Author: Richard van Rensburg

Ambitious Writer | Masters Psychology Student | Passionate Literary Lover

Conscience

Around the clock
I sit whispering hopeful guidance
Hoping you will not dissolve my memory
thrown up high and dry by your turpitude.
I have become a name;
I am part of all who I have met.

I am no slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men
And never will I die like death shall.
You have the key to this life and
I might be the last twist of the knife.

My fruitful purpose holds
to delve beyond the earthly temptations
But I’m made weak by sin and hate, but strong in will
To guide, to protect, to lead, and not to fail.

I am your Conscience.

Reflective Essay: The Pearl

It may seem a cliché to say I remember that day like it was yesterday, but there is a reason for clichés: they hold truth. I was in a decrepit house situated in a small village that was too insignificant to even be considered in demographical statistics. It was the type of place where everyone knew everyone yet everyone was a stranger.

The memory is engrained into my psyche. It was a Sunday afternoon. The sky was clear but in the distance I could see a storm approaching. The evil moved rapidly and began to envelop the beauty. It was summer so storms were not unusual, but something about the approaching storm made me anxious. It was as if my animalistic instinctual nature had caused this response. It was a feeling of wanting to flee, like bucks and birds do when they sense an approaching tempest. I heard the fleeting sound of crows and the distant howling of jackals in the hills.

It was then that I saw the eye. The eye of the storm. It was huge. Swirling. I felt confused. I had never experienced such a storm, I had only heard about such occurrences. As the storm began I, as if by instinct, ran into the basement of the house. There was a small window in the basement where I was able to view the storm from just above ground level.

I saw a dark funnel punch its way through the clouds. A tornado. It touched down about one hundred meters from the house. I could hear the vicious howling of the wind. Trees were being ripped up, torn apart and discarded. Pieces of metal from surrounding structures became flying pieces shrapnel. A chuck hit the basement window startling me into a further panic. A diagonal crack stretched across the window. The whirlwind came closer and closer. I heard the roof of the old house rip off. I suddenly felt a strong force hit my body and then…

I woke up.

I was sweating. My heart was pounding. It was early morning. I realised it was all a dream. No, a nightmare. The thing which was most striking was my epiphany: I had awoken from one nightmare into the next. A nightmare much more real: reality.

I sat up in my bed and contemplated the nightmare. I found it unnervingly parallel to my own life. I remember a teacher once told me that the rich symbolism in dreams can be interpreted to tell you more about your subconscious mind. I realised the storm and the tornado that was in my pasture of life was all the hate that I had to endure in my life as a result of being different. This destructive tornado had destroyed many, torn lives apart and left remnants that needed to be rebuilt, often over many years. Just as the tornado is part of nature, so too is hate part of the human being, but that does not make it any less destructive.

At the beginning of the dream the sky was clear just as my life was and although I knew the storm of hate was inevitably going to happen, I still felt fearful. When the tornado hit, I tried to protect myself by going into the basement, the basement within my own life, a place of self-consciousness and withdrawal. My basement allowed only a small window from which to view the approaching hardship.

I got out of my bed and walked over to my bedroom window. The curtains were still drawn. As I opened them I saw the cloudy, grey, sombre sky. I was staring at the clouds when something beautiful happened. I saw a speck of blue emerging. The clouds were clearing, the storm of reject was passing.

As I walked away from the window and started to get ready for life, I realised that although I had been subjected to such hate and rejection over the years, I knew there would be a clear sky on the other side of the storm. I tied my shoelaces of faith, picked up my bag and walked out of the front door. The sunshine splashed over my smiling face. I stepped out into the world a braver, more confident man. The world was my oyster and I was the pearl.

Editorial: You are what you are worth

Class divisions are evident in modern society and have most likely existed since the dawn of time. It is a burden of society and such divides create formidable pressures within a country, particularly for those at the bottom of the pyramid.

In the Elizabethan era there was the Great Chain of Being, placing God at the top and the ‘lesser’ people at the bottom. Four hundred years later and society still has distinct divisions. Take the townships – for example – in our own country. Often an informal settlement lies next to a highly developed urban area, such as Alexander Township which lies right on the doorstep of Sandton. Quite a juxtaposition.

Most class divisions are based on one concept: wealth. The more one has the higher up one is. More likely than not, once you are in a class you are there for life. Take the slums in India for example. The occupants are supposedly the scum of the earth and will most likely never change their societal status. Quiet interestingly though are those that do manage to shatter the status quo. These individuals manage to demonstrate a few common traits such as courage, bravery, determination and, of course, a helping hand from Lady Luck.

Class divisions establish an important mechanism for effective functioning: order. Everyone should be entitled to, and have, all basic human rights, but as long as currency exists so too will classes. Imagine a world with no classes. Most likely a picture of a red Communist flag comes to mind.

Not much can be done to prevent class divisions. Money is the greatest dictator of them all. But do not fear. Defying the odds is an option – at a price of course: hard work, dedication and a great deal of luck.

