ma se kin?” another guy asks.
“Aweh ôs staan op haai nomme. ’n Man moet ’n kroon kyk, of wat sê die broese?” another guy in the group interjects, looking at the rest of the group.
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