Flashback

I stand in front of the big, ebony door. It’s cold and it’s raining. My full-length trench coat barely contains my body’s heat. I am enveloped by fear. I knock on the door thrice. I am transported back to the orphanage.
It was a bitterly cold and rainy day in 1986. I was six years old. I’d just been dropped off at the third orphanage in my lifetime. I was guided to my new room through the narrow corridor of the derelict house by the matron. My decaying suitcase I carried contained every possession I owned. That was when I first met him. He introduced himself as Thando – he was a black boy about my age, my roommate. He had a short afro. His clothes were noticeably old and he’d outgrown them. That didn’t seem to stifle his spirit.
The big, ebony door opens swiftly. A man stands on the threshold. His hair is completely white. He is wearing a black butler’s coat.
“How may I help you?” He has a slight British accent.
“My name is Warrick Tomilson. I’m here to see Mr Dunst. Is he available?”
“Mr Dunst does not see anyone unless they have made an appointment.”
“Please. I’ve been looking for Mr Dunst for some time now. I just need to have one minute with him. It is important.” My voice is shaky and I sound desperate.
“Well,” he says hesitantly, “come inside and I shall see what I can do. This way please.” He leads me into the vast entrance hall. “Mr Tomilson,” he says gesturing towards a black sofa, “if you would please take a seat and wait here.”
I sit down in the sofa and admire the wooden chessboard on the table beside me.

The year was 1992. I was playing chess with Thando in our room. He and I were best friends by then. Our bond was indescribable. Thando and I both hated being orphans – the idea that someone gave us up was unbearable. Neither of us knew our biological parents. I knocked over Thando’s king. “Checkmate.” He gave me his trademark smile.

Just as the memory of knocking the king over fades, the butler walks back into the room.
“Mr Dunst will see you shortly, Mr Tomilson.”

“Warrick Tomilson,” I said, laughing at the small booklet in my hand with an awful photograph of my face. It was 1996. Thando and I were sixteen and we had just received our first ID’s. The orphanage we had been staying at for the past few years was closing down. We had one month left. Thando and I got onto the topic of our biological parents as we were walking back from the Home Affairs office.
“I want to find them,” I said in a determined voice near the end of our conversation.
“Warrick, my friend… if you have determination you can do anything.” He smiled, exposing his mouth of white pearls.

Thando’s words echo in my head as I hear the looming footsteps walk towards where I’m seated. A man dressed in a black suit with a grey shirt and a black tie walks hurriedly into the room. We make eye contact. He has tears in his eyes. I know this is the moment of fear all orphans experience in this situation. The fear of being rejected – again. He steps closer to me. I stand up. He manages to let out two words which I’d longed for all my life, “My son.” After a moment of hesitation we embrace. I feel his warmth. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. I know I have just found my real father.

Mahogany Table

Solid. Hard. Erect stood
the table made of the finest
wooden texture know to man.
Smooth and ready to support
as it was made to.

Skin meets wood;
Wood meets skin:
A loud creak – a sound of satisfaction,
an indication that the table is being used.

Warmer and warmer the wood is warmed
until it is ablaze with fiery passion!
Mahogany scents flirt with the senses:
Eliminate all defenses.

Greek god of passion!
Carved invisibly into the
wood which bears only the finest fruit:
bodies of worthiness.

And when the table has experienced
Its night-full load
It sighs and creaks softly
As it cools and contracts…

Having served its purpose it sleeps
All big and dark.

Debt of Nature

I watched as they sat with their heads
Dropped to their chests,
waiting for what they knew would come
Non omnis moriar
they muttered to themselves in silence.
WHAM!
Anticipation of the unexpected
expectantly arrived like a
shell in a lonely trench of war.
Shrapnel embedded in their psyches
never to be forgotten again,
scars in the shape of sadness,
formed as they retreated into their cocoon of
self-inflicted death:
The steam still slithered out of
the grey guns
called REAL LIFE!
Confused faces of unknown relatives wept.
Tears hit the very ground beneath which
a plethora of corpses lay
taken by ropes and fumes and knives
of a life spent in a spastic agony.

It enveloped her youth like the
Earth eclipses the Moon
and slowly she turned into something
she never even knew existed.
Her parents were shocked to find
that she was born to die, like us all,
but hers would be untimely.
Death would soon pay his visit to
the rainbow-room on the second floor
of the very white-walled
sickly-clean smelling building.
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam
she said in the face of her
depressed and hopeless parents
who had become worse than tortured
patients at a mental asylum
in Serbia.
The lie was soon revealed as her
Soul left her body on a white cloud
lined with silver happiness and comfort.
The world wept and asked
WHY?

“For all glory and honour shall be yours”
The line he so deeply wanted to be truth
“Straight to the field!”
Break down and build up
A man in the making for patriotism
Deeper and deeper into
The hell that was war.
Naked bones heaped in triangular piles
the beating of the sun on his dumb-drum face
devoured his senses gnawing at his sanity
until he needed to escape the horror
he thought he loved.
He needed Bravery to speak to him
at night while the shadows crept stealthily
among his base.
Faith whispered to him:
crede quod habes, et habes.
His soul was ignited by this epiphany
and all the light that emanated from
deep within made him detectable
to his enemy who he did not hate
SSSSSSSSSSHHHHHH…
A silent whisper,
all silence broken
with a mushroom forming his momentary cenotaph.

Innocently walking in the park,
birds singing their songs of chirp,
clouds hang like balloons in the sky
with invisible strings of sight
creating images to those who allow
their imagination to feed on the simple beauty.
Evil walked down between the trees
disguised as a man with a black hood
And an unfriendly face of scars from experience.
Scanning…
Target locked and closing in
like a cheetah who has spotted a
lonesome buck in the veld of this land.
The goon seduces sound into silence
creeps up behind the family of three.
Baby Bear told Mama Bear about the Big Bad Wolf
Papa bear felt the nose of the gun
sit cunningly in his concave vertebrae.
It sneezed without excusing itself
then turned towards the maternal attraction
and coughed up a small silver bullet
which landed in her heart of gold.
PANIC!
He slipped away instinctually,
like a dove flees a child’s taunts,
leaving behind the terrified little boy
who would turn out to become
the same force that took his parents to the Gates.
Acta est fabula.

Walk walk
On the narrow bridge of life
Suspended above the red-orange lava.
Look down if you are brave enough to face it
or else look ahead at what might knock you over
Only Fate knows how to end it all
With a crack of His whip he summons
His friend:
DEATH
Wearing a dark cloak
coming to hold your hand and convince
your Soul to sleep.

Nos sunt natus mori.

I Confess!

Character enters from stage left and does the sign of the cross. He addresses the audience directly. The character can be anyone really, but it is useful to be interpreted as a frustrated priest who does so much for so many people, yet feels used. Priests are humans too.

I confess to almighty God and to you, my brothers and sisters… I am human. I have made mistakes. I’ve made bad choices in my life. I hurt the people I love and love the people I hurt. It can be said that I have greatly sinned in my thoughts and in my words. My head has always been a whirlpool of hatred. Externally I appeared innocent and pure. Everyone thought I was a nice person, someone who would be helpful. They all used me. Every single one of them used me! I did everything they asked of me, helped them. The words “Okay, no problem I’ll help” became my secret way of saying “I hate you for using me!” My thoughts were pure, not because they were unclean but because they were truthful. My words were filthy yet so pure on the surface – a simple lie. I feel guilt in what I have done and in what I have failed to do. How much more could I have done though? I worked myself to breaking point then I added the weight of helping them, helping you! My downfall, through my fault, through their fault, through your most grievous fault. Are we the destroyers of our own fates or does everyone around us ruin it for us? You aren’t going to help me therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin, all the Angels and Saints. They care! THEY CARE! I placed my trust and love in your arms yet you dropped me! Now, you, my brothers and sisters, return the favours I’ve done and pray for me to the Lord our God!

 Amen.

I’m Sorry

(Holding flowers in hands, standing in front of the audience, looking very sad and sombre)

(Stammering) I, I, I’m sorry I haven’t come in a while. I’ve always hated graveyards, you knew that. I wanted to come. Trust me I really did, I was just fearful and scared. (Pause) I brought you flowers. Roses, your favourite. I hope you like them. They’re fresh, picked this morning. (Places flowers on the floor) I remember how you loved flowers. Our house was always filled with the sweet scent of flowers. I loved that about our house, it wasn’t just a house – it was home. You made it a home.

There’s none of that now. No more flowers. No more sweet scent. No more home. Just a house. (Pause) I’m doing really well at school. I’ve been working really hard and giving everything I’ve got. I get a strong feeling of pride when I get a good mark and I dedicate everything I do to you – in honour of you.

The family isn’t too strong. We’re all drifting. You were the glue that held us all together. You were the one who always got us all together. But that doesn’t happen anymore. It would be nice to see the family, but maybe they’ll just remind me of you. Maybe it’s better this way.

I’m really missing you. Not a day goes by without me thinking of you, of your happy face. I try to remember all the good. It’s hard though. I can’t forget my last words to you…(stammering over emotional pain). I, I, I regret those words and I truly didn’t mean it. And I’m sorry. That day, as I left for school, I said I hated you. (pause) I really didn’t mean it. It was just, I was just, I don’t know. (Pause) When the school told me that you were in a fatal accident… I couldn’t believe it, I just broke down.

I love you. I want you to know that. I love you, I always have and I always will. You made me the person who I am today.

(Taking a scrappy folded piece of paper out of pocket)

I, I wrote you a short poem… I know how much you always loved reading my poems and stories… So here it is: (read with emotional pain and deep longing)

Dearest mom who was the best

I love you so, more than all the rest.

As you left the world too soon,

I know your soul shines brighter than the moon.

Forever and ever, every day

I hope you still love me and this I pray.

 (Head drops down and poem falls out of hand onto the floor, next to the roses)